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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14734-0.txt b/14734-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4dd11c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/14734-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11240 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14734 *** + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +FIRST PLAYS +THE DAY'S PLAY +THE HOLIDAY ROUND +ONCE A WEEK +ONCE ON A TIME +NOT THAT IT MATTERS +IF I MAY +MR. PIM +THE SUNNY SIDE + + + + + +SECOND PLAYS + +by A.A. MILNE + + + + + + +New York +ALFRED A. KNOPF + + +Printed in Great Britain by +R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh. + + + + +To + +D.M. + +SO LITTLE IN RETURN FOR SO MUCH + + + + +CONTENTS + +MAKE-BELIEVE +MR. PIM PASSES BY +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE +THE ROMANTIC AGE +THE STEPMOTHER + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Encouraged by the reviewer who announced that the Introduction to my +previous collection of plays was the best part of the book, I venture +to introduce this collection in a similar manner. But I shall be +careful not to overdo it this time, in the hope that I may win from my +critic some such tribute as, "Mr. Milne has certainly improved as a +dramatist, in that his plays are now slightly better than his +Introduction." + +Since, then, I am trying to make this preface as distasteful as +possible, in order that the plays may shine out the more pleasantly, I +shall begin (how better?) with an attack on the dramatic critics. I +will relate a little conversation which took place, shortly after the +publication of "First Plays," between myself and a very much more +eminent dramatist. + +EMINENT DRAMATIST (kindly) Your book seems to have been well reviewed. + +MYSELF (ungratefully). Not bad--by those who reviewed it. But I doubt +if it was noticed by more than three regular dramatic critics. And +considering that two of the plays in it had never been produced-- + +EMINENT DRAMATIST (amused by my innocence). My dear fellow, _you_ +needn't complain. I published an unproduced play a little while ago, +and it didn't get a single notice from anybody. + +Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays which +follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be disturbed by +this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in the theatre are +accustomed to read, and sometimes to make, ridiculous accusations +against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn the mercenary fellow +because he will not risk a loss of two or three thousand pounds on the +intellectual masterpiece of a promising young dramatist, preferring to +put on some contemptible but popular rubbish which is certain to fill +his theatre. But now we see that the dramatic critic, that stern +upholder of the best interests of the British Drama, will not himself +risk six shillings (and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in +order to read the intellectual masterpiece of the promising young +dramatist, and so to be able to tell us with authority whether the +Manager really _is_ refusing masterpieces or no. He will not +risk six shillings in order to encourage that promising young +dramatist--discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his hopes of +fame and fortune--by telling him that he _is_ right, and that his +plays are worth something, or (alternatively) to prevent him from +wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form to which he is not +suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but he will write an +important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) article, informing us that +the British Drama is going to the dogs, and that no promising young +dramatist is ever given a fair chance. + +Absurd, isn't it? + +Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask ourselves +why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three reasons--in +their order of importance. + +(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of not +writing. He gets this anyhow. + +(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the +criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank, +_réclame_--call it what you will. But it is obvious that he cannot +have it unless the masterpiece is given to the world, either by +manager or publisher. + +(3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if +produced, possibly a great deal. + +As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest with +ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a desert +island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps all of us; +for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves, our +manuscripts--written on bark with a burnt stick--clutched in a +skeleton hand--might be recovered later by some literary sea-captain. +(As it might be, Conrad.) But how many of us would write masterpieces +if we had to burn them immediately afterwards, or if we were alone +upon the world, the last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to +write? Could we bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we +can admit this much without reserve; it is the second reward which +tears at us, and, lacking it, we should lose courage. + +So when the promising young dramatist has his play refused by the +Managers--after what weeks, months, years of hope and fear, +uncertainty and bitter disappointment--he has this great consolation: +"Anyway, I can always publish it." Perhaps, after a dozen refusals, a +Manager offers to put on his play, on condition that he alters the +obviously right (and unhappy) ending into the obviously foolish, but +happy, ending which will charm the public. Does he, the artist, +succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must get his play before the +public somehow, and that, even if it is not _his_ play now, yet the +first two acts are as he wrote them, and that, if only to feel the +thrill of the audience at that great scene between the Burglar and the +Bishop (his creations!) he must deaden his conscience to the absurdity +of a happy ending. But does he succumb? No. Heroically he tells +himself: "Anyway, I can publish it; and I'm certain that the critics +will agree with me that----" But the critics are too busy to bother +about him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is +going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets a +fair chance. + +Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt if any +dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the critics, the +managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever right I have I +renounce, in return for the good things which I have received from +them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our craft. I say that, in +the case of all dramatists, it is the business of the dramatic critics +to review their unacted plays when published. Some of them do; most of +them do not. It is ridiculous for those who do not to pretend that +they take any real interest in the British Drama. But I say "review," +not "praise." Let them damn, by all means, if the plays are unworthy; +and, by damning, do so much of justice to the Managers who refused +them. + +We can now pass on safely to the plays in this volume. + +We begin with a children's play. The difficulty in the way of writing +a children's play is that Barrie was born too soon. Many people must +have felt the same about Shakespeare. We who came later have no +chance. What fun to have been Adam, and to have had the whole world of +plots and jokes and stories at one's disposal. Possibly, however, one +would never have thought of the things. Of course, there are still +others to come after us, but our works are not immortal, and they will +plagiarise us without protest. Yet I have hopes of _Make-Believe_, for +it had the honour of inaugurating Mr. Nigel Playfair's management at +the Lyric, Hammersmith. It is possible that the historians will +remember this, long after they have forgotten my plays; more likely +(alas!) that their history will be dated A.D. (After Drinkwater) and +that the honour will be given to "Abraham Lincoln." I like to think +that in this event my ghost will haunt them. _Make-Believe_ appeared +with a Prologue by the Manager, lyrics by C.E. Burton, and music by +Georges Dorlay. As the title-page states that this book is, in the +language of children's competitions, "my own unaided work," I print +the play with a new Prologue, and without the charming lyrics. But the +reader is told when he may burst into an improvisation of his own, +though I warn him that he will not make such a good show of it as did +my collaborators. + +_Mr. Pim Passes By_ appeared at several theatres. Let us admit +cheerfully that it was a success--in spite of the warning of an +important gentleman in the theatrical world, who told me, while I was +writing it, that the public wouldn't stand any talk of bigamy, and +suggested that George and Olivia should be engaged only, not married. +(Hence the line, "Bigamy! . . . It _is_ an ugly word," in the Second +Act.) But, of course, nobody sees more clearly than I how largely its +success was due to Mr. Dion Boucicault and Miss Irene Vanbrugh. + +_The Romantic Age_ appeared first at the Comedy, and (like _Mr. Pim_) +found, in its need, a home at The Playhouse. Miss Gladys Cooper has a +charming way of withdrawing into a nursing home whenever I want a +theatre, but I beg her not to make a habit of it. My plays can be +spared so much more easily than she. By the way, a word about +Melisande. Many of the critics said that nobody behaved like that +nowadays. I am terrified at the thought of arguing with them, for they +can always reduce me to blushes with a scornful, "My dear man, you +_can't_ do that in a _play_!" And when they tell me to remember what +Strindberg said in '93 (if he were alive then; I really don't know) or +what Aristotle wrote in--no, I shan't even guess at Aristotle, well, +then, I want to burst into tears, my ignorance is so profound. So, +very humbly, I just say now that, when Melisande talks and behaves in +a certain way, I do not mean that a particular girl exists (Miss +Jones, of 999 Bedford Park) who talks and behaves like this, but I do +mean that there is a type of girl who, in her heart, secretly, +_thinks_ like this. If, from your great knowledge of the most secret +places of a young girl's heart, you tell me that there is no such +type, then I shall only smile. But if you inform me sternly that a +dramatist has no business to express an attitude in terms of an +actress, then you reduce me to blushes again. For I really know +nothing about play-writing, and I am only sustained by two beliefs. +The first is that rules are always made for the other people; the +second is that, if a play by me is not obviously by me, and as +obviously not by anybody else, then (obviously) I had no business to +write it. + +Of the one-act plays, _The Camberley Triangle_ and _The Stepmother_, +nothing much need be said. The former was played at the Coliseum; the +latter, written for Miss Winifred Emery, was deemed by the management +too serious for that place of amusement. This, however, was to the +great advantage of the play, for now it has appeared only at Charity +_matinées_ with an "all-star" cast. + +As before, the plays are printed in the order in which they were +written; in this case between October 1918 and June 1920. May the +reader get as much enjoyment from them as I had in their writing. But +no; that is plainly impossible. + +A.A. MILNE. + + + + +MAKE-BELIEVE + +A CHILDREN'S PLAY IN A PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS + + +_Make-Believe_ was first produced at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, +on December 24, 1918. The chief parts were played by Marjory Holman, +Jean Cadell, Rosa Lynd, Betty Chester, Roy Lennol, John Barclay, +Kinsey Peile, Stanley Drewitt, Ivan Berlyn, and Herbert +Marshall--several parts each. + + + + +MAKE-BELIEVE + +PROLOGUE + + +The playroom of the HUBBARD FAMILY--nine of them. Counting MR. and +MRS. HUBBARD, we realize that there are eleven HUBBARDS in all, and +you would think that one at least of the two people we see in the room +would be a HUBBARD of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is JAMES, +the HUBBARDS' butler, for the HUBBARDS are able to afford a butler +now. How different from the time when Old Mother Hubbard--called "old" +because she was at least twenty-two, and "mother" because she had a +passion for children--could not even find a bone for her faithful +terrier; but, of course, that was before HENRY went into work. Well, +the tall figure is JAMES, the butler, and the little one is ROSEMARY, +a friend of the HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY is going in for literature +this afternoon, as it's raining, and JAMES is making her quite +comfortable first with pens and ink and blotting-paper--always so +important when one wants to write. He has even thought of a stick of +violet sealing-wax; after that there can be no excuse. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (She sits down.) If any one calls I am not +at home. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my +auto--autobiography. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James? + +JAMES. I believe so, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you. (He goes to the door.) Oh, James? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss? + +ROSEMARY. What _is_ an autobiography? + +JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss--not to explain it properly. + +ROSEMARY (dismayed). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew everything. + +JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and then---- + +ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead? Very +easy work, they tell me. + +ROSEMARY (nodding). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a play. Thank +you, James. + +JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out. + +(ROSEMARY bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the inspiration +comes.) + +ROSEMARY (as she writes). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen B-e-l---- (she +stops and frowns) Now which way _is_ it? (She tries it on the +blotting-paper) _That_ looks wrong. (She tries it again) So does that. +Oh, dear! (She rings the bell . . . JAMES returns.) + +JAMES. Yes, Miss? + +ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play Make-Believe. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (carelessly). When you spell "believe," it is "i-e," isn't +it? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i." + +JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (reproachfully). Oh, James! Aren't you certain? + +JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l---- (He stops and scratches his whiskers.) + +ROSEMARY. Yes. _I_ got as far as that. + +JAMES. B-e-l---- + +ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an accident +to the very first word of it. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l----I've noticed sometimes that if one writes a +word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then looks at it with +the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct comes over one, as +makes one say (with a shake of the head) "Rotten." One can then write +it the other way more hopeful. + +ROSEMARY. I've tried that. + +JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name +altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy words +to spell, or "Red Revenge," or---- + +ROSEMARY. I _must_ call it Make-Believe, because it's all of the play +I've thought of so far. + +JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on +purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes. + +ROSEMARY. Does it? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh. + +ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which _is_ the wrong way? + +JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (inspired). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it "i-e"; and if +it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then I'm funny. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. + +JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out. + +ROSEMARY (writing). Make-Believe. A Christmas Entertainment---- (She +stops and thinks, and then shakes her head.) No, play--a Christmas +Play in three acts. Er---- (She is stuck.) + +_Enter JAMES_. + +JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are +without, and crave admittance. + +ROSEMARY. All nine of them? + +JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the +majority of them were present. + +ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and you +being a visitor, if you _had_ been at home, then you wouldn't have +been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting when you're writing a play. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more the +merrier, as you might say. + +ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. (He opens the door and says very rapidly) The Misses +Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and Isabel Hubbard, The Masters +Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold Hubbard. (They come in.) + +ROSEMARY. How do you do? + +ADA. Rosemary, darling, what _are_ you doing? + +BERTRAM. It's like your cheek, bagging our room. + +CAROLINE (primly). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be polite to our +visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if Rosemary wants our +room---- + +DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! + +ADA (at ROSEMARY'S shoulder). Oh, I say, she's writing a play! + +(Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at ROSEMARY.) + +{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What's +{ it about? Bet it's awful rot. +{ +{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am _I_ in it? Do tell us +{ about it. Is it for Christmas? + +ROSEMARY (in alarm). James, could you----? + +JAMES (firmly). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis, down! Miss +Gwendoline, if you wouldn't mind---- (He picks her up and places her +on the floor.) Thank you. (Order is restored.) + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. . . . Yes, it's a play for Christmas, and it +is called "Make-Believe," and that's all I'm certain about yet, except +that we're all going to be in it. + +BERTRAM. Then I vote we have a desert island---- + +DENNIS. And pirates---- + +FRANK. And cannibals---- + +HAROLD (gloatingly). Cannibals eating people--Oo! + +CAROLINE (shocked). Harold! How would _you_ like to be eaten by a +cannibal? + +DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! How would _you_ like to be a cannibal and have +nobody to eat? (CAROLINE is silent, never having thought of this +before.) + +ADA. Let it be a fairy-story, Rosemary, darling. It's so much +_prettier_. + +ELSIE. With a lovely princess---- + +GWENDOLINE. And a humble woodcutter who marries her---- + +ISABEL (her only contribution). P'itty P'incess. + +BERTRAM. Princesses are rot. + +ELSIE (with spirit). So are pirates! (Deadlock.) + +CAROLINE. _I_ should like something about Father Christmas, and snow, +and waits, and a lovely ball, and everybody getting nice presents and +things. + +DENNIS (selfishly, I'm afraid). Bags I all the presents. + +(Of course, the others aren't going to have that. They all say so +together.) + +ROSEMARY (above the turmoil). James, I _must_ have silence. + +JAMES. Silence, all! + +ROSEMARY. Thank you. . . . You will be interested to hear that I have +decided to have a Fairy Story _and_ a Desert Island _and_ a Father +Christmas. + +ALL. Good! (Or words to that effect) + +ROSEMARY (biting her pen). I shall begin with the Fairy Story. (There +is an anxious silence. None of them has ever seen anybody writing a +play before. How does one do it? Alas, ROSEMARY herself doesn't know. +She appeals to JAMES.) James, how _do_ you begin a play? I mean when +you've _got_ the title. + +JAMES (a man of genius). Well, Miss Rosemary, seeing that it's to be +called "Make-Believe," why not make-believe as it's written already? + +ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James! + +JAMES. All that is necessary is for the company to think very hard of +what they want, and--there we are! Saves all the bother of writing and +spelling and what not. + +ROSEMARY (admiringly.) James, how clever you are! + +JAMES. So-so, Miss Rosemary. + +ROSEMARY. Now then, let's all think together. Are you all ready? + +ALL. Yes! (They clench their hands.) + +ROSEMARY. Then one, two, three--Go! + +(They think. . . . The truth is that JAMES, who wasn't really meant to be +in it, thinks too. If there is anything in the play which you don't +like, it is JAMES thinking.) + + + + +ACT I.--THE PRINCESS AND THE WOODCUTTER + + +(The WOODCUTTER is discovered singing at his work, in a glade of the +forest outside his hut. He is tall and strong, and brave and handsome; +all that a woodcutter ought to be. Now it happened that the PRINCESS +was passing, and as soon as his song is finished, sure enough, on she +comes.) + +PRINCESS. Good morning, Woodcutter. + +WOODCUTTER. Good morning. (But he goes on with his work.) + +PRINCESS (after a pause). Good morning, Woodcutter. + +WOODCUTTER. Good morning. + +PRINCESS. Don't you ever say anything except good morning? + +WOODCUTTER. Sometimes I say good-bye. + +PRINCESS. You _are_ a cross woodcutter to-day. + +WOODCUTTER. I have work to do. + +PRINCESS. You are still cutting wood? Don't you ever do anything else? + +WOODCUTTER. Well, you are still a Princess; don't _you_ ever do +anything else? + +PRINCESS (reproachfully). Now, that's not fair, Woodcutter. You can't +say I was a Princess yesterday, when I came and helped you stack your +wood. Or the day before, when I tied up your hand where you had cut +it. Or the day before that, when we had our meal together on the +grass. Was I a Princess then? + +WOODCUTTER. Somehow I think you were. Somehow I think you were saying +to yourself, "Isn't it sweet of a Princess to treat a mere woodcutter +like this?" + +PRINCESS. I think you're perfectly horrid. I've a good mind never to +speak to you again. And--and I would, if only I could be sure that you +would notice I wasn't speaking to you. + +WOODCUTTER. After all, I'm just as bad as you. Only yesterday I was +thinking to myself how unselfish I was to interrupt my work in order +to talk to a mere Princess. + +PRINCESS. Yes, but the trouble is that you _don't_ interrupt your +work. + +WOODCUTTER (interrupting it and going up to her with a smile). Madam, +I am at your service. + +PRINCESS. I wish I thought you were. + +WOODCUTTER. Surely you have enough people at your service already. +Princes and Chancellors and Chamberlains and Waiting Maids. + +PRINCESS. Yes, that's just it. That's why I want your help. +Particularly in the matter of the Princes. + +WOODCUTTER. Why, has a suitor come for the hand of her Royal Highness? + +PRINCESS. Three suitors. And I hate them all. + +WOODCUTTER. And which are you going to marry? + +PRINCESS. I don't know. Father hasn't made up his mind yet. + +WOODCUTTER. And this is a matter which father--which His Majesty +decides for himself? + +PRINCESS. Why, of course! You should read the History Books, +Woodcutter. The suitors to the hand of a Princess are always set some +trial of strength or test of quality by the King, and the winner +marries his daughter. + +WOODCUTTER. Well, I don't live in a Palace, and I think my own +thoughts about these things. I'd better get back to my work. (He goes +on with his chopping.) + +PRINCESS (gently, after a pause). Woodcutter! + +WOODCUTTER (looking up). Oh, are you there? I thought you were married +by this time. + +PRINCESS (meekly). I don't want to be married. (Hastily) I mean, not +to any of those three. + +WOODCUTTER. You can't help yourself. + +PRINCESS. I know. That's why I wanted _you_ to help me. + +WOODCUTTER (going up to her). Can a simple woodcutter help a Princess? + +PRINCESS. Well, perhaps a simple one couldn't, but a clever one might. + +WOODCUTTER. What would his reward be? + +PRINCESS. His reward would be that the Princess, not being married to +any of her three suitors, would still be able to help him chop his +wood in the mornings. . . . I _am_ helping you, aren't I? + +WOODCUTTER (smiling). Oh, decidedly. + +PRINCESS (nodding). I thought I was. + +WOODCUTTER. It is kind of a great lady like yourself to help so humble +a fellow as I. + +PRINCESS (meekly). I'm not _very_ great. (And she isn't. She is the +smallest, daintiest little Princess that ever you saw.) + +WOODCUTTER. There's enough of you to make a hundred men unhappy. + +PRINCESS. And one man happy? + +WOODCUTTER. And one man very, very happy. + +PRINCESS (innocently). I wonder who he'll be. . . . Woodcutter, if _you_ +were a Prince, would you be my suitor? + +WOODCUTTER (scornfully). One of three? + +PRINCESS (excitedly). Oo, would you kill the others? With that axe? + +WOODCUTTER. I would not kill them, in order to help His Majesty make +up his mind about his son-in-law. But if the Princess had made up her +mind--and wanted me---- + +PRINCESS. Yes? + +WOODCUTTER. Then I would marry her, however many suitors she had. + +PRINCESS. Well, she's only got three at present. + +WOODCUTTER. What is that to me? + +PRINCESS. Oh, I just thought you might want to be doing something to +your axe. + +WOODCUTTER. My axe? + +PRINCESS. Yes. You see, she _has_ made up her mind. + +WOODCUTTER (amazed). You mean--But--but I'm only a woodcutter. + +PRINCESS. That's where you'll have the advantage of them, when it +comes to axes. + +WOODCUTTER. Princess! (He takes her in his arms) My Princess! + +PRINCESS. Woodcutter! My woodcutter! My, oh so very slow and +uncomprehending, but entirely adorable woodcutter! + +(They sing together. They just happen to feel like that) + +WOODCUTTER (the song finished). But what will His Majesty say? + +PRINCESS. All sorts of things. . . . Do you really love me, woodcutter, +or have I proposed to you under a misapprehension? + +WOODCUTTER. I adore you! + +PRINCESS (nodding). I thought you did. But I wanted to hear you say +it. If I had been a simple peasant, I suppose you would have said it a +long time ago? + +WOODCUTTER. I expect so. + +PRINCESS (nodding). Yes. . . . Well, now we must think of a plan for +making Mother like you. + +WOODCUTTER. Might I just kiss you again before we begin? + +PRINCESS. Well, I don't quite see how I am to stop you. + +(The WOODCUTTER picks her up in his arms and kisses her.) + +WOODCUTTER. There! + +PRINCESS (in his arms). Oh, Woodcutter, woodcutter, why didn't you do +that the first day I saw you? Then I needn't have had the bother of +proposing to you. (He puts her down suddenly) What is it? + +WOODCUTTER (listening). Somebody coming. (He peers through the trees +and then says in surprise) The King! + +PRINCESS. Oh! I must fly! + +WOODCUTTER. But you'll come back? + +PRINCESS. Perhaps. + + [She disappears quickly through the trees. + +(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and is discovered at it a minute +later by the KING and QUEEN.) + +KING (puffing). Ah! and a seat all ready for us. How satisfying. (They +sit down, a distinguished couple--reading from left to right, "KING, +QUEEN"--on a bench outside the WOODCUTTER'S hut.) + +QUEEN (crossly--she was like that). I don't know why you dragged me +here. + +KING. As I told you, my love, to be alone. + +QUEEN. Well, you aren't alone. (She indicates the WOODCUTTER.) + +KING. Pooh, he doesn't matter. . . . Well now, about these three Princes. +They are getting on my mind rather. It is time we decided which one of +them is to marry our beloved child. The trouble is to choose between +them. + +QUEEN. As regards appetite, there is nothing to choose between them. +They are three of the heartiest eaters I have met for some time. + +KING. You are right. The sooner we choose one of them, and send the +other two about their business, the better. (Reflectively) There were +six peaches on the breakfast-table this morning. Did I get one? No. + +QUEEN. Did _I_ get one? No. + +KING. Did our darling child get one--not that it matters? No. + +QUEEN. It is a pity that the seven-headed bull died last year. + +KING. Yes, he had a way of sorting out competitors for the hand of our +beloved one that was beyond all praise. One could have felt quite sure +that, had the three competitors been introduced to him, only one of +them would have taken any further interest in the matter. + +QUEEN (always the housekeeper). And even he mightn't have taken any +interest in his meals. + +KING (with a sigh). However, those days are over. We must think of a +new test. Somehow I think that, in a son-in-law, moral worth is even +more to be desired than mere brute strength. Now my suggestion is +this: that you should disguise yourself as a beggar woman and approach +each of the three princes in turn, supplicating their charity. In this +way we shall discover which of the three has the kindest heart. What +do you say, my dear? + +QUEEN. An excellent plan. If you remember, I suggested it myself +yesterday. + +KING (annoyed). Well, of course, it had been in my mind for some time. +I don't claim that the idea is original; it has often been done in our +family. (Getting up) Well then, if you will get ready, my dear, I will +go and find our three friends and see that they come this way. + + [They go out together. + +(As soon as they are out of sight the PRINCESS comes back.) + +PRINCESS. Well, Woodcutter, what did I tell you? + +WOODCUTTER. What did you tell me? + +PRINCESS. Didn't you listen to what they said? + +WOODCUTTER. I didn't listen, but I couldn't help hearing. + +PRINCESS. Well, _I_ couldn't help listening. And unless you stop it +somehow, I shall be married to one of them to-night. + +WOODCUTTER. Which one? + +PRINCESS. The one with the kindest heart--whichever that is. + +WOODCUTTER. Supposing they all three have kind hearts? + +PRINCESS (confidently). They won't. They never have. In our circles +when three Princes come together, one of them has a kind heart and the +other two haven't. (Surprised) Haven't you read any History at all? + +WOODCUTTER. I have no time for reading. But I think it's time History +was altered a little. We'll alter it this afternoon. + +PRINCESS. What do you mean? + +WOODCUTTER. Leave this to me. I've got an idea. + +PRINCESS (clapping her hands). Oh, how clever of you! But what do you +want me to do? + +WOODCUTTER (pointing). You know the glade over there where the brook +runs through it? Wait for me there. + +PRINCESS. I obey my lord's commands. + + [She blows him a kiss and runs off + +(The WOODCUTTER resumes his work. By and by the RED PRINCE comes +along. He is a--well, you will see for yourself what he is like.) + +RED PRINCE. Ah, fellow. . . . Fellow! . . . I said fellow! (Yes, that sort +of man.) + +WOODCUTTER (looking up.) Were you speaking to me, my lord? + +RED PRINCE. There is no other fellow here that I can see. + +(The WOODCUTTER looks round to make sure, peers behind a tree or two, +and comes back to the PRINCE.) + +WOODCUTTER. Yes, you must have meant me. + +RED PRINCE. Yes, of course I meant you, fellow. Have you seen the +Princess come past this way? I was told she was waiting for me here. + +WOODCUTTER. She is not here, my lord. (Looking round to see that they +are alone) My lord, are you one of the Princes who is seeking the hand +of the Princess. + +RED PRINCE (complacently). I am, fellow. + +WOODCUTTER. His Majesty the King was here a while ago. He is to make +his decision between you this afternoon. (Meaningly) I think I can +help you to be the lucky one, my lord. + +RED PRINCE. You suggest that I take an unfair advantage over my +fellow-competitors? + +WOODCUTTER. I suggest nothing, my lord. I only say that I can help +you. + +RED PRINCE (magnanimously). Well, I will allow you to help me. + +WOODCUTTER. Thank you. Then I will give you this advice. If a beggar +woman asks you for a crust of bread this afternoon, remember--it is +the test! + +RED PRINCE (staggered). The test! But I haven't _got_ a crust of +bread! + +WOODCUTTER. Wait here and I will get you one. + +(He goes into the hut) + +RED PRINCE (speaking after him as he goes). My good fellow, I am +extremely obliged to you, and if ever I can do anything for you, such +as returning a crust to you of similar size, or even lending you +another slightly smaller one, or---- (The WOODCUTTER comes back with +the crust.) Ah, thank you, my man, thank you. + +WOODCUTTER. I would suggest, my lord, that you should take a short +walk in this direction (pointing to the opposite direction to that +which the PRINCESS has taken), and stroll back casually in a few +minutes' time when the Queen is here. + +RED PRINCE. Thank you, my man, thank you. + +(He puts the crust in his pocket and goes off.) (The WOODCUTTER goes +on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE comes in and stands watching him in +silence for some moments.) WOODCUTTER (looking up). Hullo! + +BLUE PRINCE. Hullo! + +WOODCUTTER. What do you want? + +BLUE PRINCE. The Princess. + +WOODCUTTER. She's not here. + +BLUE PRINCE. Oh! + +(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and the PRINCE goes on looking +at him.) + +WOODCUTTER (struck with an idea). Are you one of the Princes who is +wooing the Princess? + +BLUE PRINCE. Yes. + +WOODCUTTER (coming towards him). I believe I could help your Royal +Highness. + +BLUE PRINCE. DO. + +WOODCUTTER (doubtfully). It would perhaps be not Quite fair to the +others. + +BLUE PRINCE. Don't mind. + +WOODCUTTER. Well then, listen. (He pauses a moment and looks round to +see that they are alone.) + +BLUE PRINCE. I'm listening. + +WOODCUTTER. If you come back in five minutes, you will see a beggar +woman sitting here. She will ask you for a crust of bread. You must +give it to her, for it is the way His Majesty has chosen of testing +your kindness of heart. + +BLUE PRINCE (feeling in his pockets). No bread. + +WOODCUTTER. I will give you some. + +BLUE PRINCE. Do. + +WOODCUTTER (taking a piece from his pocket). Here you are. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thanks. + +WOODCUTTER. Not at all, I'm very glad to have been able to help you. + +(He goes on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE remains looking at him.) + +BLUE PRINCE (with a great effort). Thanks. + +(He goes slowly away. A moment later the YELLOW PRINCE makes a +graceful and languid entry.) + +YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, come hither, my man, come hither. + +WOODCUTTER (stopping his work and looking up). You want me, sir? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Come hither, my man. Tell me, has her Royal Highness +the Princess passed this way lately? + +WOODCUTTER. The Princess? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, the Princess, my bumpkin. But perhaps you have +been too much concerned in your own earthy affairs to have noticed +her. You--ah--cut wood, I see. + +WOODCUTTER. Yes, sir, I am a woodcutter. + +YELLOW PRINCE. A most absorbing life. Some day we must have a long +talk about it. But just now I have other business waiting for me. With +your permission, good friend, I will leave you to your faggots. (He +starts to go.) + +WOODCUTTER. Beg your pardon, sir, but are you one of those Princes +that want to marry our Princess? + +YELLOW PRINCE. I had hoped, good friend, to obtain your permission to +do so. I beg you not to refuse it. + +WOODCUTTER. You are making fun of me, sir. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Discerning creature. + +WOODCUTTER. All the same, I _can_ help you. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Then pray do so, log-chopper, and earn my everlasting +gratitude. + +WOODCUTTER. The King has decided that whichever of you three Princes +has the kindest heart shall marry his daughter. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Then you will be able to bear witness to him that I +have already wasted several minutes of my valuable time in +condescending to a mere faggot-splitter. Tell him this and the prize +is mine. (Kissing the tips of his fingers) Princess, I embrace you. + +WOODCUTTER. The King will not listen to me. But if you return here in +five minutes, you will find an old woman begging for bread. It is the +test which their Majesties have arranged for you. If you share your +last crust with her-- + +YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, but do I look as if I carried a last crust about +with me? + +WOODCUTTER. But see, I will give you one. + +YELLOW PRINCE (taking it between the tips of his fingers). Yes, but-- + +WOODCUTTER. Put it in your pocket, and when-- + +YELLOW PRINCE. But, my dear bark-scraper, have you no feeling for +clothes at all? How can I put a thing like this in my pocket? (Handing +it back to him) I beg you to wrap it up. Here take this. (Gives him a +scarf) Neatly, I pray you. (Taking an orange ribbon out of his pocket) +Perhaps a little of this round it would make it more tolerable. You +think so? I leave it to you. I trust your taste entirely. . . . Leaving a +loop for the little finger, I entreat you . . . so. (He hangs it on his +little finger) In about five minutes, you said? We will be there. +(With a bow) We thank you. + +(He departs delicately. The WOODCUTTER smiles to himself, puts down +his axe and goes off to the PRINCESS. And just in time. For behold! +the KING and QUEEN return. At least we think it is the QUEEN, but she +is so heavily disguised by a cloak which she wears over her court +dress, that for a moment we are not quite sure.) + +KING. Now then, my love, if you will sit down on that log +there--(placing her)--excellent--I think perhaps you should remove the +crown. (Removes it) There! Now the disguise is perfect. + +QUEEN. You're sure they are coming? It's a very uncomfortable seat. + +KING. I told them that the Princess was waiting for them here. Their +natural disappointment at finding I was mistaken will make the test of +their good nature an even more exacting one. My own impression is that +the Yellow Prince will be the victor. + +QUEEN. Oh, I hate that man. + +KING (soothingly). Well, well, perhaps it will be the Blue one. + +QUEEN. If anything, I dislike him _more_ intensely. + +KING. Or even the Red. + +QUEEN. Ugh! I can't bear him. + +KING. Fortunately, dear, you are not called upon to marry any of them. +It is for our darling that we are making the great decision. Listen! I +hear one coming. I will hide in the cottage and take note of what +happens. + +(He disappears into the cottage as the BLUE PRINCE comes in.) + +QUEEN. Oh, sir, can you kindly spare a crust of bread for a poor old +woman! Please, pretty gentleman! + +BLUE PRINCE (standing stolidly in front of her and feeling in his +pocket). Bread . . . Bread . . . Ah! Bread! (He offers it.) + +QUEEN. Oh, thank you, sir. May you be rewarded for your gentle heart. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. + +(He stands gazing at her. There is an awkward pause.) + +QUEEN. A blessing on you, sir. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. (He indicates the crust) Bread. + +QUEEN. Ah, you have saved the life of a poor old woman---- + +BLUE PRINCE. Eat it. + +QUEEN (embarrassed). I--er--you--er---(She takes a bite and mumbles +something.) + +BLUE PRINCE. What? + +QUEEN (swallowing with great difficulty). I'm almost too happy to eat, +sir. Leave a poor old woman alone with her happiness, and--- + +BLUE PRINCE. Not too happy. Too weak. Help you eat. (He breaks off a +piece and holds it to her mouth. With a great effort the QUEEN +disposes of it.) Good! . . . Again! (She does it again.) Now! (She +swallows another piece.) Last piece! (She takes it in. He pats her +kindly on the back, and she nearly chokes.) Good. . . . Better now? + +QUEEN (weakly). Much. + +BLUE PRINCE. Good day. + +QUEEN (with an effort). Good day, kind gentleman. + + [He goes out. + +(The KING is just coming from the cottage, when he returns suddenly. +The KING slips back again.) + +BLUE PRINCE. Small piece left over. (He gives it to her. She looks +hopelessly at him.) Good-bye. + + [He goes. + +QUEEN (throwing the piece down violently). Ugh! What a man! + +KING (coming out). Well, well, my dear, we have discovered the winner. + +QUEEN (from the heart). Detestable person! + +KING. The rest of the competition is of course more in the nature of a +formality-- + +QUEEN. Thank goodness. + +KING. However, I think that it will prevent unnecessary discussion +afterwards if we--Take care, here is another one. (He hurries back.) + +_Enter the RED PRINCE_. + +QUEEN (with not nearly so much conviction). Could you spare a crust of +bread, sir, for a poor hungry old woman? + +RED PRINCE. A crust of bread, madam? Certainly. As luck will have it, +I have a crust on me. My last one, but--your need is greater than +mine. Eat, I pray. + +QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. + +RED PRINCE. Not at all. Come, eat. Let me have the pleasure of seeing +you eating. + +QUEEN. M-might I take it home with me, pretty gentleman? + +RED PRINCE (firmly). No, no. I must see you eating. Come! I will take +no denial. + +QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. (Hopefully) Won't you share it with me? + +RED PRINCE. No, I insist on your having it all. I am in the mood to be +generous. Oblige me by eating it now for I am in a hurry; yet I will +not go until you have eaten. (She does her best.) You eat but slowly. +(Sternly) Did you deceive me when you said you were hungry? + +QUEEN. N-no. I'm very hungry. (She eats) + +RED PRINCE. That's better. Now understand--however poor I am, I can +always find a crust of bread for an old woman. Always! Remember this +when next you are hungry. . . . You spoke? (She shakes her head and goes +on eating.) Finished? + +QUEEN (with great difficulty). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman. + +RED PRINCE. There's a piece on the ground there that you dropped. (She +eats it in dumb agony) Finished? + +QUEEN (huskily). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman. + +RED PRINCE. Then I will leave you, madam. Good morning. + + [He goes out. + +(The QUEEN rises in fury. The KING is about to come out of the +cottage, when the YELLOW PRINCE enters. The QUEEN sits down again and +mumbles something. It is certainly not an appeal for bread, but the +YELLOW PRINCE is not to be denied.) + +YELLOW PRINCE (gallantly). My poor woman, you are in distress. It +pains me to see it, madam, it pains me terribly. Can it be that you +are hungry? I thought so, I thought so. Give me the great pleasure, +madam, of relieving your hunger. See (holding up his finger), my own +poor meal. Take it! It is yours. + +QUEEN (with difficulty). I am not hungry. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, madam, I see what it is. You do not wish to deprive +me. You tell yourself, perchance, that it is not fitting that one in +your station of life should partake of the meals of the highly born. +You are not used, you say, to the food of Princes. Your rougher +palate---- + +QUEEN (hopefully). Did you say food of princes? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Where was I, madam? You interrupted me. No matter--eat. +(She takes the scarf and unties the ribbon.) Ah, now I remember. I was +saying that your rougher palate--- + +QUEEN (discovering the worst). No! No! Not bread! + +YELLOW PRINCE. Bread, madam, the staff of life. Come, madam, will you +not eat? (She tries desperately.) What can be more delightful than a +crust of bread by the wayside? + +(The QUEEN shrieks and falls back in a swoon. The KING rushes out to +her.) + +KING (to YELLOW PRINCE). Quick, quick, find the Princess. + +YELLOW PRINCE. The Princess--find the Princess! (He goes vaguely off +and we shall not see him again. But the WOODCUTTER and the PRINCESS do +not need to be found. They are here.) + +WOODCUTTER (to PRINCESS). Go to her, but don't show that you know me. + +(He goes into the cottage, and the PRINCESS hastens to her father.) + +PRINCESS. Father! + +KING. Ah, my dear, you're just in time. Your mother--- + +PRINCESS. My mother? + +KING. Yes, yes. A little plan of mine--of hers--your poor mother. +Dear, dear! + +PRINCESS. But what's the matter? + +KING. She is suffering from a surfeit of bread, and--- + +(The WOODCUTTER comes up with a flagon of wine) + +WOODCUTTER. Poor old woman! She has fainted from exhaustion. Let me +give her some--- + +QUEEN (shrieking). No, no, not bread! I will _not_ have any more +bread. + +WOODCUTTER. Drink this, my poor woman. + +QUEEN (opening her eyes). Did you say drink? (She seizes the flagon +and drinks) + +PRINCESS. Oh, sir, you have saved my mother's life! + +WOODCUTTER. Not at all. + +KING. I thank you, my man, I thank you. + +QUEEN. My deliverer! Tell me who you are! + +PRINCESS. It is my mother, the Queen, who asks you. + +WOODCUTTER (amazed, as well he may be). The Queen! + +KING. Yes, yes. Certainly, the Queen. + +WOODCUTTER (taking off his hat). Pardon, your Majesty. I am a +woodcutter, who lives alone here, far away from courts. + +QUEEN. Well, you've got more sense in your head than any of the +Princes that _I've_ seen lately. You'd better come to court. + +PRINCESS (shyly). You will be very welcome, sir. + +QUEEN. And you'd better marry the Princess. + +KING. Isn't that perhaps going a _little_ too far, dear? + +QUEEN. Well, you wanted kindness of heart in your son-in-law, and +you've got it. And he's got common sense too. (To WOODCUTTER) Tell me, +what do you think of bread as--as a form of nourishment? + +WOODCUTTER (cautiously). One can have too much of it. + +QUEEN. Exactly my view. (To KING) There you are, you see. + +KING. Well, if you insist. The great thing, of course, is that our +darling child should be happy. + +PRINCESS. I will do my best, father. (She takes the WOODCUTTER'S +hand.) + +KING. Then the marriage will take place this evening. (With a wave of +his wand) Let the revels begin. + +(They begin) + + + + +ACT II.--OLIVER'S ISLAND + + +SCENE I.--The Schoolroom (Ugh!) + +(OLIVER is discovered lying flat on his--well, lying flat on the +floor, deep in a book. The CURATE puts his head in at the door.) + +CURATE. Ah, our young friend, Oliver! And how are we this morning, +dear lad? + +OLIVER (mumbling). All right, thanks. + +CURATE. That's well, that's well. Deep in our studies, I see, deep in +our studies. And what branch of Knowledge are we pursuing this +morning? + +OLIVER (without looking up). "Marooned in the Pacific," or "The +Pirate's Bride." + +CURATE. Dear, dear, what will Miss Pinniger say to this interruption +of our studies? + +OLIVER. Silly old beast. + +CURATE. Tut-tut, dear lad, that is not the way to speak of our mentors +and preceptors. So refined and intelligent a lady as Miss Pinniger. +Indeed I came here to see her this morning on a little matter of +embroidered vestments. Where is she, dear lad? + +OLIVER. It isn't nine yet. + +CURATE (looking at his watch). Past nine, past nine. + +OLIVER (jumping up). Je-hoshaphat! + +CURATE. Oliver! Oliver! My dear lad! Swearing at _your_ age! Really, I +almost feel it my duty to inform your aunt--- + +OLIVER. Fat lot of swearing in just mentioning one of the Kings of +Israel. + +CURATE. Of Judah, dear boy, of Judah. To be ignorant on such a vital +matter makes it even more reprehensible. I cannot believe that our +dear Miss Pinniger has so neglected your education that---- + +_Enter our dear MISS PINNIGER, the Governess_. + +GOVERNESS. Ah, Mr. Smilax; how pleasant to see you! + +CURATE. My dear Miss Pinniger! You will forgive me for interrupting +you in your labours, but there is a small matter of--ah!--- + +GOVERNESS. Certainly, Mr. Smilax. I will walk down to the gate with +you. Oliver, where is Geraldine? + +OLIVER. Aunt Jane wanted her. + +GOVERNESS. Well, you should be at your lessons. It's nine o'clock. The +fact that I am momentarily absent from the room should make no +difference to your zeal. + +OLIVER (without conviction). No, Miss Pinniger. (He sits down at his +desk, putting "Marooned in the Pacific" inside it.) + +CURATE (playfully). For men must work, Oliver, men must work. How doth +the little busy bee--Yes, Miss Pinniger, I am with you. [They go +out. + +OLIVER (opening his poetry book and saying it to himself). It was a +summer evening--It was a summer evening--(He stops, refers to the +book, and then goes on to himself) Old Kaspar's work was done. It was +a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done--- + +_Enter GERALDINE--or JILL_. + +JILL. Where's Pin? + +OLIVER. Hallo, Jill. Gone off with Dearly Belovéd. Her momentary +absence from the room should make no difference to your zeal, my dear +Geraldine. And what are we studying this morning, dear child? (To +himself) It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done. + +JILL (giggling). Is that Pin? + +OLIVER. Pin and Dearly Belovéd between them. She's a bit batey this +morning. + +JILL (at her desk). And all my sums have done themselves wrong. (Hard +at it with paper and pencil) What's nine times seven, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Fifty-six. Old Kaspar's work was done. Jolly well wish mine +was. And he before his cottage door. Fat lot of good my learning this +stuff if I'm going to be a sailor. I bet Beatty didn't mind what +happened to rotten old Kaspar when he saw a German submarine. + +JILL. Six and carry five. Aunt Jane has sent for the doctor to look at +my chest. + +OLIVER. What's the matter with your chest? + +JILL. I blew my nose rather loud at prayers this morning. + +OLIVER. I say, Jill, you _are_ going it! + +JILL. It wasn't my fault, Oliver. Aunt Jane turned over two pages at +once and made me laugh, so I had to turn it into a blow. + +OLIVER. Bet you what you like she knew. + +JILL. Of course she did, and she'll tell the doctor, and he'll be as +beastly as he can. What did she say to you for being late? + +OLIVER. I said somebody had bagged my sponge, and she wouldn't like me +to come down to prayers all unsponged, and she said, "Excuses, Oliver, +_always_ excuses! Leave me. I will see you later." Suppose that means +I've got to go to bed this afternoon. Jill, if I do, be sporty and +bring me up "Marooned in the Pacific." + +JILL. They'll lock the door. They always do. + +OLIVER. Then I shall jolly well go up for a handkerchief this morning, +and shove it in the bed, just in case. Cavé--here's Pin. + +MISS PINNIGER _returns to find them full of zeal_. + +GOVERNESS (sitting down at her desk). Well, Oliver, have you learnt +your piece of poetry? + +OLIVER (nervously). I--I think so, Miss Pinniger. + +GOVERNESS. Close the book, and stand up and say it. (Oliver takes a +last despairing look, and stands up.) Well? + +OLIVER. It was a summer evening--- + +GOVERNESS. The title and the author first, Oliver. Everything in its +proper order. + +OLIVER. Oh, I say, I didn't know I had to learn the title. + +JILL (in a whisper). After Blenheim. + +GOVERNESS. Geraldine, kindly attend to your own work. + +OLIVER. After Blenheim. It was a summer evening. + +GOVERNESS. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey. One of our greatest +poets. + +OLIVER. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey, one of our greatest poets. +It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done--er--Old Kaspar's +work was done--er--work was done, er . . . + +GOVERNESS. And he before--- + +OLIVER. Oh yes, of course. And he before--er--and he before--er--It +was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, and he +before--er--and he before--- Er, it _was_ a summer evening--- + +GOVERNESS. So you have already said, Oliver. + +OLIVER. I just seem to have forgotten this bit, Miss Pinniger. And he +before--- + +GOVERNESS. Well, what was he before? + +OLIVER (hopefully). Blenheim? Oh no, it was _after_ Blenheim. + +GOVERNESS (wearily). His cottage door. + +OLIVER. Oo, yes. And he before his cottage door was sitting in the +sun. (He clears his throat) Was sitting in the sun. Er--(He coughs +again)--er--- + +GOVERNESS. You have a cough, Oliver. Perhaps the doctor had better see +you when he comes to see Geraldine. + +OLIVER. It was just something tickling my throat, Miss Pinniger. +Er--it was a summer evening. + +GOVERNESS. You haven't learnt it, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Yes, I have, Miss Pinniger, only I can't quite remember it. +And he before his cottage door--- + +GOVERNESS. Is it any good, Geraldine, asking you if you have got any +of your sums right? + +JILL. I've got one, Miss Pinniger . . . nearly right . . . except for some +of the figures. + +GOVERNESS. Well, we shall have to spend more time at our lessons, +that's all. This afternoon--ah--er--- + +(She stands up as AUNT JANE and the DOCTOR come in.) + +AUNT JANE. I'm sorry to interrupt lessons, Miss Pinniger, but I have +brought the Doctor to see Geraldine. (To DOCTOR) You will like her to +go to her room? + +DOCTOR. No, no, dear lady. There is no need. Her pulse--(He feels +it)---dear, dear! Her tongue--(She puts it out)--tut-tut! A milk diet, +plenty of rice-pudding, and perhaps she would do well to go to bed +this afternoon. + +AUNT JANE. I will see to it, doctor. + +JILL (mutinously). I _feel_ quite well. + +DOCTOR (to AUNT JANE). A dangerous symptom. _Plenty_ of rice-pudding. + +GOVERNESS. Oliver was coughing just now. + +OLIVER (to himself). Shut up! + +DOCTOR (turning to OLIVER). Ah! His pulse--(Feels it)--tut-tut! His +tongue--(OLIVER puts it out) Dear, dear! The same treatment, dear +lady, as prescribed in the other case. + +OLIVER (under his breath). Beast! + +AUNT JANE. Castor-oil, liquorice-powder, ammoniated quinine--anything +of that nature, doctor? + +DOCTOR. _As_ necessary, dear lady, _as_ necessary. The system must be +stimulated. Nature must be reinforced. + +AUNT JANE (to GOVERNESS). Which do they dislike least? + +OLIVER and JILL (hastily). Liquorice-powder! + +DOCTOR. Then concentrate on the other two, dear lady. + +AUNT JANE. Thank you, doctor. [They go out. + +GOVERNESS. We will now go on with our lessons. Oliver, you will have +opportunities in your bedroom this afternoon of learning your poetry. +By the way, I had better have that book which you were reading when I +came in just now. + +OLIVER (trying to be surprised). Which book? + +JILL (nobly doing her best to save the situation). Miss Pinniger, if +you're multiplying rods, poles, or perches by nine, does it matter +if--- + +GOVERNESS. I am talking to Oliver, Geraldine. Where is that book, +Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oh, _I_ know the one you mean. I must have put it down +somewhere. (He looks vaguely about the room.) + +GOVERNESS. Perhaps you put it in your desk. + +OLIVER. My desk? + +JILL (going up to MISS PINNIGER with her work). You see, it's all gone +wrong here, and I think I must have multiplied---- (Moving in front of +her as she moves) I think I must have multiplied---- + +(Under cover of this, OLIVER makes a great effort to get the book into +JILL'S desk, but it is no good.) + +GOVERNESS (brushing aside JILL and advancing on OLIVER). Thank you, +_I_ will take it. + +OLIVER (looking at the title). Oh yes, this is the one. + +GOVERNESS. And I will speak to your aunt at _once_ about the behaviour +of both of you. [She goes out. + +OLIVER (gallantly). _I_ don't care. + +JILL. I did try to help you, Oliver. + +OLIVER. You wait. Won't I jolly well bag something of hers one day, +just when she wants it. + +JILL. I'm afraid you'll find the afternoon rather tiring without your +book. What will you do? + +OLIVER. I suppose I shall have to think. + +JILL. What shall you think about? + +OLIVER. I shall think I'm on my desert island. + +JILL. Which desert island? + +OLIVER. The one I always pretend I'm on when I'm thinking. + +JILL. Isn't there any one else on it ever? + +OLIVER. Oo, lots of pirates and Dyaks and cannibals and--other people. + +JILL. What sort of other people? + +OLIVER. I shan't tell you. This is a special think I thought last +night. As soon as I thought of it, I decided to keep it for +(impressively) a moment of great emergency. + +JILL (silenced). Oh! . . . Oliver? + +OLIVER Yes? + +JILL. Let me be on your desert island this time. Because I did try to +help you. + +OLIVER. Well--well---- (Generously) Well, you can if you like. + +JILL. Oh, thank you, Oliver. Won't you tell me what it's about, and +then we can both think it together this afternoon. + +OLIVER. I expect you'll think all sorts of silly things that _never_ +happen on a desert island. + +JILL. I'll try not to, Oliver, if you tell me. + +OLIVER. All right. + +JILL (coming close to him). Go on. + +OLIVER. Well, you see, I've been wrecked, you see, and the ship has +foundered with all hands, you see, and I've been cast ashore on a +desert island, you see. + +JILL. Haven't I been cast ashore too? + +OLIVER. Well, you will be this afternoon, of course. Well, you see, we +land on the island, you see, and it's a perfectly ripping island, you +see, and--and we land on it, you see, and. . . . + +* * * * * + +(But we are getting on too fast. When the good ship crashed upon the +rock and split in twain, it seemed like that all aboard must perish. +Fortunately OLIVER was made of stern mettle. Hastily constructing a +raft and placing the now unconscious JILL upon it, he launched it into +the seething maelstrom of waters and pushed off. Tossed like a +cockle-shell upon the mountainous waves, the tiny craft with its +precious freight was in imminent danger of foundering. But OLIVER was +made of stern mettle. With dauntless courage he rigged a jury-mast, +and placed a telescope to his eye. "Pull for the lagoon, JILL," cried +the dauntless OLIVER, and in another moment. . . .) + +(As the raft glides into the still waters beyond the reef, we can see +it more clearly. Can it be JILL'S bed, with OLIVER in his pyjamas +perched on the rail, and holding up his bath-towel? Does he shorten +sail for a moment to thump his chest and say, "But OLIVER was made of +stern mettle"? Or is it----) + +(But the sun is sinking behind the swamp where the rattlesnakes bask. +For a moment longer the sail gleams like copper in its rays, and +then--fizz-z--we have lost it. See! Is that speck on the inky black +waters the dauntless Oliver? It is. Let us follow to the island and +see what adventures befall him.) + + +SCENE II.--It is the island which we have dreamed about all our lives. +But at present we cannot see it properly, for it is dark. In one of +those tropical darknesses which can be felt rather than seen OLIVER +hands JILL out of the boat. + +OLIVER. Tread carefully, Jill, there are lots of deadly rattlesnakes +about. + +JILL (stepping hastily back into the boat). Oli-ver! + +OLIVER. You hear the noise of their rattles sometimes when the sun is +sinking behind the swamp. (The deadly rattle of the rattlesnake is +heard) There! + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, are they very deadly? Because if they are, I don't +think I shall like your island. + +OLIVER. Those aren't. I always have their teeth taken out when ladies +are coming. Besides, it's daylight now. + +(With a rapidity common in the tropics--although it may just be +OLIVER'S gallantry--the sun climbs out of the sea, and floods the +island, JILL, no longer frightened, steps out of the boat, and they +walk up to the clearing in the middle.) + +JILL (looking about her). Oh, what a lovely island! I think it's +lovely, Oliver. + +OLIVER (modestly). It's pretty decent, isn't it? Won't you lie down? I +generally lie down here and watch the turtles coming out of the sea to +deposit their eggs on the sand. + +JILL (lying down). How many do they de-deposit usually, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oh, three--or a hundred. Just depends how hungry I am. Have a +bull's-eye, won't you? + +JILL (excitedly). Oh, did you bring some? + +OLIVER (annoyed). Bring some? (Brightening up) Oh, you mean from the +wreck? + +JILL (hastily). Yes, from the wreck. I mean besides the axe and the +bag of nails and the gunpowder. + +OLIVER. Couldn't. The ship sank with all hands before I could get +them. But it doesn't matter, because (going up to one of the trees) I +recognise this as the bull's-eye tree. (He picks a couple of +bull's-eyes and gives one to her.) + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, how lovely! Thank you. (She puts it in her mouth.) + +OLIVER (sucking hard). There was nothing but breadfruit trees here the +first time I was marooned on it. Rotten things to have on a decent +island. So I planted a bull's-eye tree, and a barley-sugar-cane grove, +and one or two other things, and made a jolly ripping place of it. + +JILL (pointing). What's that tree over there? + +OLIVER. That one? Rice-pudding tree. + +JILL (getting up indignantly). Oliver! Take me back to the boat at +once. + +OLIVER. I say, shut up, Jill. You didn't think I meant it for _you_, +did you? + +JILL. But there's only you and me on the island. + +OLIVER. What about the domestic animals? I suppose _they've_ got to +eat. + +JILL. Oh, how lovely! Have we got a goat and a parrot, and a--a-- + +OLIVER. Much better than that. Look in that cage there. + +JILL. Oh, is that a cage? I never noticed it. What do I do? + +OLIVER (going to it). Here, I'll show you (He draws the blind, and the +DOCTOR is exposed sitting on a stump of wood and blinking at the +sudden light) What do you think of that? + +JILL. Oliver! + +OLIVER (proudly). I thought of that in bed one night. Spiffing idea, +isn't it? I've got some other ones in the plantation over there. +Awfully good specimens. I feed 'em on rice-pudding. + +JILL. Can this one talk? + +OLIVER. I'm teaching it. (Stirring it up with a stick) Come up there. + +DOCTOR (mumbling). Ninety-nine, ninety-nine . . . + +OLIVER. That's all it can say at present. I'm going to give it a swim +in the lagoon to-morrow. I want to see if there are any sharks. If +there aren't, then we can bathe there afterwards. + +(The DOCTOR shudders.) + +JILL. Have you given it a name yet? I think I should like to call it +Fluffkins. + +OLIVER. Righto! Good night, Fluffkins. Time little doctors were in +bed. (He pulls down the blind.) + +JILL (lying down again). Well, I think it's a lovely island. + +OLIVER (lying beside her). If there's anything you want, you know, +you've only got to say so. Pirates or anything like that. There's a +ginger-beer well if you're thirsty. + +JILL (closing her eyes). I'm quite happy, Oliver, thank you. + +OLIVER (after a pause, a little awkwardly). Jill, you didn't ever want +to marry a pirate, did you? + +JILL (still on her back with her eyes shut). I hadn't thought about it +much, Oliver dear. + +OLIVER. Because I can get you an awfully decent pirate, if you like, +and if I was his brother-in-law it would be ripping. I've often been +marooned with him, of course, but never as his brother-in-law. + +JILL. Why don't you marry his daughter and be his son-in-law? + +OLIVER. He hasn't got a daughter. + +JILL. Well, you could think him one. + +OLIVER. I don't want to. If ever I'm such a silly ass as to marry, +which I'm jolly well not going to be, I shall marry a--a dusky maiden. +Jill, be sporty. All girls have to get married some time. It's +different with men. + +JILL. Very well, Oliver. I don't want to spoil your afternoon. + +OLIVER. Good biz. (He stands up, shuts his eyes and waves his hands +about.) + + [Enter the PIRATE CHIEF. + +PIRATE CHIEF (with a flourish). Gentles, your servant. Commodore +Crookshank, at your service. Better known on the Spanish Main as +One-eared Eric. + +OLIVER. Glad to meet you, Commodore. I'm--er-- Two-toed Thomas, the +Terror of the Dyaks. But you may call me Oliver, if you like. This is +my sister Jill--the Pride of the Pampas. + +PIRATE CHIEF (with another bow). Charmed! + +JILL (politely). Don't mention it, Commodore. + +OLIVER. My sister wants to marry you. Er--carry on. (He moves a little +away from them and lies down.) + +JILL (sitting down and indicating a place beside her). Won't you sit +down, Commodore? + +PIRATE CHIEF. Thank you, madam. The other side if I may. I shall hear +better if you condescend to accept me. (He sits down on the other side +of her.) + +JILL. Oh, I'm so sorry! I was forgetting about your ear. + +PIRATE CHIEF. Don't mention it. A little discussion in the La Plata +river with a Spanish gentleman. At the end of it I was an ear short +and he was a head short. It was considered in the family that I had +won. + +(There is an awkward pause.) + +JILL (shyly). Well, Commodore? + +PIRATE CHIEF. Won't you call me Eric? + +JILL. I am waiting, Eric. + +PIRATE CHIEF. Madam, I am not a marrying man, not to any extent, but +if you would care to be Mrs. Crookshank, I'd undertake on my part to +have the deck swabbed every morning, and to put a polish on the +four-pounder that you could see your pretty face in. + +JILL. Eric, how sweet of you. But I think you must speak to my brother +in the library first. Oli-ver! + +OLIVER (coming up). Hallo! Settled it? + +JILL. It's all settled, Oliver, between Eric and myself, but you will +want to ask him about his prospects, won't you? + +OLIVER. Yes, yes, of course. + +PIRATE. I shall be very glad to tell you anything I can, sir. I think +I may say that I am doing fairly well in my profession. + +OLIVER. What's your ship? A sloop or a frigate? + +PIRATE. A brigantine. + +JILL (excited). Oh, that's what Oliver puts on his hair when he goes +to a party. + +OLIVER (annoyed). Shut up, Jill! A brigantine? Ah yes, a rakish craft, +eh, Commodore? + +PIRATE (earnestly). Extremely rakish. + +OLIVER. And how many pieces of eight have you? + +PIRATE. Nine thousand. + +OLIVER. Ah! (To JILL) What's nine times eight? + +JILL (to herself). Nine times eight. + +OLIVER (to himself). Nine times eight. + +PIRATE (to himself). Nine times eight. + +JILL. Seventy-two. + +PIRATE. I made it seventy-one, but I expect you're right. + +OLIVER. Then you've seventy-two thousand pieces altogether? + +PIRATE. Yes, sir, about that. + +OLIVER. Any doubloons? + +PIRATE. Hundreds of 'em. + +OLIVER. Ingots of gold? + +PIRATE. Lashings of 'em. + +JILL. And he's going to polish up the four-pounder until I can see my +face in it. + +OLIVER. I was just going to ask you about your guns. You've got 'em +fore and aft of course? + +PIRATE. Yes, sir. A four-pounder fore and a half-pounder haft. + +OLIVER (a little embarrassed). And do you ever have brothers-in-law in +your ship? + +PIRATE. Well, I never have had yet, but I have always been looking +about for one. + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, isn't Eric a _nice_ man? + +OLIVER (casually). I suppose the captain's brother-in-law is generally +the first man to board the Spaniard with his cutlass between his +teeth? + +PIRATE. You might almost say always. Many a ship on the Spanish Main +I've had to leave unboarded through want of a brother-in-law. They're +touchy about it somehow. Unless the captain's brother-in-law comes +first they get complaining. + +OLIVER (bashfully). And there's just one other thing. If the +brigantine happened to put in at an island for water, and the +captain's brother-in-law happened--just happened--to be a silly ass +and go and marry a dusky maiden, whom he met on the beach--- + +PIRATE. Bless you, it's always happening to a captain's +brother-in-law. + +OLIVER (in a magnificent manner). Then, Captain Crookshank, you may +take my sister! + +JILL. Thank you, Oliver. + +(It is not every day that one-eared ERIC, that famous chieftain, +marries into the family of the TERROR OF THE DYAKS. Naturally the +occasion is celebrated by the whole pirate crew with a rousing chorus, +followed by a dance in which the dusky maidens of the Island join. At +the end of it, JILL finds herself alone with TUA-HEETA, the Dusky +Princess.) + +JILL (fashionably). I'm so pleased to meet my brother's future wife. +It's so nice of you to come to see me. You will have some tea, won't +you? (She puts out her hand and presses an imaginary bell) I wanted to +see you, because I can tell you so many little things about my +brother, which I think you ought to know. You see, Eric--my husband-- + +TUA-HEETA. Ereec? + +JILL. Yes. I wish you could see him. He's so nice-looking. But I'm +afraid he won't be home to tea. That's the worst of marrying a sailor. +They are away so much. Well, I was telling you about Oliver. I think +it would be better if you knew at once that--he doesn't like +rice-pudding. + +TUA-HEETA. Rice-poodeeng? + +JILL. Yes, he hates it. It is very important that you should remember +that. Then there's another thing--(An untidy looking servant comes in. +Can it be--can it possibly be AUNT JANE? Horrors!) He dislikes--Oh, +there you are, Jane. You've been a very long time answering the bell. + +AUNT JANE. I'm so sorry ma'am, I was just dressing. + +JILL. Excuses, Jane, always excuses. Leave me. Take a week's notice. +(To TUA-HEETA) YOU must excuse my maid. She's very stupid. Tea at +once, Jane. (AUNT JANE sniffs and goes off) What was I saying? Oh yes, +about Oliver. He doesn't care for cod-liver oil in the way that some +men do. You would be wise not to force it on him just at first. . . . +Have you any idea where you are going to live? + +TUA-HEETA. Live? (These dusky maidens are no conversationalists.) + +JILL. I expect Oliver will wish to reside at Hammersmith, so +convenient for the City. You'll like Hammersmith. You'll go to St. +Paul's Church, I expect. The Vicar will be sure to call. (Enter AUNT +JANE with small tea-table.) Ah, here's tea. (To JANE) You're very +slow, Jane. + +AUNT JANE. I'm sorry, ma'am. + +JILL. It's no good being sorry. Take another week's notice. (To +TUA-HEETA) You must forgive my talking to my maid. She wants such a +lot of looking after. (JANE puts down the table) That will do, Jane, +(JANE bumps against the table) Dear, dear, how clumsy you are. What +wages am I giving you now? + +AUNT JANE. A shilling a month, ma'am. + +JILL. Well, we'd better make it ninepence. (JANE goes out in tears.) +Servants are a great nuisance, aren't they? Jane is a peculiarly +stupid person. She used to be aunt to my brother, and I have only +taken her on out of charity. (She pours out from an imaginary tea-pot) +Milk? Sugar? (She puts them in and hands the imaginary cup to +TUA-HEETA.) + +TUA-HEETA. Thank you. (Drinks.) + +JILL (pouring herself a cup). I hope you like China. (She drinks, and +then rings an imaginary bell) Well, as I was saying---(Enter AUNT +JANE.) You can clear away, Jane. + +AUNT JANE. Yes, ma'am. + +(She clears away the tea and TUA-HEETA and--very quickly--herself, as +OLIVER comes back. OLIVER has been discussing boarding-tactics with +his brother-in-law. CAPTAIN CROOKSHANK belongs to the now +old-fashioned Marlinspike School; OLIVER is for well-primed pistols.) + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, I love your island. I've been thinking things all by +myself. You're married to Tua-heeta. You don't mind, do you? + +OLIVER. Not at all, Jill. Make yourself at home. I've just been trying +the doctor in the lagoon. There _were_ sharks there, after all, so +we'll have to find another place for bathing. Oh, and I shot an +elephant. What would you like to do now? + +JILL. Just let's lie here and see what happens. (What happens is that +a cassowary comes along.) Oh, what a lovely bird! Is it an ostrich? + +(The cassowary sniffs the air, puts its beak to the ground and goes +off again.) + +OLIVER. Silly! It's a cassowary, of course. + +JILL. What's a cassowary? + +OLIVER. Jill! Don't you remember the rhyme? + +I wish I were a cassowary + Upon the plains of Timbuctoo +And then I'd eat a missionary-- + And hat and gloves and hymn-book too! + +JILL. Is that all they're for? + +OLIVER. Well, what else would you want them for? + +(A MISSIONARY, pith-helmet, gloves, hymn-book, umbrella, all +complete--creeps cautiously up. He bears a strong likeness to the +curate, the REVEREND SMILAX.) + +MISSIONARY. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, dear friends, but +have you observed a cassowary on this island, apparently looking for +something? + +OLIVER. Yes, we saw one just now. + +MISSIONARY (shuddering). Dear, dear, dear. You didn't happen to ask +him what was the object of his researches? + +JILL. He went so quickly. + +MISSIONARY (coming out of the undergrowth to them). I wonder if you +have ever heard of a little rhyme which apparently attributes to the +bird in question, when residing in the level pastures of Timbuctoo, an +unholy lust for the body and appurtenances thereto of an unnamed +clerical gentleman? + +OLIVER and JILL (shouting together). Yes! Rather! + +MISSIONARY. Dear, dear! Fortunately--I say fortunately--this is not +Timbuctoo! (OLIVER slips away and comes back with a notice-board +"Timbuctoo," which he places at the edge of the trees, unseen by the +MISSIONARY, who goes on talking to JILL) I take it that a cassowary +residing in other latitudes is of a more temperate habit. His +appetite, I venture to suggest, dear lady, would be under better +restraint. That being so, I may perhaps safely---- (He begins to move +off, and comes suddenly up to the notice-board) Dear, dear, dear, +dear, dear! This is terrible! You said, I think, that the--ah--bird in +question was moving in _this_ direction? + +OLIVER. That's right. + +MISSIONARY. Then I shall move, hastily yet with all due precaution, in +_that_ direction. (He walks off on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder +in case the cassowary should reappear. Consequently, he does not +observe the enormous CANNIBAL who has appeared from the trees on the +right, until he bumps into him) I beg your---- (He looks up) Dear, +dear, dear, dear, dear! + +CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. Yes, my dear sir, it is as you say, a beautiful morning. + +CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. But I was just going a little walk--in this direction--if +you will permit me. + +CANNIBAL (threateningly). Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. I have noticed it, my dear sir, I have often made that +very observation to my parishioners. + +CANNIBAL (very threateningly). Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. Oh, what's he saying? + +OLIVER. He says it's his birthday to-morrow. + +CANNIBAL. Wurra, wurra wug! + +OLIVER. And will you come to the party? + +MISSIONARY (to CANNIBAL). My dear sir, it is most kind of you to +invite me, but a prior engagement in a different part of the +country--a totally unexpected call upon me in another locality--will +unfortunately---- + +(While he is talking, the cassowary comes back, sidles up to him, and +taps with his beak on the MISSIONARY'S pith-helmet.) + +MISSIONARY (absently, without looking round). Come in! . . . As I was +saying, my dear sir---- (The bird taps again. The MISSIONARY turns +round annoyed) Can't you see I'm engaged----Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, +dear! + +(He clasps the CANNIBAL in his anguish, recoils from the CANNIBAL and +clasps the cassowary. The three of them go off together, OLIVER and +JILL following eagerly behind to see who gets most.) + +(The PIRATES come back, each carrying a small wooden ammunition-box, +and sit round in a semicircle, the PIRATE CHIEF in the middle.) + +PIRATE. Steward! Steward! + +STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. + +CHIEF. Now then, tumble up, my lad. I would carouse. Circulate the dry +ginger. + +STEWARD (hurrying out). Yes, sir, going, sir. + +CHIEF. Look lively, my lad, look lively. + +STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. (He hands round mugs to +them all.) + +CHIEF (rising). Gentlemen! (They all stand up) The crew of the +_Cocktail_ will carouse---- (They all take one step to the right, one +back, and one left--which brings them behind their boxes--and then +place their right feet on the boxes together) One! (They raise their +mugs) Two! (They drink) Three! (They bang down their mugs) Four! (They +wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands) So! . . . Steward! + +STEWARD. Yes, sir, here, sir. + +CHIEF. The carouse is over. + +STEWARD. Yes, sir. (He collects the mugs and goes out.) (The PIRATES +sit down again.) + +CHIEF (addressing the men). Having passed an hour thus in feasting and +song---- + +(Hark! is it the voice of our dear MISS PINNIGER? It is.) + +GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Oliver! Jill! You may get up now and come +down to tea. + +CHIEF. Having, as I say, slept off our carouse--- + +GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Jill! (She comes in) Oh, I beg your pardon, +I--er--- + +(All the PIRATES rise and draw their weapons) + +CHIEF. Pray do not mention it. (Polishing his pistol lovingly) You +were asking--- + +GOVERNESS. I--I was l-looking for a small boy--Oliver-- + +CHIEF. Oliver? (To 1ST PIRATE) Have we any Olivers on board? + +1ST PIRATE. NO, Captain. Only Bath Olivers. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to my brother-in-law, +hight Two-Toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks? + +GOVERNESS. Oh no, no--Just a small boy and his sister--Jill. + +CHIEF (to 2ND PIRATE). Have we any Jills on board? + +2ND PIRATE. No, Captain. Only gills of rum. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to Mrs. Crookshank, +styled the Pride of the Pampas? + +GOVERNESS. Oh no, no, I am so sorry. Perhaps I--er-- + +CHIEF. Wait, woman. (to 6TH PIRATE) Ernest, offer your seat to the +lady. + +(The 6TH PIRATE stands up.) + +GOVERNESS (nervously). Oh please don't trouble, I'm getting out at the +next station--I mean I-- + +6TH PIRATE (thunderously). Sit down! + +(She sits down tremblingly and he stands by her with his pistol.) + +CHIEF. Thank you. (to 1ST PIRATE) Cecil, have you your pencil and +notebook with you? + +1ST PIRATE (producing them). Ay, ay, Captain. + +CHIEF. Then we will cross-examine the prisoner. (to GOVERNESS) Name? + +GOVERNESS. Pinniger. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Pincher. + +CHIEF. Christian names, if any? + +GOVERNESS. Letitia. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Letisher--how would you spell it, Captain? + +CHIEF. Spell it like a sneeze. Age? + +GOVERNESS. Twenty-three. + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Habits--untruthful. Appearance--against her. +Got that? + +1ST PIRATE. Yes, sir. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). And what are you for? + +GOVERNESS. I teach. Oliver and Jill, you know. + +CHIEF. And what do you teach them? + +GOVERNESS. Oh, everything. Arithmetic, French, Geography, History, +Dancing---- + +CHIEF (holding up his hand). A moment! I would take counsel with +Percy. (to 2ND PIRATE) Percy, what shall we ask her in Arithmetic? +(The 2ND PIRATE whispers to him.) Excellent. (To her) If you really +are a teacher as you say, answer me this question. The brigantine +_Cocktail_ is in longitude 40° 39' latitude 22° 50', sailing +closehauled on the port tack at 8 knots in a 15-knot nor'-nor' +westerly breeze--how soon before she sights the Azores? + +GOVERNESS. I--I--I'm afraid I---You see--I---- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Arithmetic rotten. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Arithmetic rotten. + +CHIEF (to 3RD PIRATE). Basil, ask her a question in French. + +3RD PIRATE. What would the mate of a French frigate say if he wanted +to say in French, "Avast there, ye lubbering swab" to a friend like? + +GOVERNESS. Oh, but I hardly--I--- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). French futile. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). French futile. + +CHIEF (to 4TH PIRATE). I don't suppose it's much use, Francis. But try +her in Geography. + +4TH PIRATE. Well now, lady. If you was wanting a nice creek to lay up +cosy in, atween Dago Point and the Tortofitas, where would you run to? + +GOVERNESS. It-run to? But that isn't--of course I--- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Geography ghastly. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Geography ghastly. + +CHIEF (to 5TH PIRATE). Give her a last chance, Mervyn. See if she +knows any history. + +5TH PIRATE. I suppose you couldn't tell me what year it was when old +John Cann took the _Saucy Codfish_ over Black Tooth Reef and laid her +alongside the Spaniard in the harbour there, and up comes the Don in +his nightcap. "Shiver my timbers," he says in Spanish, "but there's +only one man in the whole of the Spanish Main," he says, "and that's +John Cann," he says, "who could---" + +(The GOVERNESS looks dumbly at him.) + +CHIEF. She couldn't. History hopeless. + +1ST PIRATE. History hopeless. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). What else do you teach? + +GOVERNESS. Music, dancing--er--but I don't think--- + +CHIEF. Steward! + +STEWARD (coming in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. + +CHIEF. Concertina. + +STEWARD (going out). Yes, sir, going, sir. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). Can you dance a hornpipe? + +GOVERNESS. No, I--- + +CHIEF. Dancing dubious. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Dancing dubious. + +STEWARD (coming in). Concertina, sir. + +CHIEF. Give it to the woman. (He takes it to her.) + +GOVERNESS. I'm afraid I---(She produces one ghastly noise and drops +the concertina in alarm.) + +1ST PIRATE (writing). What shall I say, sir? Music mouldy or music +measly? + +CHIEF (standing up). Gentlemen, I think you will agree with me that +the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly incapable of +teaching anybody anything. Twenty-five years, man and boy, I have +sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible exception of a dumb and +half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in '64, I have never met any +one so profoundly lacking in intellect. I propose, therefore, that for +the space of twenty-four hours the woman Pinniger should be +incarcerated in the smuggler's cave, in the company of a black beetle +of friendly temperament. + +GOVERNESS. Mercy! Mercy! + +1ST PIRATE. I should like to second that. + +CHIEF. Those in favour--ay! (They all say "Ay.") Contrary--No! (The +GOVERNESS says "No.") The motion is carried. + +(One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave. The GOVERNESS rushes +to the CHIEF and throws herself at his feet. OLIVER and JILL appear in +the nick of time.) + +OLIVER. A maiden in distress! I will rescue her. (She looks up and +OLIVER recognises her) Oh! Carry on, Commodore. + +(The GOVERNESS is lowered into the cave and the door is shut.) + +CHIEF (to his men). Go, find that black beetle, and having found it, +introduce it circumspectly by the back door. + +PIRATES. Ay, ay, sir. [They go out. + +OLIVER. All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to rescue +somebody. + +JILL (excitedly). Oo, rescue me, Oliver. + +CHIEF (solemnly). Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks, and Pest of +the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one. Wilt fight me +for the wench? (He puts an arm round JILL.) + +OLIVER. I will. + +CHIEF. Swords? + +OLIVER. Pistols. + +CHIEF. At twenty paces? + +OLIVER. Across a handkerchief. + +CHIEF. Done! (Feeling in his pockets) Have you got a handkerchief? I +think I must have left mine on the dressing-table. + +OLIVER (bringing out his and putting it hastily back again). Mine's +rather--Jill, haven't you got one? + +JILL (feeling). I know I had one, but I---- + +CHIEF. This is an ill business. Five-and-thirty duels have I +fought--and never before been delayed for lack of a handkerchief. + +JILL. Ah, here it is. (She produces a very small one and lays it on +the ground. They stand one each side of it, pistols ready.) + +OLIVER. Jill, you must give the word. JILL. Are you ready? + +(The sound of a gong is heard.) + +CHIEF. Listen! (The gong is heard again) The Spanish Fleet is engaged! + +JILL. _I_ thought it was our tea gong. + +CHIEF. Ah, perhaps you're right. + +OLIVER. I say, we oughtn't to miss tea. (Holding out his hand to her) +Come on, Jill. + +CHIEF. But you'll come back? We shall always be waiting here for you +whenever you want us. + +JILL. Yes, we'll come back, won't we, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oo, rather. + +(The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and Dusky +Maidens, come on. They sing as they wave good-bye to the children who +are making their way to the boat.) + +JILL (from the boat). Good-bye, good-bye. + +OLIVER. Good-bye, you chaps. + +JILL (politely). And thank you all for a very pleasant afternoon. + + [They are all singing as the boat pushes off. Night comes on with + tropical suddenness. The singing dies slowly down. + + + + +ACT III.--FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE HUBBARD FAMILY + + +SCENE I.--The drawing-room of the HUBBARDS before Fame and Prosperity +came to them. It is simply furnished with a deal table and two cane +chairs. + +MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, in faultless evening dress, are at home, MR. +HUBBARD reading a magazine, MRS. HUBBARD with her hands in her lap. +She sighs. + +MR. HUBBARD (impetuously throwing down his magazine). Dearest, you +sighed? + +MRS. HUBBARD (quickly). No, no, Henry. In a luxurious and +well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh? + +MR. HUBBARD. True, dear. Not only is it artistically furnished, as you +say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all things--(he +lifts up the magazine)--a library. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful for. + +MR. HUBBARD. We have indeed. But I am selfish. Would you care to read? +(He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to her.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry. + +(They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs again.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves you. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me. + +MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully). Isabel? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she comes +after Harold? + +MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers). A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I--dear +me, have we got nine already? + +MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly). Darling, say you don't think it's too +many. + +MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it isn't as +if they were real children. + +MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly). Henry! How can you say they are not real? + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they're only the children we thought we'd +like to have if Father Christmas gave us any. + +MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here in the +house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis, pretty Elsie +with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired Frank-- + +MR. HUBBARD (firmly). Darling one, Frank has curly brown hair. It was +an understood thing that you should choose the girls, and _I_ should +choose the boys. When we decided to take--A, B, C, D, E, F--a sixth +child, it was my turn for a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly +brown hair and a fondness for animals. + +MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you're right, dear. Of course it is a little +confusing when you never see your children. + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will give +us some. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our +stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a +diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order +would be something. + +MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the chimney +has not been swept for some years may have something to do with it. Or +he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot help feeling +that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this way he would be +very much annoyed. + +MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I am +standing up in--I mean sitting down in. + +MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of us in +the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening dress. We +are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately cuts us off in +this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go on reading or would +you like to walk up and down the room? Fortunately these simple +pleasures are left to us. + +MRS. HUBBARD. I've finished this page. + +MR. HUBBARD (tearing out one). Have another, my love. (They read for a +little while, until interrupted by a knock at the door.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Some one at the door! Who could it be? + +MR. HUBBARD (getting up). Just make the room look a little more homey, +dear, in case it's any one important. + +(He goes out, leaving her to alter the position of the chairs +slightly.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Well? + +MR. HUBBARD (coming in). A letter. (He opens it.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Quick! + +MR. HUBBARD (whistling with surprise). Father Christmas! An invitation +to Court! (Reading) "Father Christmas at Home, 25th December. +Jollifications, 11.59 P.M." My love, he has found us at last! (They +embrace each other.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry, how gratifying! + +MR. HUBBARD. Yes. (Sadly, after a pause) But we can't go. + +MRS. HUBBARD (sadly). No, I have no clothes. + +MR. HUBBARD. Nor I. + +MRS. HUBBARD. How can I possibly go without a diamond necklace? None +of the Montmorency-Smythe women has ever been to Court without a +diamond necklace. + +MR. HUBBARD. The Hubbards are a proud race. No male Hubbard would +dream of appearing at Court without a gentleman's gold Albert +watch-chain. . . . Besides, there is another thing. There will be many +footmen at Father Christmas's Court, who will doubtless require +coppers pressed into their palms. My honour would be seriously +affected, were I compelled to whisper to them that I had no coppers. + +MRS. HUBBARD. It is very unfortunate. Father Christmas may have +hundreds of presents waiting for us. + +MR. HUBBARD. True. But how would it be to hang up our stockings again +this evening--now that we know he knows we are here? I would suggest +tied on to the door-knocker, to save him the trouble of coming down +the chimney. + +MRS. HUBBARD (excitedly). Henry, I wonder! But of course we will. + +(They begin to take off--the one a sock, the other a stocking.) + +MR. HUBBARD. I almost wish now that my last suit had been a +knickerbocker one. However, we must do what we can with a sock. + +MRS. HUBBARD (holding up her stocking and looking at it a little +anxiously). I hope Father Christmas won't give me a bicycle. A +stocking never sets so well after it has had a bicycle in it. + +MR. HUBBARD (taking it from her). Now, dear, I will go down and put +them in position. Let us hope that fortune will be kind to us. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Let us hope so, darling. And quickly. For (picking up +her page of the magazine) it is a trifle cold. + + [He goes out and she is left reading. + + + +SCENE II.--Outside the house the snow lies deep. The stocking and sock +are tied on to the door-knocker. There is a light in the window. + +A party of carol-singers, with lanterns, come by and halt in the snow +outside the house. + +PETER ABLEWAYS. Friends, are we all assembled? + +JONAS HUMPHREY. Ay, ay, Peter Ableways, assembled and met together in +a congregation, for the purpose of lifting up our voices in joyous +thanksgiving, videlicet the singing of a carol or other wintry melody. + +JENNIFER LING. Keep your breath for your song, Master Humphrey. That +last "Alleluia" of yours was a poor windy thing, lacking grievously in +substance. + +JONAS (sadly). It is so. I never made much of an Alleluia. It is not +in my nature somehow. 'Tis a vain boastful thing an Alleluia. + +MARTHA PORRITT. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are +cold. + +JONAS. What matter the feet, Martha Porritt, if the heart be warm with +loving-kindness and seasonable emotions? + +MARTHA. Well, nothing of me will be warm soon. + +JENNIFER. Ay, let's begin, Peter Ableways, while we carry the tune in +our heads. It is ill searching for the notes in the middle of the +carol, as some singers do. + +PETER. Well spoken, Mistress Jennifer. Now listen all, while I unfold +the nature of the entertainment. _Item_--A carol or birth song to draw +the attention of all folk to the company here assembled and the +occasion celebrated. _Item_--Applause and the clapping of hands. +_Item_--A carol or song of thanksgiving. _Item_--A collection. + +JONAS. An entertainment well devised, Master Ableways, sobeit the +words of the second song remain with me after I am delivered of the +first. + +MARTHA. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are cold. + +PETER. Are we all ready, friends? I will say one--two--three--and at +"three" I pray you all to give it off in a hearty manner from the +chest. One--two-- + +JONAS. Hold, hold, Master Ableways! Does it begin--No, that's the +other one. (JENNIFER whispers the first line to him) Ay, ay--I have it +now--and bursting to get out of me. Proceed, Peter Ableways. + +PETER. One--two--three--(They carol.) + +PETER. Well sung, all. + +HUMPHREY. The applause followed, good Master Peter, as ordained. +Moreover, I have the tune of the second song ready within me. Likewise +a la-la-la or two to replace such words as I have forgotten. + +MARTHA. Don't forget the collection, Master Ableways. + +PETER. Ay, the collection. (He takes off his hat and places it on the +ground.) + +HUMPHREY. Nay, not so fast, Master Peter. It would be ill if the good +folk thought that our success this night were to be estimated by an +empty hat. Place some of our money in it, Master Ableways. Where money +is, money will come. + +JENNIFER. Ay, it makes a pleasing clink. + +PETER. True, Mistress Jennifer. Master Humphrey speaks true. (He pours +some coppers from his pockets into his hat.) + +MARTHA. Are we to go on, Master Ableways? My feet are cold. + +PETER (shaking the hat). So, a warming noise. + +HUMPHREY. To it again, gentles. + +PETER. Are all ready? One--two--three! (They carol.) + +PETER. Well sung, all. + +HUMPHREY. Have you the hat, Master Peter? + +PETER (picking it up). Ay, friend, all is ready. + +(The door opens and MR. HUBBARD appears at the entrance.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Good evening, friends. + +PETER. Good evening, sir. (He holds out the hat.) + +MR. HUBBARD (looking at it). What is this? (PETER shakes it) Aha! +Money! + +PETER. Remember the carol singers, sir. + +MR. HUBBARD (helping himself). My dear friends, I will always remember +you. This is most generous. I shall never forget your kindness. This +is most unexpected. But not the less welcome, not the less--I think +there's a ha'penny down there that I missed--thank you. As I was +saying, unexpected but welcome. I thank you heartily. Good evening, +friends. + + [He goes in and shuts the door. + +PETER (who has been too surprised to do anything but keep his mouth +open). Well! . . . Well! . . . Well, friends, let us to the next house. We +have got all that we can get here. + + [They trail off silently. + +MARTHA (as they go off). Master Ableways! + +PETER. Ay, lass! + +MARTHA. My feet aren't so cold now. + +(But this is to be an exciting night. As soon as they are gone, a +Burglar and a Burglaress steal into view) + +BILL. Wotcher get, Liz? (She holds up a gold watch and chain. He nods +and holds up a diamond necklace) 'Ow's that? + +LIZ (starting suddenly). H'st! + +BILL (in a whisper). What is it? + +LIZ. Copper! + +BILL (desperately). 'Ere, quick, get rid of these. 'Ide 'em in the +snow, or--- + +LIZ. Bill! (He turns round) Look! (She points to the stocking and sock +hanging up) We can come back for 'em as soon as 'e's gone. + +(BILL looks at them, and back at her, and grins. He drops the necklace +into one and the watch into the other. As the POLICEMAN approaches +they strike up, "While shepherds watched their flock by night," with +an air of great enthusiasm.) + +POLICEMAN. Now then, move along there. + +(They move along. The POLICEMAN flashes his light on the door to see +that all is well. The stocking and sock are revealed. He beams +sentimentally at them.) + + +SCENE III.--We are inside the house again. MRS. HUBBARD is still +reading a page of the magazine. In dashes MR. HUBBARD with the sock +and stocking. + +MR. HUBBARD. My darling, what do you think? Father Christmas has sent +you a little present. (He hands her the stocking.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Has he sent you one too? + +MR. HUBBARD (holding up his sock). Observe! + +MRS. HUBBARD. How sweet of him! I wonder what mine is. What is yours, +darling? + +MR. HUBBARD. I haven't looked yet, my love. Perhaps just a few nuts or +something of that sort, with a card attached saying, "To wish you the +old, old wish." We must try not to be disappointed, whatever it is, +darling. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, Henry. After all, it is the kindly thought +which really matters. + +MR. HUBBARD. Certainly. All the same, I hope--Will you look in yours, +dear, first, or shall I? + +MRS. HUBBARD. I think I should like to, darling. (Feeling it) It feels +so exciting. (She brings out a diamond necklace) Henry! + +MR. HUBBARD. My love! (They embrace) Now you will be able to go to +Court. You must say that your husband is unfortunately in bed with a +bad cold. You can tell me all about it when you come home. I shall be +able to amuse myself with--(He is feeling in his sock while talking, +and now brings out the watch and chain.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! My love! + +MR. HUBBARD. A gentleman's gold hunter and Albert watch-chain. My +darling! + +(They put down their presents on the table and embrace each other +again.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Let's put them on at once, Henry, and see how they suit +us. + +MR. HUBBARD. Allow me, my love. (He fastens her necklace.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (happily). Now I feel really dressed again! Oh, I wish we +had a looking-glass. + +MR. HUBBARD (opening his gold watch). Try in here, my darling. + +MRS. HUBBARD (surveying herself). How perfectly sweet! . . . Now let me +put your watch-chain on for you, dear. (She arranges it for him--HENRY +very proud.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Does it suit me, darling? + +MRS. HUBBARD. You look fascinating, Henry! + +(They strut about the room with an air.) + +MR. HUBBARD (taking out his watch and-looking at it ostentatiously). +Well, well, we ought to be starting. My watch makes it 11.58. (He +holds it to her ear) Hasn't it got a sweet tick? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Sweet! But starting where, Henry? Do you mean we can +really--But you haven't any money. + +MR. HUBBARD. Money? (Taking out a handful) Heaps of it. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Father Christmas? + +MR. HUBBARD. Undoubtedly, my love. Brought round to the front door +just now by some of his messengers. By the way, dear--(indicating the +sock and stocking)--hadn't we better put these on before we start? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course. How silly of me! + +(They sit down and put them on.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Really this is a very handsome watch-chain. + +MRS. HUBBARD. It becomes you admirably, Henry. + +MR. HUBBARD. Thank you, dear. There's just one little point. Father +Christmas is sometimes rather shy about acknowledging the presents he +gives. He hates being thanked. If, therefore, he makes any comment on +your magnificent necklace or my handsome watch-chain, we must say that +they have been in the family for some years. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, dear. (They get up.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, now we're ready. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, don't you think we might bring the +children? + +MR. HUBBARD. Of course, dear! How forgetful of me! . . . Children--'shun! +(Listen! Their heels click as they come to attention) Number! (Their +voices--alternate boy and girl, one to nine--are heard) Right _turn_! + +MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, I almost seem to hear them! + +MR. HUBBARD. Are you ready, my love? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, Henry. + +MR. HUBBARD. Quick march! + +(The children are heard tramping off. Very proudly MR. and MRS. +HUBBARD bring up the rear.) + + +SCENE IV.--The Court of FATHER CHRISTMAS. Shall we describe it? No. +But there is everything there which any reasonable person could want, +from ices to catapults. And the decorations, done in candy so that you +can break off a piece whenever you are hungry, are superb. + +1ST USHER (from the back). Father Christmas! + +SEVERAL USHERS (from the front). Father Christmas! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (genially). Good evening, everybody. + +(I ought to have said that there are already some hundreds of people +there, though how some of them got invitations--but, after all, that +is not our business. Wishing to put them quite at their ease, FATHER +CHRISTMAS, who has a very creditable baritone, gives them a song. +After the applause which follows it, he retires to the throne at the +back, and awaits his more important guests. The USHERS take up their +places, one at the entrance, one close to the throne.) + +1ST USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard! (They come in.) + +MR. HUBBARD (pressing twopence into his palm). Thank you, my man, +thank you. + +2ND USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard. + +MR. HUBBARD (handing out another twopence). Not at all, my man, not at +all. + +(MRS. HUBBARD curtsies and MR. HUBBARD bows to FATHER CHRISTMAS.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. I am delighted to welcome you to my Court. How are +you both? + +MR. HUBBARD. Very well, thank you, sir. My wife has a slight cold in +one foot, owing to-- + +MRS. HUBBARD (hastily). A touch of gout, sir, inherited from my +ancestors, the Montmorency-Smythes. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. Dear me, it won't prevent you dancing, I hope? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Oh no, sir. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. That's right. We shall have a few more friends +coming in soon. You have been giving each other presents already, I +see. I congratulate you, madam, on your husband's taste. + +MRS. HUBBARD (touching her necklace). Oh no, this is a very old +heirloom of the Montmorency-Smythe family. + +MR. HUBBARD. An ancestress of Mrs. Hubbard's--a lady-in-waiting at the +Tottenham Court--at the Tudor Court--was fortunate enough to catch the +eye of--er-- + +MRS. HUBBARD. Elizabeth. + +MR. HUBBARD. Queen Elizabeth, and--er-- + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. I see. You are lucky, madam, to have such beautiful +jewels. (Turning to MR. HUBBARD) And this delightful gold Albert +watch-chain-- + +MR. HUBBARD. Presented to an ancestor of mine, Sir Humphrey de +Hubbard, at the battle of--er-- + +MRS. HUBBARD. Agincourt. + +MR. HUBBARD. As you say, dear, Agincourt. By King Richard the--I +should say William the--well, by the King. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How very interesting. + +MR. HUBBARD. Yes. My ancestor clove a scurvy knave from the chaps to +the chine. I don't quite know how you do that, but I gather that he +inflicted some sort of a scratch upon his adversary, and the King +rewarded him with this handsome watch-chain. + +USHERS (announcing). Mr. Robinson Crusoe! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +CRUSOE (bowing). I'm a little late, I'm afraid, sir. My raft was +delayed by adverse gales. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS introduces him to the HUBBARDS, who inform him that +the weather is very seasonable.) + +USHERS. Miss Riding Hood! (She comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +RIDING HOOD (curtseying). I hope I am in time, sir. I had to look in +on my grandmother on the way here. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS makes the necessary introductions.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (to CRUSOE). Do come and see me, Mr. Crusoe. Any Friday. +I should like your advice about my parrot. He's moulting in all the +wrong places. + +MR. HUBBARD (to RED RIDING HOOD). I don't know if you're interested in +wolves at all, Miss Hood. I heard a very good story about one the +other day. (He begins to tell it, but she has hurried away before he +can remember whether it was Thursday or Friday.) + +USHERS. Baron Bluebeard! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +BLUEBEARD (bowing). I trust you have not been waiting for me, sir. I +had a slight argument with my wife before starting, which delayed me +somewhat. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS forgives him.) + +USHERS. Princess Goldilocks! + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +GOLDILOCKS (curtseying). I brought the youngest bear with me--do you +mind? (She introduces the youngest bear to FATHER CHRISTMAS and the +other guests) Say, how do you do, darling? (To an USHER) Will you give +him a little porridge, please, and if you have got a nice bed where he +could rest a little afterwards--he gets tired so quickly. + +USHER. Certainly, your Royal Highness. + +(Music begins.) + +GOLDILOCKS (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Are we going to dance? How lovely! + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (to the HUBBARDS). You will dance, won't you? + +MRS. HUBBARD. I think not just at first, thank you. + +GOLDILOCKS (to CRUSOE). Come along! + +CRUSOE. I am a little out of practice--er--but if you don't +mind--er--(He comes.) + +BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). May I have the pleasure? + +MRS. HUBBARD (to RIDING HOOD). Be careful, dear; he has a very bad +reputation. + +RIDING HOOD (to BLUEBEARD). You don't eat people, do you? + +BLUEBEARD (pained by this injustice). Never! + +RIDING HOOD. Oh then, I don't mind. But I do hate being eaten. + +(Now we can't possibly describe the whole dance to you, for in every +corner of the big ballroom couples were revolving and sliding, and +making small talk with each other. So we will just take two specimen +conversations.) + +CRUSOE (nervous, poor man). Princess Goldilocks, may I speak to you on +a matter of some importance to me? + +GOLDILOCKS. I wish you would. + +CRUSOE (looking across at BLUEBEARD and RED RIDING HOOD, who are +revolving close by). Alone. + +GOLDILOCKS (to BLUEBEARD). Do you mind? You can have your turn +afterwards. + +BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). Shall we adjourn to the Buffet? + +RIDING HOOD. Oh, do let's. [They adjourn. + +CRUSOE (bravely). Princess, I am a lonely man. + +GOLDILOCKS (encouragingly). Yes, Robinson? + +CRUSOE. I am not much of a one for society, and I don't quite know how +to put these things, but--er--if you would like to share my island, +I--I should so love to have you there. + +GOLDILOCKS. Oh, Robbie! + +CRUSOE (warming to it). I have a very comfortable house, and a +man-servant, and an excellent view from the south windows, and several +thousands of acres of good rough-shooting, and--oh, do say you'll +come! + +GOLDILOCKS. May I bring my bears with me? + +CRUSOE. Of course! I ought to have said that. I have a great fondness +for animals. + +GOLDILOCKS. How sweet of you! But perhaps I ought to warn you that we +all like porridge. Have you--- + +CRUSOE. I have a hundred acres of oats. + +GOLDILOCKS. Then, Robinson, I am yours. (They embrace) There! Now tell +me--did you make all your clothes yourself? + +CRUSOE (proudly). All of them. + +GOLDILOCKS (going off with him). How wonderful of you! Really you +hardly seem to want a wife. + + [They go out. Now it is the other couple's turn. + +Enter, then, BLUEBEARD and RIDING HOOD + +BLUEBEARD. Perhaps I ought to tell you at once, Miss Riding Hood, that +I have been married before. + +RIDING HOOD. Yes? + +BLUEBEARD. My last wife unfortunately died just before I started out +here this evening. + +RIDING HOOD (calmly). Did you kill her? + +BLUEBEARD (taken aback). I--I--I-- + +RIDING HOOD. Are you quite a nice man, Bluebeard? + +BLUEBEARD. W-what do you mean? I am a very _rich_ man. If you will +marry me, you will live in a wonderful castle, full of everything that +you want. + +RIDING HOOD. That will be rather jolly. + +BLUEBEARD (dramatically) But there is one room into which you must +never go. (Holding up a key) Here is the key of it. (He offers it to +her.) + +RIDING HOOD (indifferently) But if I'm never to go into it, I shan't +want the key. + +BLUEBEARD (upset). You--you _must_ have the key. + +RIDING HOOD. Why? + +BLUEBEARD. The--the others all had it. + +RIDING HOOD (coldly). Bluebeard, you aren't going to talk about your +_other_ wives all the time, are you? + +BLUEBEARD. N--no. + +RIDING HOOD. Then don't be silly. And take this key, and go and tidy +up that ridiculous room of yours, and when it's nice and clean, and +when you've shaved off that absurd beard, perhaps I'll marry you. + +BLUEBEARD (furiously drawing his sword). Madam! + +RIDING HOOD. Don't do it here. You'll want some hot water. + +BLUEBEARD (trying to put his sword back). This is too much, this is-- + +RIDING HOOD. You're putting it in the wrong way round. + +BLUEBEARD (stiffly). Thank you. (He manages to get it in.) + +RIDING HOOD. Well, do you want to marry me? + +BLUEBEARD. Yes! + +RIDING HOOD. Sure? + +BLUEBEARD (admiringly). More than ever. You're the first woman I've +met who hasn't been afraid of me. + +RIDING HOOD (surprised). Are you very alarming? Wolves frighten me +sometimes, but not just silly men. . . . (Giving him her hand) All right +then. But you'll do what I said? + +BLUEBEARD. Beloved one, I will do anything for you. + +(CRUSOE and GOLDILOCKS come back. Probably it will occur to the four +of them to sing a song indicative of the happy family life awaiting +them. On the other hand they may prefer to dance. . . .) + +But enough of this. Let us get on to the great event of the evening. +Ladies and gentlemen, are you all assembled? Then silence, please, for +FATHER CHRISTMAS. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to +see you here at my Court this evening; and in particular my friends +Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, of whom I have been too long neglectful. +However, I hope to make up for it to-night. (To an USHER) Disclose the +Christmas Tree! + +(The Christmas Tree is disclosed, and--what do you think? Children +disguised as crackers are hanging from every branch! Well, I never!) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (quite calmly). Distribute the presents! + +(An USHER takes down the children one by one and places them in a row, +reading from the labels on them. "MRS. HUBBARD, MR. HUBBARD" +alternately.) + +USHER (handing list to MR. HUBBARD). Here is the nominal roll, sir. + +MR. HUBBARD (looking at it in amazement). What's this? (MRS. HUBBARD +looks over his shoulder) Ada, Bertram, Caroline--My darling one! + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Our children at last! Oh, are they all--_all_ +there? + +MR. HUBBARD. We'll soon see, dear. Ada! + +ADA (springing to attention). Father! (She stands at ease.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Bertram! . . . (And so on up to ELSIE) . . . Frank! + +FRANK. Father! + +MR. HUBBARD. There you are, darling, I told you he had curly brown +hair. . . . Gwendoline! (And so on.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Oh thank you so much. It is sweet +of you. + +MR. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). We are slightly overcome. Do you +mind if we just dance it off. (FATHER CHRISTMAS nods genially.) Come +on, children! + +(He holds out his hands, and he and his wife and the children dance +round in a ring singing, "Here we go round the Christmas Tree, all on +a Christmas evening. . . .") + +(And then--But at this moment JAMES and ROSEMARY and the HUBBARD +children stopped thinking, so of course the play came to an end. And +if there were one or two bits in it which the children didn't quite +understand, that was JAMES'S fault. He never ought to have been +thinking at all, really.) + + + + +MR. PIM PASSES BY + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + + +CHARACTERS + + +GEORGE MARDEN, J.P. +OLIVIA (his wife). +DINAH (his niece). +LADY MARDEN (his aunt). +BRIAN STRANGE. +CARRAWAY PIM. +ANNE. + + + * * * * * + +The first performance of this play in London took place at the New +Theatre on January 5, 1920, with the following cast: + + +George Marden--BEN WEBSTER. +Olivia--IRENE VANBRUGH. +Dinah--GEORGETTE COHAN. +Lady Marden--ETHEL GRIFFIES. +Brian Strange--LESLIE HOWARD. +Carraway Pim--DION BOUCICAULT. +Anne--ETHEL WELLESLEY. + + + + +MR. PIM PASSES BY + +ACT I + + +(The morning-room at Marden House (Buckinghamshire) decided more than +a hundred years ago that it was all right, and has not bothered about +itself since. Visitors to the house have called the result such +different adjectives as "mellow" "old-fashioned," "charming"--even +"baronial" and "antique"; but nobody ever said it was "exciting." +Sometimes OLIVIA wants it to be more exciting, and last week she let +herself go over some new curtains. At present they are folded up and +waiting for her; she still has the rings to put on. It is obvious that +the curtains alone will overdo the excitement; they will have to be +harmonised with a new carpet and cushions. OLIVIA has her eye on just +the things, but one has to go carefully with GEORGE. What was good +enough for his great-great-grandfather is good enough for him. +However, we can trust OLIVIA to see him through it, although it may +take time.) + +(There are two ways of coming into the room; by the open windows +leading from the terrace or by the door. On this pleasant July morning +MR. PIM chooses the latter way--or rather ANNE chooses it for him; and +old MR. PIM, wistful, kindly, gentle, little MR. PIM, living in some +world of his own whither we cannot follow, ambles after her.) + +ANNE. I'll tell Mr. Marden you're here, sir. Mr. Pim, isn't it? + +PIM (coming back to this world). Yes--er--Mr. Carraway Pim. He doesn't +know me, you understand, but if he could just see me for a +moment--er--(He fumbles in his pockets) I gave you that letter? + +ANNE. Yes, sir, I'll give it to him. + +PIM (bringing out a letter which is not the one he was looking for, +but which reminds him of something else he has forgotten). Dear me! + +ANNE. Yes, sir? + +PIM. I ought to have sent a telegram, but I can do it on my way back. +You have a telegraph office in the village? + +ANNE. Oh yes, sir. If you turn to the left when you get outside the +gates, it isn't more than a hundred yards down the hill. + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. Very stupid of me to have forgotten. + + [ANNE goes out. + +(MR. PIM wanders about the room humming to himself, and looking +vaguely at the pictures. He has his back to the door as DINAH comes +in. She is nineteen, very pretty, very happy, and full of boyish high +spirits and conversation.) + +DINAH. Hullo! + +PIM (turning round). Ah, good morning, Mrs. Marden. You must forgive +my--er-- + +DINAH. Oh I say, I'm not Mrs. Marden. I'm Dinah. + +PIM (with a bow). Then I will say, Good morning, Miss Diana. + +DINAH (reproachfully). Now, look here, if you and I are going to be +friends you mustn't do that. Dinah, _not_ Diana. Do remember it, +there's a good man, because I get so tired of correcting people. Have +you come to stay with us? + +PIM. Well no, Miss--er--Dinah. + +DINAH (nodding). That's right. I can see I shan't have to speak to +_you_ again. Now tell me _your_ name, and I bet you I get it right +first time. And do sit down. + +PIM (sitting down). Thank you. My name is--er--Pim, Carraway Pim-- + +DINAH. Pim, that's easy. + +PIM. And I have a letter of introduction to your father-- + +DINAH. Oh no; now you're going wrong again, Mr. Pim. George isn't my +father; he's my uncle. _Uncle_ George--he doesn't like me calling him +George. Olivia doesn't mind--I mean she doesn't mind being called +Olivia, but George is rather touchy. You see, he's been my guardian +since I was about two, and then about five years ago he married a +widow called Mrs. Telworthy--that's Olivia--so she became my Aunt +Olivia, only she lets me drop the Aunt. Got that? + +PIM (a little alarmed). I--I think so, Miss Marden. + +DINAH (admiringly). I say, you _are_ quick, Mr. Pim. Well, if you take +my advice, when you've finished your business with George, you will +hang about a bit and see if you can't see Olivia. She's simply +devastating. I don't wonder George fell in love with her. + +PIM. It's only the merest matter of business--just a few minutes with +your uncle--I'm afraid I shall hardly-- + +DINAH. Well, you must please yourself, Mr. Pim. I'm just giving you a +friendly word of advice. Naturally, I was awfully glad to get such a +magnificent aunt, because, of course, marriage _is_ rather a toss up, +isn't it, and George might have gone off with anybody. It's different +on the stage, where guardians always marry their wards, but George +couldn't marry _me_ because I'm his niece. Mind you, I don't say that +I should have had him, because between ourselves he's a little bit +old-fashioned. + +PIM. So he married--er--Mrs. Marden instead. + +DINAH. Mrs. Telworthy--don't say you've forgotten already, just when +you were getting so good at names. Mrs. Telworthy. You see, Olivia +married the Telworthy man and went to Australia with him, and he drank +himself to death in the bush, or wherever you drink yourself to death +out there, and Olivia came home to England, and met my uncle, and he +fell in love with her and proposed to her, and he came into my room +that night--I was about fourteen--and turned on the light and said, +"Dinah, how would you like to have a beautiful aunt of your very own?" +And I said: "Congratulations, George." That was the first time I +called him George. Of course, I'd seen it coming for _weeks_. +Telworthy, isn't it a funny name? + +PIM. Very singular. From Australia, you say? + +DINAH. Yes, I always say that he's probably still alive, and will turn +up here one morning and annoy George, because that's what first +husbands always do in books, but I'm afraid there's not much chance. + +PIM (shocked). Miss Marden! + +DINAH. Well, of course, I don't really _want_ it to happen, but it +_would_ be rather exciting, wouldn't it? However, things like that +never seem to occur down here, somehow. There was a hay-rick burnt +last year about a mile away, but that isn't quite the same thing, is +it? + +PIM. No, I should say that that was certainly different. + +DINAH. Of course, something very, very wonderful did happen last +night, but I'm not sure if I know you well enough---- (She looks at +him hesitatingly.) + +PIM (uncomfortably). Really, Miss Marden, I am only a--a passer-by, +here to-day and gone to-morrow. You really mustn't---- + +DINAH. And yet there's something about you, Mr. Pim, which inspires +confidence. The fact is--(in a stage whisper)--I got engaged last +night! + +PIM. Dear me, let me congratulate you. + +DINAH. I expect that's why George is keeping you such a long time. +Brian, my young man, the well-known painter--only nobody has ever +heard of him--he's smoking a pipe with George in the library and +asking for his niece's hand. Isn't it exciting? You're really rather +lucky, Mr. Pim--I mean being told so soon. Even Olivia doesn't know +yet. + +PIM (getting up). Yes, yes. I congratulate you, Miss Marden. Perhaps +it would be better---- + + [ANNE comes in. + +ANNE. Mr. Marden is out at the moment, sir---- Oh, I didn't see you, +Miss Dinah. + +DINAH. It's all right, Anne. _I'm_ looking after Mr. Pim. + +ANNE. Yes, Miss. + + [She goes out. + +DINAH (excitedly). That's me. They can't discuss me in the library +without breaking down, so they're walking up and down outside, and +slashing at the thistles in order to conceal their emotion. _You_ +know. I expect Brian---- + +PIM (looking at his watch). Yes, I think, Miss Marden, I had better go +now and return a little later. I have a telegram which I want to send, +and perhaps by the time I came back---- + +DINAH. Oh, but how disappointing of you, when we were getting on +together so nicely. And it was just going to be your turn to tell me +all about _your_self. + +PIM. I have really nothing to tell, Miss Marden. I have a letter of +introduction to Mr. Marden, who in turn will give me, I hope, a letter +to a certain distinguished man whom it is necessary for me to meet. +That is all. (Holding out his hand) And now, Miss Marden---- + +DINAH. Oh, I'll start you on your way to the post office. I want to +know if you're married, and all that sort of thing. You've got heaps +to tell me, Mr. Pim. Have you got your hat? That's right. Then +we'll--hullo, here's Brian. + +(BRIAN STRANGE comes in at the windows. He is what GEORGE calls a +damned futuristic painter-chap, aged twenty-four. To look at, he is a +very pleasant boy, rather untidily dressed.) + +BRIAN (nodding). How do you do? + +DINAH (seizing him). Brian, this is Mr. Pim. Mr. Carraway Pim. He's +been telling me all about himself. It's so interesting. He's just +going to send a telegram, and then he's coming back again. Mr. Pim, +this is Brian--_you_ know. + +BRIAN (smiling and shaking hands). How do you do? + +DINAH (pleadingly). You _won't_ mind going to the post office by +yourself, will you, because, you see, Brian and I--(she looks lovingly +at BRIAN). + +PIM (because they are so young). Miss Dinah and Mr.--er--Brian, I have +only come into your lives for a moment, and it is probable that I +shall now pass out of them for ever, but you will allow an old man---- + +DINAH. Oh, not old! + +PIM (chuckling happily). Well, a middle-aged man--to wish you both +every happiness in the years that you have before you. Good-bye, +good-bye. + + [He disappears gently through the windows. + +DINAH. Brian, he'll get lost if he goes that way. + +BRIAN (going to the windows and calling after him). Round to the left, +sir. . . . That's right. (He comes back into the room) Rum old bird. Who +is he? + +DINAH. Darling, you haven't kissed me yet. + +BRIAN (taking her in his arms). I oughtn't to, but then one never +ought to do the nice things. + +DINAH. Why oughtn't you? + +(They sit on the sofa together.) + +BRIAN. Well, we said we'd be good until we'd told your uncle and aunt +all about it. You see, being a guest in their house---- + +DINAH. But, darling child, what _have_ you been doing all this morning +_except_ telling George? + +BRIAN. _Trying_ to tell George. + +DINAH (nodding). Yes, of course, there's a difference. + +BRIAN. I think he guessed there was something up, and he took me down +to see the pigs--he said he had to see the pigs at once--I don't know +why; an appointment perhaps. And we talked about pigs all the way, and +I couldn't say, "Talking about pigs, I want to marry your niece----" + +DINAH (with mock indignation). Of course you couldn't. + +BRIAN. No. Well, you see how it was. And then when we'd finished +talking about pigs, we started talking _to_ the pigs---- + +DINAH (eagerly). Oh, _how_ is Arnold? + +BRIAN. The little black-and-white one? He's very jolly, I believe, but +naturally I wasn't thinking about him much. I was wondering how to +begin. And then Lumsden came up, and wanted to talk pig-food, and the +atmosphere grew less and less romantic, and--and I gradually drifted +away. + +DINAH. Poor darling. Well, we shall have to approach him through +Olivia. + +BRIAN. But I always wanted to tell her first; she's so much easier. +Only you wouldn't let me. + +DINAH. That's _your_ fault, Brian. You would tell Olivia that she +ought to have orange-and-black curtains. + +BRIAN. But she _wants_ orange-and-black curtains. + +DINAH. Yes, but George says he's not going to have any futuristic +nonsense in an honest English country house, which has been good +enough for his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather, +and--and all the rest of them. So there's a sort of strained feeling +between Olivia and George just now, and if Olivia were to--sort of +recommend you, well, it wouldn't do you much good. + +BRIAN (looking at her). I see. Of course I know what _you_ want, +Dinah. + +DINAH. What do I want? + +BRIAN. You want a secret engagement, and notes left under door-mats, +and meetings by the withered thorn, when all the household is asleep. +_I_ know you. + +DINAH. Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered +thorns. + +BRIAN. Well, I'm not going to have it. + +DINAH (childishly). Oh, George! Look at us being husbandy! + +BRIAN. You babe! I adore you. (He kisses her and holds her away from +him and looks at her) You know, you're rather throwing yourself away +on me. Do you mind? + +DINAH. Not a bit. + +BRIAN. We shall never be rich, but we shall have lots of fun, and meet +interesting people, and feel that we're doing something worth doing, +and not getting paid nearly enough for it, and we can curse the +Academy together and the British Public, and--oh, it's an exciting +life. + +DINAH (seeing it). I shall love it. + +BRIAN. I'll make you love it. You shan't be sorry, Dinah. + +DINAH. You shan't be sorry either, Brian. + +BRIAN (looking at her lovingly). Oh, I know I shan't. . . . What will +Olivia think about it? Will she be surprised? + +DINAH. She's never surprised. She always seems to have thought of +things about a week before they happen. George just begins to get hold +of them about a week _after_ they've happened. (Considering him) After +all, there's no reason why George _shouldn't_ like you, darling. + +BRIAN. I'm not his sort, you know. + +DINAH. You're more Olivia's sort. Well, we'll tell Olivia this +morning. + +OLIVIA (coming in). And what are you going to tell Olivia this +morning? (She looks at them with a smile) Oh, well, I think I can +guess. + +(Shall we describe OLIVIA? But you will know all about her before the +day is over.) + +DINAH (jumping up). Olivia, darling! + +BRIAN (following). Say you understand, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Mrs. Marden, I am afraid, is a very dense person, Brian, but I +think if you asked Olivia if she understood---- + +BRIAN. Bless you, Olivia. I knew you'd be on our side. + +DINAH. Of course she would. + +OLIVIA. I don't know if it's usual to kiss an aunt-in-law, Brian, but +Dinah is such a very special sort of niece that--(she inclines her +cheek and BRIAN kisses it). + +DINAH. I say, you _are_ in luck to-day, Brian. + +OLIVIA (going over to her chair by the work-table and getting to +business with the curtains) And how many people have been told the +good news? + +BRIAN. Nobody yet. + +DINAH. Except Mr. Pim. + +BRIAN. Oh, does _he_-- + +OLIVIA. Who's Mr. Pim? + +DINAH. Oh, he just happened--I say, are those _the_ curtains? Then +you're going to have them after all? + +OLIVIA (with an air of surprise). After all what? But I decided on +them long ago. (to BRIAN) You haven't told George yet? + +BRIAN. I began to, you know, but I never got any farther than +"Er--there's just--er--" + +DINAH. George _would_ talk about pigs all the time. + +OLIVIA. Well, I suppose you want me to help you. + +DINAH. Do, darling. + +BRIAN. It would be awfully decent of you. Of course, I'm not quite his +sort really-- + +DINAH. You're _my_ sort. + +BRIAN. But I don't think he objects to me, and-- + +(GEORGE comes in, a typical, narrow-minded, honest country gentleman +of forty odd.) + +GEORGE (at the windows). What's all this about a Mr. Pim? (He kicks +some of the mud off his boots) Who is he? Where is he? I had most +important business with Lumsden, and the girl comes down and cackles +about a Mr. Pim, or Ping, or something. Where did I put his card? +(Bringing it out) Carraway Pim. Never heard of him in my life. + +DINAH. He said he had a letter of introduction, Uncle George. + +GEORGE. Oh, _you_ saw him, did you? Yes, that reminds me, there _was_ +a letter--(he brings it out and reads it). + +DINAH. He had to send a telegram. He's coming back. + +OLIVIA. Pass me those scissors, Brian. + +BRIAN. These? (He picks them up and comes close to her.) + +OLIVIA. Thank you. (She indicates GEORGE'S back. "Now?" says BRIAN +with his eyebrows. She nods.) + +GEORGE (reading). Ah well, a friend of Brymer's. Glad to oblige him. +Yes, I know the man he wants. Coming back, you say, Dinah? Then I'll +be going back. Send him down to the farm, Olivia, when he comes. (to +BRIAN) Hallo, what happened to _you_? + +OLIVIA. Don't go, George, there's something we want to talk about. + +GEORGE. Hallo, what's this? + +BRIAN (to OLIVIA). Shall I----? + +OLIVIA. Yes. + +BRIAN (stepping out). I've been wanting to tell you all this morning, +sir, only I didn't seem to have an opportunity of getting it out. + +GEORGE. Well, what is it? + +BRIAN. I want to marry Dinah, sir. + +GEORGE. You want to marry Dinah? God bless my soul! + +DINAH (rushing to him and putting her cheek against his coat). Oh, do +say you like the idea, Uncle George. + +GEORGE. Like the idea! Have you heard of this nonsense, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. They've just this moment told me, George. I think they would +be happy together. + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). And what do you propose to be happy together _on_? + +BRIAN. Well, of course, it doesn't amount to much at present, but we +shan't starve. + +DINAH. Brian got fifty pounds for a picture last March! + +GEORGE (a little upset by this). Oh! (Recovering gamely) And how many +pictures have you sold since? + +BRIAN. Well, none, but-- + +GEORGE. None! And I don't wonder. Who the devil is going to buy +pictures with triangular clouds and square sheep? And they call that +Art nowadays! Good God, man, (waving him to the windows) go outside +and _look_ at the clouds! + +OLIVIA. If he draws round clouds in future, George, will you let him +marry Dinah? + +GEORGE. What--what? Yes, of course, you _would_ be on his side--all +this Futuristic nonsense. I'm just taking these clouds as an example. +I suppose I can see as well as any man in the county, and I say that +clouds _aren't_ triangular. + +BRIAN. After all, sir, at my age one is naturally experimenting, and +trying to find one's (with a laugh)--well, it sounds priggish, but +one's medium of expression. I shall find out what I want to do +directly, but I think I shall always be able to earn enough to live +on. Well, I have for the last three years. + +GEORGE. I see, and now you want to experiment with a wife, and you +propose to start experimenting with _my_ niece? + +BRIAN (with a shrug). Well, of course, if you-- + +OLIVIA. You could help the experiment, darling, by giving Dinah a good +allowance until she's twenty-one. + +GEORGE. Help the experiment! I don't _want_ to help the experiment. + +OLIVIA (apologetically). Oh, I thought you did. + +GEORGE. You will talk as if I was made of money. What with taxes +always going up and rents always going down, it's as much as we can do +to rub along as we are, without making allowances to everybody who +thinks she wants to get married. (to BRIAN) And that's thanks to you, +my friend. + +BRIAN (surprised) To me? + +OLIVIA. You never told me, darling. What's Brian been doing? + +DINAH (indignantly). He hasn't been doing anything. + +GEORGE. He's one of your Socialists who go turning the country upside +down. + +OLIVIA. But even Socialists must get married sometimes. + +GEORGE. I don't see any necessity. + +OLIVIA. But you'd have nobody to damn after dinner, darling, if they +all died out. + +BRIAN. Really, sir, I don't see what my politics and my art have got +to do with it. I'm perfectly ready not to talk about either when I'm +in your house, and as Dinah doesn't seem to object to them-- + +DINAH. I should think she doesn't. + +GEORGE. Oh, you can get round the women, I daresay. + +BRIAN. Well, it's Dinah I want to marry and live with. So what it +really comes to is that you don't think I can support a wife. + +GEORGE. Well, if you're going to do it by selling pictures, I don't +think you can. + +BRIAN. All right, tell me how much you want me to earn in a year, and +I'll earn it. + +GEORGE (hedging). It isn't merely a question of money. I just mention +that as one thing--one of the important things. In addition to that, I +think you are both too young to marry. I don't think you know your own +minds, and I am not at all persuaded that, with what I venture to call +your outrageous tastes, you and my niece will live happily together. +Just because she thinks she loves you, Dinah may persuade herself now +that she agrees with all you say and do, but she has been properly +brought up in an honest English country household, and--er--she--well, +in short, I cannot at all approve of any engagement between you. +(Getting up) Olivia, if this Mr.--er--Pim comes, I shall be down at +the farm. You might send him along to me. + +(He walks towards the windows.) + +BRIAN (indignantly). Is there any reason why I shouldn't marry a girl +who has been properly brought up? + +GEORGE. I think you know my views, Strange. + +OLIVIA. George, wait a moment, dear. We can't quite leave it like +this. + +GEORGE. I have said all I want to say on the subject. + +OLIVIA. Yes, darling, but I haven't begun to say all that _I_ want to +say on the subject. + +GEORGE. Of course, if you have anything to say, Olivia, I will listen +to it; but I don't know that this is quite the time, or that you have +chosen--(looking darkly at the curtains)--quite the occupation likely +to--er--endear your views to me. + +DINAH (mutinously). I may as well tell you, Uncle George, that _I_ +have got a good deal to say, too. + +OLIVIA. I can guess what you are going to say, Dinah, and I think you +had better keep it for the moment. + +DINAH (meekly). Yes, Aunt Olivia. + +OLIVIA. Brian, you might take her outside for a walk. I expect you +have plenty to talk about. + +GEORGE. Now mind, Strange, no love-making. I put you on your honour +about that. + +BRIAN. I'll do my best to avoid it, sir. + +DINAH (cheekily). May I take his arm if we go up a hill? + +OLIVIA. I'm sure you'll know how to behave--both of you. + +BRIAN. Come on, then, Dinah. + +DINAH. Righto. + +GEORGE (as they go). And if you do see any clouds, Strange, take a +good look at them. (He chuckles to himself) Triangular clouds--I never +heard of such nonsense. (He goes back to his chair at the +writing-table) Futuristic rubbish. . . . Well, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Well, George? + +GEORGE. What are you doing? + +OLIVIA. Making curtains, George. Won't they be rather sweet? Oh, but I +forgot--you don't like them. + +GEORGE. I don't like them, and what is more, I don't mean to have them +in my house. As I told you yesterday, this is the house of a simple +country gentleman, and I don't want any of these new-fangled ideas in +it. + +OLIVIA. Is marrying for love a new-fangled idea? + +GEORGE. We'll come to that directly. None of you women can keep to the +point. What I am saying now is that the house of my fathers and +forefathers is good enough for me. + +OLIVIA. Do you know, George, I can hear one of your ancestors saying +that to his wife in their smelly old cave, when the new-fangled idea +of building houses was first suggested. "The Cave of my Fathers is--" + +GEORGE. That's ridiculous. Naturally we must have progress. But that's +just the point. (Indicating the curtains) I don't call this sort of +thing progress. It's--ah--retrogression. + +OLIVIA. Well, anyhow, it's pretty. + +GEORGE. There I disagree with you. And I must say once more that I +will not have them hanging in my house. + +OLIVIA. Very well, George. (But she goes on working.) + +GEORGE. That being so, I don't see the necessity of going on with +them. + +OLIVIA. Well, I must do something with them now I've got the material. +I thought perhaps I could sell them when they're finished--as we're so +poor. + +GEORGE. What do you mean--so poor? + +OLIVIA. Well, you said just now that you couldn't give Dinah an +allowance because rents had gone down. + +GEORGE (annoyed). Confound it, Olivia! Keep to the point! We'll talk +about Dinah's affairs directly. We're discussing our own affairs at +the moment. + +OLIVIA. But what is there to discuss? + +GEORGE. Those ridiculous things. + +OLIVIA. But we've finished that. You've said you wouldn't have them +hanging in your house, and I've said, "Very well, George." Now we can +go on to Dinah and Brian. + +GEORGE (shouting). But put these beastly things away. + +OLIVIA (rising and gathering up the curtains). Very well, George. (She +puts them away, slowly, gracefully. There is an uncomfortable silence. +Evidently somebody ought to apologise.) + +GEORGE (realising that he is the one). Er--look here, Olivia, old +girl, you've been a jolly good wife to me, and we don't often have +rows, and if I've been rude to you about this--lost my temper a bit +perhaps, what?--I'll say I'm sorry. May I have a kiss? + +OLIVIA (holding up her face). George, darling! (He kisses her.) Do you +love me? + +GEORGE. You know I do, old girl. + +OLIVIA. As much as Brian loves Dinah? + +GEORGE (stiffly). I've said all I want to say about that. (He goes +away from her.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, but there must be lots you want to say--and perhaps don't +like to. Do tell me, darling. + +GEORGE. What it comes to is this. I consider that Dinah is too young +to choose a husband for herself, and that Strange isn't the husband I +should choose for her. + +OLIVIA. You were calling him Brian yesterday. + +GEORGE. Yesterday I regarded him as a boy, now he wants me to look +upon him as a man. + +OLIVIA. He's twenty-four. + +GEORGE. And Dinah's nineteen. Ridiculous! + +OLIVIA. If he'd been a Conservative, and thought that clouds were +round, I suppose he'd have seemed older, somehow. + +GEORGE. That's a different point altogether. That has nothing to do +with his age. + +OLIVIA (innocently). Oh, I thought it had. + +GEORGE. What I am objecting to is these ridiculously early marriages +before either party knows its own mind, much less the mind of the +other party. Such marriages invariably lead to unhappiness. + +OLIVIA. Of course, _my_ first marriage wasn't a happy one. + +GEORGE. As you know, Olivia, I dislike speaking about your first +marriage at all, and I had no intention of bringing it up now, but +since you mention it--well, that is a case in point. + +OLIVIA (looking back at it). When I was eighteen, I was in love. Or +perhaps I only thought I was, and I don't know if I should have been +happy or not if I had married him. But my father made me marry a man +called Jacob Telworthy; and when things were too hot for him in +England--"too hot for him"--I think that was the expression we used in +those days--then we went to Australia, and I left him there, and the +only happy moment I had in all my married life was on the morning when +I saw in the papers that he was dead. + +GEORGE (very uncomfortable). Yes, yes, my dear, I know. You must have +had a terrible time. I can hardly bear to think about it. My only hope +is that I have made up to you for it in some degree. But I don't see +what bearing it has upon Dinah's case. + +OLIVIA. Oh, none, except that _my_ father _liked_ Jacob's political +opinions and his views on art. I expect that that was why he chose him +for me. + +GEORGE. You seem to think that I wish to choose a husband for Dinah. I +don't at all. Let her choose whom she likes as long as he can support +her and there's a chance of their being happy together. Now, with +regard to this fellow-- + +OLIVIA. You mean Brian? + +GEORGE. He's got no money, and he's been brought up in quite a +different way from Dinah. Dinah may be prepared to believe +that--er--all cows are blue, and that--er--waves are square, but she +won't go on believing it for ever. + +OLIVIA. Neither will Brian. + +GEORGE. Well, that's what I keep telling him, only he won't see it. +Just as I keep telling you about those ridiculous curtains. It seems +to me that I am the only person in the house with any eyesight left. + +OLIVIA. Perhaps you are, darling; but you must let us find out our own +mistakes for ourselves. At any rate, Brian is a gentleman; he loves +Dinah, Dinah loves him; he's earning enough to support himself, and +you are earning enough to support Dinah. I think it's worth risking, +George. + +GEORGE (stiffly). I can only say the whole question demands much more +anxious thought than you seem to have given it. You say that he is a +gentleman. He knows how to behave, I admit; but if his morals are as +topsy-turvy as his tastes and--er--politics, as I've no doubt they +are, then--er--In short, I do _not_ approve of Brian Strange as a +husband for my niece and ward. + +OLIVIA (looking at him thoughtfully). You _are_ a curious mixture, +George. You were so very unconventional when you married me, and +you're so very conventional when Brian wants to marry Dinah. . . . George +Marden to marry the widow of a convict! + +GEORGE. Convict! What do you mean? + +OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy, convict--I forget his number--surely I told +you all this, dear, when we got engaged? + +GEORGE. Never! + +OLIVIA. I told you how he carelessly put the wrong signature to a +cheque for a thousand pounds in England; how he made a little mistake +about two or three companies he'd promoted in Australia; and how-- + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, but you never told me he was _convicted_! + +OLIVIA. What difference does it make? + +GEORGE. My dear Olivia, if you can't see that--a convict! + +OLIVIA. So, you see, we needn't be too particular about our niece, +need we? + +GEORGE. I think we had better leave your first husband out of the +conversation altogether. I never wished to refer to him; I never wish +to hear about him again. I certainly had not realised that he was +actually--er--_convicted_ for his--er-- + +OLIVIA. Mistakes. + +GEORGE. Well, we needn't go into that. As for this other matter, I +don't for a moment take it seriously. Dinah is an exceptionally pretty +girl, and young Strange is a good-looking boy. If they are attracted +to each other, it is a mere outward attraction which I am convinced +will not lead to any lasting happiness. That must be regarded as my +last word in the matter, Olivia. If this Mr.--er--what was his name, +comes, I shall be down at the farm. + + [He goes out by the door. + +(Left alone, OLIVIA brings out her curtains again, and gets calmly to +work upon them.) + +(DINAH and BRIAN come in by the windows.) + +DINAH. Finished? + +OLIVIA. Oh no, I've got all these rings to put on. + +DINAH. I meant talking to George. + +BRIAN. We walked about outside-- + +DINAH. Until we heard him _not_ talking to you any more-- + +BRIAN. And we didn't kiss each other once. + +DINAH. Brian was very George-like. He wouldn't even let me tickle the +back of his neck. (She goes up suddenly to OLIVIA and kneels by her +and kisses her) Darling, being George-like is a very nice thing to +be--I mean a nice thing for other people to be--I mean--oh, you know +what I mean. But say that he's going to be decent about it. + +OLIVIA. Of course he is, Dinah. + +BRIAN. You mean he'll let me come here as--as-- + +DINAH. As my young man? + +OLIVIA. Oh, I think so. + +DINAH. Olivia, you're a wonder. Have you really talked him round? + +OLIVIA. I haven't said anything yet. But I daresay I shall think of +something. + +DINAH (disappointedly). Oh! + +BRIAN (making the best of it). After all, Dinah, I'm going back to +London to-morrow-- + +OLIVIA. You can be good for one more day, Dinah, and then when Brian +isn't here, we'll see what we can do. + +DINAH. Yes, but I didn't want him to go back to-morrow. + +BRIAN (sternly). Must. Hard work before me. Earn thousands a year. +Paint the Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey, life-size, including chains +of office; paint slice of haddock on plate. Copy Landseer for old +gentleman in Bayswater. Design antimacassar for middle-aged sofa in +Streatham. Earn a living for you, Dinah. + +DINAH (giggling). Oh, Brian, you're heavenly. What fun we shall have +when we're married. + +BRIAN (stiffly). Sir Brian Strange, R.A., if you please, Miss Marden. +Sir Brian Strange, R.A., writes: "Your Sanogene has proved a most +excellent tonic. After completing the third acre of my Academy picture +'The Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey' I was completely exhausted, but +one bottle of Sanogene revived me, and I finished the remaining seven +acres at a single sitting." + +OLIVIA (looking about her). Brian, find my scissors for me. + +BRIAN. Scissors. (Looking for them) Sir Brian Strange, R.A., looks for +scissors. (Finding them) Aha! Once more we must record an unqualified +success for the eminent Academician. Your scissors. + +OLIVIA. Thank you so much. + +DINAH. Come on, Brian, let's go out. I feel open-airy. + +OLIVIA. Don't be late for lunch, there's good people. Lady Marden is +coming. + +DINAH. Aunt Juli-ah! Help! (She faints in BRIAN'S arms) That means a +clean pinafore. Brian, you'll jolly well have to brush your hair. + +BRIAN (feeling it). I suppose there's no time now to go up to London +and get it cut? + + [Enter ANNE, followed by PIM. + +ANNE. Mr. Pim! + +DINAH (delighted). Hullo, Mr. Pim! Here we are again! You can't get +rid of us so easily, you see. + +PIM. I--er--dear Miss Marden-- + +OLIVIA. How do you do, Mr. Pim? I can't get up, but do come and sit +down. My husband will be here in a minute. Anne, send somebody down to +the farm-- + +ANNE. I think I heard the Master in the library, madam. + +OLIVIA. Oh, will you tell him then? + +ANNE. Yes, madam. + + [ANNE goes out. + +OLIVIA. You'll stay to lunch, of course, Mr. Pim? + +DINAH. Oh, do! + +PIM. It's very kind of you, Mrs. Marden, but-- + +DINAH. Oh, you simply must, Mr. Pim. You haven't told us half enough +about yourself yet. I want to hear all about your early life. + +OLIVIA. Dinah! + +PIM. Oh, we are almost, I might say, old friends, Mrs. Marden. + +DINAH. Of course we are. He knows Brian, too. There's more in Mr. Pim +than you think. You _will_ stay to lunch, won't you? + +PIM. It's very kind of you to ask me, Mrs. Marden, but I am lunching +with the Trevors. + +OLIVIA. Oh, well, you must come to lunch another day. + +DINAH. The reason why we like Mr. Pim so much is that he was the first +person to congratulate us. We feel that he is going to have a great +influence on our lives. + +PIM (to OLIVIA). I, so to speak, stumbled on the engagement this +morning and--er-- + +OLIVIA. I see. Children, you must go and tidy yourselves up. Run +along. + +BRIAN. Sir Brian and Lady Strange never run; they walk. (Offering his +arm) Madam! + +DINAH (taking it). Au revoir, Mr. Pim. (Dramatically) +We--shall--meet--_again_! + +PIM (chuckling). Good morning, Miss Dinah. + +BRIAN. Good morning. + + [He and DINAH go out. + +OLIVIA. You must forgive them, Mr. Pim. They're such children. And +naturally they're rather excited just now. + +PIM. Oh, not at all, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Of course you won't say anything about their engagement. We +only heard about it five minutes ago, and nothing has been settled +yet. + +PIM. Of course, of course! + + [Enter GEORGE. + +GEORGE. Ah, Mr. Pim, we meet at last. Sorry to have kept you waiting +before. + +PIM. The apology should come from me, Mr. Marden for having--er-- + +GEORGE. Not at all. Very glad to meet you now. Any friend of Brymer's. +You want a letter to this man Fanshawe? + +OLIVIA. Shall I be in your way at all? + +PIM. Oh, no, no, please don't. + +GEORGE. It's only just a question of a letter. (Going to his desk) +Fanshawe will put you in the way of seeing all that you want to see. +He's a very old friend of mine. (Taking a sheet of notepaper) You'll +stay to lunch, of course? + +PIM. I'm afraid I am lunching with the Trevors-- + +GEORGE. Oh, well, they'll look after you all right. Good chap, Trevor. + +PIM (to OLIVIA). You see, Mrs. Marden, I have only recently arrived +from Australia after travelling about the world for some years, and +I'm rather out of touch with my--er--fellow-workers in London. + +OLIVIA. Oh yes. You've been in Australia, Mr. Pim? + +GEORGE (disliking Australia). I shan't be a moment, Mr. Pim. (He +frowns at OLIVIA.) + +PIM. Oh, that's all right, thank you. (to OLIVIA) Oh yes, I have been +in Australia more than once in the last few years. + +OLIVIA. Really? I used to live at Sydney many years ago. Do you know +Sydney at all? + +GEORGE (detesting Sydney). H'r'm! Perhaps I'd better mention that you +are a friend of the Trevors? + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. (to OLIVIA) Indeed yes, I spent several +months in Sydney. + +OLIVIA. How curious. I wonder if we have any friends in common there. + +GEORGE (hastily). Extremely unlikely, I should think. Sydney is a very +big place. + +PIM. True, but the world is a very small place, Mr. Marden. I had a +remarkable instance of that, coming over on the boat this last time. + +GEORGE. Ah! (Feeling that the conversation is now safe, he resumes his +letter.) + +PIM. Yes. There was a man I used to employ in Sydney some years ago, a +bad fellow, I'm afraid, Mrs. Marden, who had been in prison for some +kind of fraudulent company-promoting and had taken to drink and--and +so on. + +OLIVIA. Yes, yes, I understand. + +PIM. Drinking himself to death I should have said. I gave him at the +most another year to live. Yet to my amazement the first person I saw +as I stepped on board the boat that brought me to England last week +was this fellow. There was no mistaking him. I spoke to him, in fact; +we recognised each other. + +OLIVIA. Really? + +PIM. He was travelling steerage; we didn't meet again on board, and as +it happened at Marseilles, this poor fellow--er--now what _was_ his +name? A very unusual one. Began with a--a T, I think. + +OLIVIA (with suppressed feeling). Yes, Mr. Pim, yes? (She puts out a +hand to GEORGE.) + +GEORGE (in an undertone). Nonsense, dear! + +PIM (triumphantly). I've got it! Telworthy! + +OLIVIA. Telworthy! + +GEORGE. Good God! + +PIM (a little surprised at the success of his story). An unusual name, +is it not? Not a name you could forget when once you had heard it. + +OLIVIA (with feeling). No, it is not a name you could forget when once +you had heard it. + +GEORGE (hastily coming over to PIM). Quite so, Mr. Pim, a most +remarkable name, a most odd story altogether. Well, well, here's your +letter, and if you're sure you won't stay to lunch-- + +PIM. I'm afraid not, thank you. You see, I-- + +GEORGE. The Trevors, yes. I'll just see you on your way--(to OLIVIA) +Er--my dear-- + +OLIVIA (holding out her hand, but not looking at him). Good-bye, Mr. +Pim. + +PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! + +GEORGE (leading the way through the windows). This way, this way. +Quicker for you. + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. + + [GEORGE hurries MR. PIM out. + +(OLIVIA sits there and looks into the past. Now and then she +shudders.) + + [GEORGE comes back. + +GEORGE. Good God! Telworthy! Is it possible? (Before OLIVIA can +answer, LADY MARDEN is announced. They pull themselves together and +greet her.) + + + + +ACT II + + +(Lunch is over and coffee has been served on the terrace. Conversation +drags on, to the satisfaction of LADY MARDEN, but of nobody else. +GEORGE and OLIVIA want to be alone; so do BRIAN and DINAH. At last +BRIAN murmurs something about a cigarette-case; and, catching DINAH'S +eye, comes into the house. He leans against the sofa and waits for +DINAH.) + +DINAH (loudly as she comes in). Have you found it? + +BRIAN. Found what? + +DINAH (in her ordinary voice). That was just for _their_ benefit. I +said I'd help you find it. It _is_ your cigarette-case we're looking +for, isn't it? + +BRIAN (taking it out). Yes. Have one? + +DINAH. No, thank you, darling. Aunt Juli-ah still thinks it's +unladylike. . . . Have you ever seen her beagling? + +BRIAN. No. Is that very ladylike? + +DINAH. Very. . . . I say, what has happened, do you think? + +BRIAN. Everything. I love you, and you love me. + +DINAH. Silly! I meant between George and Olivia. Didn't you notice +them at lunch? + +BRIAN. I noticed that you seemed to be doing most of the talking. But +then I've noticed that before sometimes. Do you think Olivia and your +uncle have quarrelled because of _us_? + +DINAH. Of course not. George may _think_ he has quarrelled, but I'm +quite sure Olivia hasn't. No, I believe Mr. Pim's at the bottom of it. +He's brought some terribly sad news about George's investments. The +old home will have to be sold up. + +BRIAN. Good. Then your uncle won't mind your marrying me. + +DINAH. Yes, darling, but you must be more dramatic about it than that. +"George," you must say, with tears in your eyes, "I cannot pay off the +whole of the mortgage for you. I have only two and ninepence; but at +least let me take your niece off your hands." Then George will thump +you on the back and say gruffly, "You're a good fellow, Brian, a damn +good fellow," and he'll blow his nose very loudly, and say, "Confound +this cigar, it won't draw properly." (She gives us a rough impression +of GEORGE doing it.) + +BRIAN. Dinah, you're a heavenly idiot. And you've simply got to marry +me, uncles or no uncles. + +DINAH. It will have to be "uncles," I'm afraid, because, you see, I'm +his ward, and I can get sent to Chancery or Coventry or somewhere +beastly, if I marry without his consent. Haven't _you_ got anybody who +objects to your marrying _me_? + +BRIAN. Nobody, thank Heaven. + +DINAH. Well, that's rather disappointing of you. I saw myself +fascinating your aged father at the same time that you were +fascinating George. I should have done it much better than you. As a +George-fascinator you aren't very successful, sweetheart. + +BRIAN. What am I like as a Dinah-fascinator? + +DINAH. Plus six, darling. + +BRIAN. Then I'll stick to that and leave George to Olivia. + +DINAH. I expect she'll manage him all right. I have great faith in +Olivia. But you'll marry me, anyhow, won't you, Brian? + +BRIAN. I will. + +DINAH. Even if we have to wait till I'm twenty-one? + +BRIAN. Even if we have to wait till you're fifty-one. + +DINAH (holding out her hands to him). Darling! + +BRIAN (uneasily). I say, don't do that. + +DINAH. Why not? + +BRIAN. Well, I promised I wouldn't kiss you. + +DINAH. Oh! . . . Well, you might just _send_ me a kiss. You can look the +other way as if you didn't know I was here. + +BRIAN. Like this? + +(He looks the other way, kisses the tips of his fingers, and flicks it +carelessly in her direction.) + +DINAH. That was a lovely one. Now here's one coming for you. + +(He catches it gracefully and conveys it to his mouth.) + +BRIAN (with a low bow). Madam, I thank you. + +DINAH (curtseying). Your servant, Mr. Strange. + +OLIVIA (from outside). Dinah! + +DINAH (jumping up). Hullo! + +(OLIVIA comes in through the windows, followed by GEORGE and LADY +MARDEN, the latter a vigorous young woman of sixty odd, who always +looks as if she were beagling.) + +OLIVIA. Aunt Julia wants to see the pigs, dear. I wish you'd take her +down. I'm rather tired, and your uncle has some business to attend to. + +LADY MARDEN. I've always said that you don't take enough exercise, +Olivia. Look at me--sixty-five and proud of it. + +OLIVIA. Yes, Aunt Julia, you're wonderful. + +DINAH. How old would Olivia be if she took exercise? + +GEORGE. Don't stand about asking silly questions, Dinah. Your aunt +hasn't much time. + +BRIAN. May I come, too, Lady Marden? + +LADY MARDEN. Well, a little exercise wouldn't do _you_ any harm, Mr. +Strange. You're an artist, ain't you? + +BRIAN. Well, I try to paint. + +DINAH. He sold a picture last March for-- + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, never mind that now. + +LADY MARDEN. Unhealthy life. Well, come along. + + [She strides out, followed by DINAH and BRIAN. + +(GEORGE sits down at his desk with his head in his hand, and stabs the +blotting-paper with a pen. OLIVIA takes the curtains with her to the +sofa and begins to work on them.) + +GEORGE (looking up and seeing them). Really, Olivia, we've got +something more important, more vital to us than curtains, to discuss, +now that we _are_ alone at last. + +OLIVIA. I wasn't going to discuss them, dear. + +GEORGE. I'm always glad to see Aunt Julia in my house, but I wish she +hadn't chosen this day of all days to come to lunch. + +OLIVIA. It wasn't Aunt Julia's fault. It was really Mr. Pim who chose +the wrong day. + +GEORGE (fiercely). Good Heavens, is it true? + +OLIVIA. About Jacob Telworthy? + +GEORGE. You told me he was dead. You always said that he was dead. +You--you-- + +OLIVIA. Well, I always thought that he was dead. He was as dead as +anybody could be. All the papers said he was dead. + +GEORGE (scornfully). The papers! + +OLIVIA (as if this would settle it for GEORGE). The _Times_ said he +was dead. There was a paragraph about him. Apparently even his death +was fraudulent. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, I'm not blaming you, Olivia, but what are we going +to do, that's the question, what are we going to do? My God, it's +horrible! You've never been married to me at all! You don't seem to +understand. + +OLIVIA. It is a little difficult to realise. You see, it doesn't seem +to have made any difference to our happiness. + +GEORGE. No, that's what's so terrible. I mean--well, of course, we +were quite innocent in the matter. But, at the same time, nothing can +get over the fact that we--we had no right to--to be happy. + +OLIVIA. Would you rather we had been miserable? + +GEORGE. You're Telworthy's wife, that's what you don't seem to +understand. You're Telworthy's wife. You--er--forgive me, Olivia, but +it's the horrible truth--you committed bigamy when you married me. (In +horror) Bigamy! + +OLIVIA. It is an ugly word, isn't it? + +GEORGE. Yes, but don't you understand--(He jumps up and comes over to +her) Look here, Olivia, old girl, the whole thing is nonsense, eh? It +isn't your husband, it's some other Telworthy that this fellow met. +That's right, isn't it? Some other shady swindler who turned up on the +boat, eh? This sort of thing doesn't happen to people like +_us_--committing bigamy and all that. Some other fellow. + +OLIVIA (shaking her head). I knew all the shady swindlers in Sydney, +George. . . . They came to dinner. . . . There were no others called +Telworthy. + +(GEORGE goes back despondently to his seat.) + +GEORGE. Well, what are we going to do? + +OLIVIA. You sent Mr. Pim away so quickly. He might have told us +things. Telworthy's plans. Where he is now. You hurried him away so +quickly. + +GEORGE. I've sent a note round to ask him to come back. My one idea at +the moment was to get him out of the house--to hush things up. + +OLIVIA. You can't hush up two husbands. + +GEORGE (in despair). You can't. Everybody will know. Everybody! + +OLIVIA. The children, Aunt Julia, they may as well know now as later. +Mr. Pim must, of course. + +GEORGE. I do not propose to discuss my private affairs with Mr. +Pim---- + +OLIVIA. But he's mixed himself up in them rather, hasn't he, and if +you're going to ask him questions---- + +GEORGE. I only propose to ask him one question. I shall ask him if he +is absolutely certain of the man's name. I can do that quite easily +without letting him know the reason for my inquiry. + +OLIVIA. You couldn't make a mistake about a name like Telworthy. But +he might tell us something about Telworthy's plans. Perhaps he's going +back to Australia at once. Perhaps he thinks I'm dead, too. Perhaps-- +oh, there are so many things I want to know. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, dear. It would be interesting to--that is, one +naturally wants to know these things, but of course it doesn't make +any real difference. + +OLIVIA (surprised). No difference? + +GEORGE. Well, that is to say, you're as much his wife if he's in +Australia as you are if he's in England. + +OLIVIA. I am not his wife at all. + +GEORGE. But, Olivia, surely you understand the position---- + +OLIVIA (shaking her head). Jacob Telworthy may be alive, but I am not +his wife. I ceased to be his wife when I became yours. + +GEORGE. You never _were_ my wife. That is the terrible part of it. Our +union--you make me say it, Olivia--has been unhallowed by the Church. +Unhallowed even by the Law. Legally, we have been living in--living +in--well, the point is, how does the Law stand? I imagine that +Telworthy could get a--a divorce. . . . Oh, it seems impossible that +things like this can be happening to _us_. + +OLIVIA (Joyfully). A divorce? + +GEORGE. I--I imagine so. + +OLIVIA. But then we could _really_ get married, and we shouldn't be +living in--living in--whatever we were living in before. + +GEORGE. I can't understand you, Olivia. You talk about it so calmly, +as if there was nothing blameworthy in being divorced, as if there was +nothing unusual in my marrying a divorced woman, as if there was +nothing wrong in our having lived together for years without having +been married. + +OLIVIA. What seems wrong to me is that I lived for five years with a +bad man whom I hated. What seems right to me is that I lived for five +years with a good man whom I love. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, my dear, I know. But right and wrong don't settle +themselves as easily as that. We've been living together when you were +Telworthy's wife. That's _wrong_. + +OLIVIA. Do you mean wicked? + +GEORGE. Well, no doubt the Court would consider that we acted in +perfect innocence-- + +OLIVIA. What Court? + +GEORGE. These things have to be done legally, of course. I believe the +proper method is a nullity suit, declaring our marriage null +and--er--void. It would, so to speak, wipe out these years of--er-- + +OLIVIA. Wickedness? + +GEORGE. Of irregular union, and--er--then-- + +OLIVIA. Then I could go back to Jacob. . . . Do you really mean that, +George? + +GEORGE (uneasily). Well, dear, you see--that's how things are--one +can't get away from--er---- + +OLIVIA. What you feel is that Telworthy has the greater claim? You are +prepared to--make way for him? + +GEORGE. Both the Church and the Law would say that I had no claim at +all, I'm afraid. I--I suppose I haven't. + +OLIVIA. I see. (She looks at him curiously) Thank you for making it so +clear, George. + +GEORGE. Of course, whether or not you go back to--er--Telworthy is +another matter altogether. That would naturally be for you to decide. + +OLIVIA (cheerfully). For me and Jacko to decide. + +GEORGE. Er--Jacko? + +OLIVIA. I used to call my first husband--I mean my only +husband--Jacko. I didn't like the name of Jacob, and Jacko seemed to +suit him somehow. . . . He had very long arms. Dear Jacko. + +GEORGE (annoyed). You don't seem to realise that this is not a joke, +Olivia. + +OLIVIA (a trifle hysterically). It may not be a joke, but it _is_ +funny, isn't it? + +GEORGE. I must say I don't see anything funny in a tragedy that has +wrecked two lives. + +OLIVIA. Two? Oh, but Jacko's life isn't wrecked. It has just been +miraculously restored to him. And a wife, too. There's nothing tragic +for Jacko in it. + +GEORGE (stiffly). I was referring to _our_ two lives--yours and mine. + +OLIVIA. Yours, George? Your life isn't wrecked. The Court will absolve +you of all blame; your friends will sympathise with you, and tell you +that I was a designing woman who deliberately took you in; your Aunt +Julia---- + +GEORGE (overwrought). Stop it! What do you mean? Have you no heart? Do +you think I _want_ to lose you, Olivia? Do you think I _want_ my home +broken up like this? Haven't you been happy with me these last five +years? + +OLIVIA. Very happy. + +GEORGE. Well then, how can you talk like that? + +OLIVIA (pathetically). But you want to send me away. + +GEORGE. There you go again. I don't _want_ to. I have hardly had time +to realise just what it will mean to me when you go. The fact is I +simply daren't realise it. I daren't think about it. + +OLIVIA (earnestly). Try thinking about it, George. + +GEORGE. And you talk as if I _wanted_ to send you away! + +OLIVIA. Try thinking about it, George. + +GEORGE. You don't seem to understand that I'm not _sending_ you away. +You simply aren't mine to keep. + +OLIVIA. Whose am I? + +GEORGE. Your husband's. Telworthy's. + +OLIVIA (gently). If I belong to anybody but myself, I think I belong +to you. + +GEORGE. Not in the eyes of the Law. Not in the eyes of the Church. Not +even in the eyes of--er---- + +OLIVIA. The County? + +GEORGE (annoyed). I was about to say "Heaven." + +OLIVIA (unimpressed). Oh! + +GEORGE. That this should happen to _us_! (He gets up and walks about +the room, wondering when he will wake up from this impossible dream, +OLIVIA works in silence. Then she stands up and shakes out her +curtains.) + +OLIVIA (looking at them). I do hope Jacko will like these. + +GEORGE. What! You---- (Going up to her) Olivia, Olivia, have you no +heart? + +OLIVIA. Ought you to talk like that to another man's wife? + +GEORGE. Confound it, is this just a joke to you? + +OLIVIA. You must forgive me, George; I am a little over-excited--at +the thought of returning to Jacob, I suppose. + +GEORGE. Do you _want_ to return to him? + +OLIVIA. One wants to do what is right. In the eyes of--er--Heaven. + +GEORGE. Seeing what sort of man he is, I have no doubt that you could +get a separation, supposing that he didn't--er--divorce you. I don't +know _what_ is best. I must consult my solicitor. The whole position +has been sprung on us, and--(miserably) I don't know, I don't know. I +can't take it all in. + +OLIVIA. Wouldn't you like to consult your Aunt Julia too? She could +tell you what the County--I mean what Heaven really thought about it. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes. Aunt Julia has plenty of common sense. You're quite +right, Olivia. This isn't a thing we can keep from the family. + +OLIVIA. Do I still call her _Aunt_ Julia? + +GEORGE (looking up from his pacings). What? What? (ANNE comes in.) +Well, what is it? + +ANNE. Mr. Pim says he will come down at once, sir. + +GEORGE. Oh, thank you, thank you. + + [ANNE goes out. + +OLIVIA. George, Mr. Pim has got to know. + +GEORGE. I don't see the necessity. + +OLIVIA. Not even for me? When a woman suddenly hears that her +long-lost husband is restored to her, don't you think she wants to ask +questions? Where is he living, and how is he looking, and---- + +GEORGE (coldly). Of course, if you are interested in these things-- + +OLIVIA. How can I help being? Don't be so silly, George. We _must_ +know what Jacko-- + +GEORGE (annoyed). I wish you wouldn't call him by that ridiculous +name. + +OLIVIA. My husband-- + +GEORGE (wincing). Yes, well--your husband? + +OLIVIA. Well, we must know his plans--where we can communicate with +him, and so on. + +GEORGE. I have no wish to communicate with him. + +OLIVIA. I'm afraid you'll have to, dear. + +GEORGE. I don't see the necessity. + +OLIVIA. Well, you'll want to--to apologise to him for living with his +wife for so long. And as I belong to him, he ought to be told where he +can--call for me. + +GEORGE (after a struggle). You put it in a very peculiar way, but I +see your-point. (With a shudder) Oh, the horrible publicity of it all! + +OLIVIA (going up to him and comforting him). Poor George. Dear, don't +think I don't sympathise with you. I understand so exactly what you +are feeling. The publicity! It's terrible. + +GEORGE (miserably). I want to do what's right, Olivia. You believe +that? + +OLIVIA. Of course I do. It's only that we don't quite agree as to what +is right and what is wrong. + +GEORGE. It isn't a question of agreeing. Right is right, and wrong is +wrong, all the world over. + +OLIVIA (with a sad little smile). But more particularly in +Buckinghamshire, I think. + +GEORGE. If I only considered myself, I should say: "Let us pack this +man Telworthy back to Australia. He would make no claim. He would +accept money to go away and say nothing about it." If I consulted +simply my own happiness, Olivia, that is what I should say. But when I +consult--er---- + +OLIVIA (surprised). Mine? + +GEORGE. My conscience---- + +OLIVIA. Oh! + +GEORGE. Then I can't do it. It's wrong. (He is at the window as he +says this.) + +OLIVIA (making her first and last appeal). George, aren't I worth a +little---- + +GEORGE (turning round). H'sh! Dinah! (Loudly for DINAH'S benefit) +Well, then I'll write to him and--Ah, Dinah, where's Aunt Julia? + +DINAH (coming in). We've seen the pigs, and now she's discussing the +Art of Landseer with Brian. I just came to ask---- + +OLIVIA. Dinah, dear, bring Aunt Julia here. And Brian too. We have +things we want to talk about with you all. + +GEORGE (outraged). Olivia! + +DINAH. Righto. What fun! + + [Exit DINAH. + +GEORGE. Olivia, you don't seriously suggest that we should discuss +these things with a child like Dinah and a young man like Strange, a +mere acquaintance. + +OLIVIA. Dinah will have to know. I'm very fond of her, George. You +can't send me away without telling Dinah. And Brian is my friend. You +have your solicitor and your aunt and your conscience to +consult--mayn't I even have Brian? + +GEORGE (forgetting). I should have thought that your _husband_---- + +OLIVIA. Yes, but we don't know where Jacko is. + +GEORGE. I was not referring to--er--Telworthy. + +OLIVIA. Well then? + +GEORGE. Well, naturally I--you mustn't--Oh, this is horrible! + +(He comes back to his desk as the others come in.) + +OLIVIA (getting up). George and I have had some rather bad news, Aunt +Julia. We wanted your advice. Where will you sit? + +LADY MARDEN. Thank you, Olivia. I can sit down by myself. (She does +so, near GEORGE. DINAH sits on the sofa with OLIVIA, and BRIAN half +leans against the back of it. There is a hush of expectation. . . .) What +is it? Money, I suppose. Nobody's safe nowadays. + +GEORGE (signalling for help). Olivia-- + +OLIVIA. We've just heard that my first husband is still alive. + +DINAH. Telworthy! + +BRIAN. Good Lord! + +LADY MARDEN. George! + +DINAH (excitedly). And only this morning I was saying that nothing +ever happened in this house! (Remorsefully to OLIVIA) Darling, I don't +mean that. Darling one! + +LADY MARDEN. What does this mean, George? I leave you for ten +minutes--barely ten minutes--to go and look at the pigs, and when I +come back you tell me that Olivia is a bigamist. + +BRIAN (indignantly). I say-- + +OLIVIA (restraining him). H'sh! + +BRIAN (to OLIVIA). If this is a row, I'm on your side. + +LADY MARDEN. Well, George? + +GEORGE. I'm afraid it's true, Aunt Julia. We heard the news just +before lunch--just before you came. We've only this moment had an +opportunity of talking about it, of wondering what to do. + +LADY MARDEN. What was his name--Tel--something-- + +OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy. + +LADY MARDEN. So he's alive still? + +GEORGE. Apparently. There seems to be no doubt about it. + +LADY MARDEN (to OLIVIA). Didn't you _see_ him die? I should always +want to _see_ my husband die before I married again. Not that I +approve of second marriages, anyhow. I told you so at the time, +George. + +OLIVIA. _And_ me, Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Did I? Well, I generally say what I think. + +GEORGE. I ought to tell you, Aunt Julia, that no blame attaches to +Olivia over this. Of that I am perfectly satisfied. It's nobody's +fault, except---- + +LADY MARDEN. Except Telworthy's. _He_ seems to have been rather +careless. Well, what are you going to do about it? + +GEORGE. That's just it. It's a terrible situation. There's bound to be +so much publicity. Not only all this, but--but Telworthy's past +and--and everything. + +LADY MARDEN. I should have said that it was Telworthy's present which +was the trouble. Had he a past as well? + +OLIVIA. He was a fraudulent company promoter. He went to prison a good +deal. + +LADY MARDEN. George, you never told me this! + +GEORGE. I--er---- + +OLIVIA. I don't see _why_ he should want to talk about it. + +DINAH (indignantly). What's it got to do with Olivia, anyhow? It's not +_her_ fault. + +LADY MARDEN (sarcastically). Oh no, I daresay it's mine. + +OLIVIA (to GEORGE). YOU wanted to ask Aunt Julia what was the right +thing to do. + +BRIAN (bursting out). Good Heavens, what _is_ there to do except the +one and only thing? (They all look at him and he becomes embarrassed) +I'm sorry. You don't want _me_ to-- + +OLIVIA. _I_ do, Brian. + +LADY MARDEN. Well, go on, Mr. Strange. What would _you_ do in George's +position? + +BRIAN. Do? Say to the woman I loved, "You're _mine_, and let this +other damned fellow come and take you from me if he can!" And he +couldn't--how could he?--not if the woman chose _me_. + +(LADY MARDEN gazes at BRIAN in amazement, GEORGE in anger, OLIVIA +presses his hand gratefully. He has said what she has been +waiting--oh, so eagerly--for GEORGE to say.) + +DINAH (adoringly). Oh, Brian! (In a whisper) It _is_ me, isn't it, and +not Olivia? + +BRIAN. You baby, of course! + +LADY MARDEN. I'm afraid, Mr. Strange, your morals are as peculiar as +your views on Art. If you had led a more healthy life-- + +BRIAN. This is not a question of morals or of art, it's a question of +love. + +DINAH. Hear, hear! + +LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Isn't it that girl's bedtime yet? + +OLIVIA (to DINAH). We'll let her sit up a little longer if she's good. + +DINAH. I will be good, Olivia, only I thought anybody, however +important a debate was, was allowed to say "Hear, hear!" + +GEORGE (coldly) I really think we could discuss this better if Mr. +Strange took Dinah out for a walk. Strange, if you--er-- + +OLIVIA. Tell them what you have settled first, George. + +LADY MARDEN. Settled? What is there to be settled? It settles itself. + +GEORGE (sadly). That's just it. + +LADY MARDEN. The marriage must be annulled--is that the word, George? + +GEORGE. I presume so. + +LADY MARDEN. One's solicitor will know all about that of course. + +BRIAN. And when the marriage has been annulled, what then? + +LADY MARDEN. Presumably Olivia will return to her husband. + +BRIAN (bitterly). And _that's_ morality! As expounded by Bishop +Landseer! + +GEORGE (angered). I don't know what you mean by Bishop Landseer. +Morality is acting in accordance with the Laws of the Land and the +Laws of the Church. I am quite prepared to believe that _your_ creed +embraces neither marriage nor monogamy, but my creed is different. + +BRIAN (fiercely). My creed includes both marriage _and_ monogamy, and +monogamy means sticking to the woman you love, as long as she wants +you. + +LADY MARDEN (calmly). You suggest that George and Olivia should go on +living together, although they have never been legally married, and +wait for this Telworthy man to divorce her, and then--bless the man, +what do you think the County would say? + +BRIAN (scornfully). Does it matter? + +DINAH. Well, if you really want to know, the men would say, "Gad, +she's a fine woman; I don't wonder he sticks to her," and the women +would say, "I can't _think_ what he sees in her to stick to her like +that," and they'd both say, "After all, he may be a damn fool, but you +can't deny he's a sportsman." That's what the County would say. + +GEORGE (indignantly) Was it for this sort of thing, Olivia, that you +insisted on having Dinah and Mr. Strange in here? To insult me in my +own house? + +LADY MARDEN. I can't think what young people are coming to nowadays. + +OLIVIA. I think, dear, you and Brian had better go. + +DINAH (getting up). We will go. But I'm just going to say one thing, +Uncle George. Brian and I _are_ going to marry each other, and when we +are married we'll stick to each other, _however_ many of our dead +husbands and wives turn up! + + [She goes out indignantly, followed by BRIAN. + +GEORGE. Upon my word, this is a pleasant discussion. + +OLIVIA. I think the discussion is over, George. It is only a question +of where I shall go, while you are bringing your--what sort of suit +did you call it? + +LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Nullity suit. I suppose that _is_ the best +thing? + +GEORGE. It's horrible. The awful publicity. That it should be +happening to _us_, that's what I can't get over. + +LADY MARDEN. I don't remember anything of the sort in the Marden +Family before, ever. + +GEORGE (absently). Lady Fanny. + +LADY MARDEN (recollecting). Yes, of course; but that was two hundred +years ago. The standards were different then. Besides, it wasn't quite +the same, anyhow. + +GEORGE (absently). No, it wasn't quite the same. + +LADY MARDEN. No. We shall all feel it. Terribly. + +GEORGE (his apology). If there were any other way! Olivia, what _can_ +I do? It _is_ the only way, isn't it? All that that fellow said--of +course, it sounds very well--but as things are. . . . _Is_ there anything +in marriage, or isn't there? You believe that there is, don't you? You +aren't one of these Socialists. Well, then, _can_ we go on living +together when you're another man's wife? It isn't only what people +will say, but it _is_ wrong, isn't it? . . . And supposing he doesn't +divorce you, are we to go on living together, unmarried, for _ever_? +Olivia, you seem to think that I'm just thinking of the +publicity--what people will say. I'm not. I'm not. That comes in any +way. But I want to do what's right, what's best. I don't mean what's +best for _us_, what makes us happiest, I mean what's really best, +what's rightest. What anybody else would do in my place. _I_ don't +know. It's so unfair. You're not my wife at all, but I want to do +what's right. . . . Oh, Olivia, Olivia, you do understand, don't you? + +(They have both forgotten LADY MARDEN. OLIVIA has never taken her eyes +off him as he makes his last attempt to convince himself.) + +OLIVIA (almost tenderly). So very very well, George. Oh, I understand +just what you are feeling. And oh, I do so wish that you could--(with +a little sigh)--but then it wouldn't be George, not the George I +married--(with a rueful little laugh)--or didn't quite marry. + +LADY MARDEN. I must say, I think you are both talking a little wildly. + +OLIVIA (repeating it, oh, so tenderly). Or didn't--quite--marry. (She +looks at him with all her heart in her eyes. She is giving him his +last chance to say "Damn Telworthy; you're mine!" He struggles +desperately with himself. . . . Will he?--will he? . . . But we shall never +know, for at that moment ANNE comes in.) + +ANNE. Mr. Pim is here, sir. + +GEORGE (emerging from the struggle with an effort). Pim? Pim? Oh, ah, +yes, of course. Mr. Pim. (Looking up) Where have you put him? + +OLIVIA. I want to see Mr. Pim, too, George. + +LADY MARDEN. Who on earth is Mr. Pim? + +OLIVIA. Show him in here, Anne. + +ANNE. Yes, madam. [She goes out. + +OLIVIA. It was Mr. Pim who told us about my husband. He came across +with him in the boat, and recognised him as the Telworthy he knew in +Australia. + +LADY MARDEN. Oh! Shall I be in the way? + +GEORGE. No, no. It doesn't matter, does it, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Please stay. + + [ANNE enters followed by MR. PIM. + +ANNE. Mr. Pim. + +GEORGE (pulling himself together). Ah, Mr. Pim! Very good of you to +have come. The fact is--er--(It is too much for him; he looks +despairingly at OLIVIA.) + +OLIVIA. We're so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Pim. By the way, do you +know Lady Marden? (MR. PIM and LADY MARDEN bow to each other.) Do come +and sit down, won't you? (She makes room for him on the sofa next to +her) The fact is, Mr. Pim, you gave us rather a surprise this morning, +and before we had time to realise what it all meant, you had gone. + +MR. PIM. A surprise, Mrs. Marden? Dear me, not an unpleasant one, I +hope? + +OLIVIA. Well, rather a--surprising one. + +GEORGE. Olivia, allow me a moment. Mr. Pim, you mentioned a man called +Telworthy this morning. My wife used to--that is to say, I used +to--that is, there are reasons-- + +OLIVIA. I think we had better be perfectly frank, George. + +LADY MARDEN. I am sixty-five years of age, Mr. Pim, and I can say that +I've never had a moment's uneasiness by telling the truth. + +MR. PIM (after a desperate effort to keep up with the conversation). +Oh! . . . I--er--I'm afraid I am rather at sea. Have I--er--left anything +unsaid in presenting my credentials to you this morning? This +Telworthy whom you mention--I seem to remember the name-- + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, you told us this morning of a man whom you had met on +the boat, a man who had come down in the world, whom you had known in +Sydney. A man called Telworthy. + +MR. PIM (relieved). Ah yes, yes, of course. I did say Telworthy, +didn't I? Most curious coincidence, Lady Marden. Poor man, poor man! +Let me see, it must have been ten years ago-- + +GEORGE. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. You're quite sure that his name was +Telworthy? + +MR. PIM. Telworthy--Telworthy--didn't I say Telworthy? Yes, that was +it--Telworthy. Poor fellow! + +OLIVIA. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Pim. I feel +quite sure that I can trust you. This man Telworthy whom you met is my +husband. + +MR. PIM. Your husband? (He looks in mild surprise at GEORGE.) +But--er-- + +OLIVIA. My first husband. His death was announced six years ago. I had +left him some years before that, but there seems no doubt from your +story that he's still alive. His record--the country he comes +from--above all, the very unusual name--Telworthy. + +MR. PIM. Telworthy--yes--certainly a most peculiar name. I remember +saying so. Your first husband? Dear me! Dear me! + +GEORGE. You understand, Mr. Pim, that all this is in absolute +confidence. + +MR. PIM. Of course, of course. + +OLIVIA. Well, since he is my husband, we naturally want to know +something about him. Where is he now, for instance? + +MR. PIM (surprised). Where is he now? But surely I told you? I told +you what happened at Marseilles? + +GEORGE. At Marseilles? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, poor fellow, it was most unfortunate. (Quite happy +again) You must understand, Lady Marden, that although I had met the +poor fellow before in Australia, I was never in any way intimate-- + +GEORGE (thumping the desk). Where is he _now_, that's what we want to +know? + +(MR. PIM turns to him with a start.) + +OLIVIA. Please, Mr. Pim! + +PIM. Where is he now? But--but didn't I tell you of the curious +fatality at Marseilles--poor fellow--the fish-bone? + +ALL. Fish-bone? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, a herring, I understand. + +OLIVIA (understanding first). Do you mean he's dead? + +MR. PIM. Dead--of course--didn't I--? + +OLIVIA (laughing hysterically). Oh, Mr. Pim, you--oh, what a husband +to have--oh, I--(But that is all she can say for the moment.) + +LADY MARDEN. Pull yourself together, Olivia. This is so unhealthy for +you. (to PIM) So he really _is_ dead this time? + +MR. PIM. Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly. A fishbone lodged in his +throat. + +GEORGE (trying to realise it). Dead! + +OLIVIA (struggling with her laughter). I think you must excuse me, Mr. +Pim--I can never thank you enough--a herring--there's something about +a herring--morality depends on such little things--George, +you--(Shaking her head at him in a weak state of laughter, she hurries +out of the room.) + +MR. PIM. Dear me! Dear me! + +GEORGE. Now, let us have this quite clear, Mr. Pim. You say that the +man, Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead? + +MR. PIM. Telworthy, yes--didn't I say Telworthy? This man I was +telling you about-- + +GEORGE. He's dead? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, he died at Marseilles. + +LADY MARDEN. A dispensation of Providence, George. One can look at it +in no other light. + +GEORGE. Dead! (Suddenly annoyed) Really, Mr. Pim, I think you might +have told us before. + +MR. PIM. But I--I _was_ telling you--I-- + +GEORGE. If you had only told us the whole story at once, instead of in +two--two instalments like this, you would have saved us all a good +deal of anxiety. + +MR. PIM. Really, I-- + +LADY MARDEN. I am sure Mr. Pim meant well, George, but it seems a pity +he couldn't have said so before. If the man was dead, _why_ try to +hush it up? + +MR. PIM (lost again). Really, Lady Marden, I-- + +GEORGE (getting up). Well, well, at any rate, I am much obliged to +you, Mr. Pim, for having come down to us this afternoon. Dead! _De +mortuis_, and so forth, but the situation would have been impossible +had he lived. Good-bye! (Holding out his hand) Good-bye! + +LADY MARDEN. Good-bye, Mr. Pim. + +MR. PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! (GEORGE takes him to the door.) Of +course, if I had--(to himself) Telworthy--I _think_ that was the name. +(He goes out, still wondering.) + +GEORGE (with a sigh of thankfulness). Well! This is wonderful news, +Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Most providential! . . . You understand, of course, that you +are not married to Olivia? + +GEORGE (who didn't). Not married? + +LADY MARDEN. If her first husband only died at Marseilles a few days +ago-- + +GEORGE. Good Heavens! + +LADY MARDEN. Not that it matters. You can get married quietly again. +Nobody need know. + +GEORGE (considering it). Yes . . . yes. Then all these years we have +been--er--Yes. + +LADY MARDEN. Who's going to know? + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, that's true. . . . And in perfect innocence, too. + +LADY MARDEN. I should suggest a Registry Office in London. + +GEORGE. A Registry Office, yes. + +LADY MARDEN. Better go up to town this afternoon. Can't do it too +quickly. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes. We can stay at an hotel-- + +LADY MARDEN (surprised). George! + +GEORGE. What? + +LADY MARDEN. _You_ will stay at your club. + +GEORGE. Oh--ah--yes, of course, Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Better take your solicitor with you to be on the safe +side. . . . To the Registry Office, I mean. + +GEORGE. Yes. + +LADY MARDEN (getting up). Well, I must be getting along, George. Say +good-bye to Olivia for me. And those children. Of course, you won't +allow this absurd love-business between them to come to anything? + +GEORGE. Most certainly not. Good-bye, Aunt Julia! + +LADY MARDEN (indicating the windows). I'll go _this_ way. (As she +goes) And get Olivia out more, George. I don't like these hysterics. +You want to be firm with her. + +GEORGE (firmly) Yes, yes! Good-bye! + +(He waves to her and then goes back to his seat.) + +(OLIVIA comes in, and stands in the middle of the room looking at him. +He comes to her eagerly.) + +GEORGE (holding out his hands). Olivia! Olivia! (But it is not so easy +as that.) + +OLIVIA (drawing herself up proudly). Mrs. Telworthy! + + + + +ACT III + + +(OLIVIA is standing where we left her at the end of the last act.) + +GEORGE (taken aback). Olivia, I--I don't understand. + +OLIVIA (leaving melodrama with a little laugh and coming down to +him). Poor George! Did I frighten you rather? + +GEORGE. You're so strange to-day. I don't understand you. You're not +like the Olivia I know. + +(They sit down on the sofa together.) + +OLIVIA. Perhaps you don't know me very well after all. + +GEORGE (affectionately). Oh, that's nonsense, old girl. You're just my +Olivia. + +OLIVIA. And yet it seemed as though I wasn't going to be your Olivia +half an hour ago. + +GEORGE (with a shudder). Don't talk about it. It doesn't bear thinking +about. Well, thank Heaven that's over. Now we can get married again +quietly and nobody will be any the wiser. + +OLIVIA. Married again? + +GEORGE. Yes, dear. As you--er--(he laughs uneasily) said just now, you +are Mrs. Telworthy. Just for the moment. But we can soon put that +right. My idea was to go up this evening and--er--make arrangements, +and if you come up to-morrow morning, if we can manage it by then, we +could get quietly married at a Registry Office, and--er--nobody any +the wiser. + +OLIVIA. Yes, I see. You want me to marry you at a Registry Office +to-morrow? + +GEORGE. If we can arrange it by then. I don't know how long these +things take, but I should imagine there would be no difficulty. + +OLIVIA. Oh no, that part ought to be quite easy. But--(She hesitates.) + +GEORGE. But what? + +OLIVIA. Well, if you want to marry me to-morrow, George, oughtn't you +to propose to me first? + +GEORGE (amazed). Propose? + +OLIVIA. Yes. It is usual, isn't it, to propose to a person before you +marry her, and--and we want to do the usual thing, don't we? + +GEORGE (upset). But you--but we . . . + +OLIVIA. You see, dear, you're George Marden, and I'm Olivia Telworthy, +and you--you're attracted by me, and think I would make you a good +wife, and you want to marry me. Well, naturally you propose to me +first, and--tell me how much you are attracted by me, and what a good +wife you think I shall make, and how badly you want to marry me. + +GEORGE (falling into the humour of it, as he thinks). The baby! Did +she want to be proposed to all over again? + +OLIVIA. Well, she did rather. + +GEORGE (rather fancying himself as an actor). She shall then. (He +adopts what he considers to be an appropriate attitude) Mrs. +Telworthy, I have long admired you in silence, and the time has now +come to put my admiration into words. Er--(But apparently he finds a +difficulty.) + +OLIVIA (hopefully). Into words. + +GEORGE. Er-- + +OLIVIA (with the idea of helping). Oh, Mr. Marden! + +GEORGE. Er--may I call you Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Yes, George. + +GEORGE (taking her hand). Olivia--I--(He hesitates.) + +OLIVIA. I don't want to interrupt, but oughtn't you to be on your +knees? It is--usual, I believe. If one of the servants came in, you +could say you were looking for my scissors. + +GEORGE. Really, Olivia, you must allow me to manage my own proposal in +my own way. + +OLIVIA (meekly). I'm sorry. Do go on. + +GEORGE. Well, er--confound it, Olivia, I love you. Will you marry me? + +OLIVIA. Thank you, George, I will think it over. + +GEORGE (laughing). Silly girl! Well then, to-morrow morning. No +wedding-cake, I'm afraid, Olivia. (He laughs again) But we'll go and +have a good lunch somewhere. + +OLIVIA. I will think it over, George. + +GEORGE (good-humouredly). Well, give us a kiss while you're thinking. + +OLIVIA. I'm afraid you mustn't kiss me until we are actually engaged. + +GEORGE (laughing uneasily). Oh, we needn't take it as seriously as all +that. + +OLIVIA. But a woman must take a proposal seriously. + +GEORGE (alarmed at last). What do you mean? + +OLIVIA. I mean that the whole question, as I heard somebody say once, +demands much more anxious thought than either of us has given it. +These hasty marriages-- + +GEORGE. Hasty! + +OLIVIA. Well, you've only just proposed to me, and you want to marry +me to-morrow. + +GEORGE. Now you're talking perfect nonsense, Olivia. You know quite +well that our case is utterly different from--from any other. + +OLIVIA. All the same, one has to ask oneself questions. With a young +girl like--well, with a young girl, love may well seem to be all that +matters. But with a woman of my age, it is different. I have to ask +myself if you can afford to support a wife. + +GEORGE (coldly). Fortunately that is a question that you can very +easily answer for yourself. + +OLIVIA. Well, but I have been hearing rather bad reports lately. What +with taxes always going up, and rents always going down, some of our +landowners are getting into rather straitened circumstances. At least, +so I'm told. + +GEORGE. I don't know what you're talking about. + +OLIVIA (surprised). Oh, isn't it true? I heard of a case only this +morning--a landowner who always seemed to be very comfortably off, but +who couldn't afford an allowance for his only niece when she wanted to +get married. It made me think that one oughtn't to judge by +appearances. + +GEORGE. You know perfectly well that I can afford to support a wife as +my wife _should_ be supported. + +OLIVIA. I'm so glad, dear. Then your income--you aren't getting +anxious at all? + +GEORGE (stiffly). You know perfectly well what my income is. I see no +reason for anxiety in the future. + +OLIVIA. Ah, well, then we needn't think about that any more. Well, +then, there is another thing to be considered. + +GEORGE. I can't make out what you're up to. Don't you want to get +married; to--er--legalise this extraordinary situation in which we are +placed? + +OLIVIA. I want to be sure that I am going to be happy, George. I can't +just jump at the very first offer I have had since my husband died, +without considering the whole question very carefully. + +GEORGE. So I'm under consideration, eh? + +OLIVIA. Every suitor is. + +GEORGE (sarcastically, as he thinks). Well, go on. + +OLIVIA. Well, then, there's your niece. You have a niece who lives +with you. Of course Dinah is a delightful girl, but one doesn't like +marrying into a household in which there is another grown-up woman. +But perhaps she will be getting married herself soon? + +GEORGE. I see no prospect of it. + +OLIVIA. I think it would make it much easier if she did. + +GEORGE. Is this a threat, Olivia? Are you telling me that if I do not +allow young Strange to marry Dinah, you will not marry me? + +OLIVIA. A threat? Oh no, George. + +GEORGE. Then what does it mean? + +OLIVIA. I'm just wondering if you love me as much as Brian loves +Dinah. You _do_ love me? + +GEORGE (from his heart). You know I do, old girl. (He comes to her.) + +OLIVIA. You're not just attracted by my pretty face? . . . _Is_ it a +pretty face? + +GEORGE. It's an adorable one. (He tries to kiss it, but she turns +away.) + +OLIVIA. How can I be sure that it is not _only_ my face which makes +you think that you care for me? Love which rests upon a mere outward +attraction cannot lead to any lasting happiness--as one of our +thinkers has observed. + +GEORGE. What's come over you, Olivia? I don't understand what you're +driving at. Why should you doubt my love? + +OLIVIA. Ah!--Why? + +GEORGE. You can't pretend that we haven't been happy together. +I've--I've been a good pal to you, eh? We--we suit each other, old +girl. + +OLIVIA. Do we? + +GEORGE. Of course we do. + +OLIVIA. I wonder. When two people of our age think of getting married, +one wants to be very sure that there is real community of ideas +between them. Whether it is a comparatively trivial matter, like the +right colour for a curtain, or some very much more serious question of +conduct which arises, one wants to feel that there is some chance of +agreement between husband and wife. + +GEORGE. We--we love each other, old girl. + +OLIVIA. We do now, yes. But what shall we be like in five years' time? +Supposing that after we have been married five years, we found +ourselves estranged from each other upon such questions as Dinah's +future, or the decorations of the drawing-room, or even the advice to +give to a friend who had innocently contracted a bigamous marriage? +How bitterly we should regret then our hasty plunge into a matrimony +which was no true partnership, whether of tastes, or of ideas, or even +of consciences! (With a sigh) Ah me! + +GEORGE (nastily). Unfortunately for your argument, Olivia, I can +answer you out of your own mouth. You seem to have forgotten what you +said this morning in the case of--er--young Strange. + +OLIVIA (reproachfully). Is it quite fair, George, to drag up what was +said this morning? + +GEORGE. You've brought it on yourself. + +OLIVIA. I? . . . Well, and what did I say this morning? + +GEORGE. You said that it was quite enough that Strange was a gentleman +and in love with Dinah for me to let them marry each other. + +OLIVIA. Oh! . . . _Is_ that enough, George? + +GEORGE (triumphantly). You said so. + +OLIVIA (meekly). Well, if you think so, too, I--I don't mind risking +it. + +GEORGE (kindly). Aha, my dear! You see! + +OLIVIA. Then you do think it's enough? + +GEORGE. I--er--Yes, yes, I--I think so. + +OLIVIA (going to him). My darling one! Then we can have a double +wedding. How jolly! + +GEORGE (astounded). A double one! + +OLIVIA. Yes. You and me, Brian and Dinah. + +GEORGE (firmly). Now look here, Olivia, understand once and for all, I +am not to be blackmailed into giving my consent to Dinah's engagement. +Neither blackmailed nor tricked. Our marriage has nothing whatever to +do with Dinah's. + +OLIVIA. No, dear. I quite understand. They may take place about the +same time, but they have nothing to do with each other. + +GEORGE. I see no prospect of Dinah's marriage taking place for many +years. + +OLIVIA. No, dear, that was what I said. + +GEORGE (not understanding for the moment). You said. . . . ? I see. Now, +Olivia, let us have this perfectly clear. You apparently insist on +treating my--er--proposal as serious. + +OLIVIA (surprised). Wasn't it serious? Were you trifling with me? + +GEORGE. You know quite well what I mean. You treat it as an ordinary +proposal from a man to a woman who have never been more than +acquaintances before. Very well then. Will you tell me what you +propose to do, if you decide to--ah--refuse me? You do not suggest +that we should go on living together--unmarried? + +OLIVIA (shocked). Of course not, George! What would the County--I mean +Heaven--I mean the Law--I mean, of _course_ not! Besides, it's so +unnecessary. If I decide to accept you, of _course_ I shall marry you. + +GEORGE. Quite so. And if you--ah--decide to refuse me? What will you +do? + +OLIVIA. Nothing. + +GEORGE. Meaning by that? + +OLIVIA. Just that, George. I shall stay here--just as before. I like +this house. It wants a little re-decorating perhaps, but I do like it, +George. . . . Yes, I shall be quite happy here. + +GEORGE. I see. You will continue to live down here--in spite of what +you said just now about the immorality of it. + +OLIVIA (surprised). But there's nothing immoral in a widow living +alone in a big country house, with perhaps the niece of a friend of +hers staying with her, just to keep her company. + +GEORGE (sarcastic). And what shall _I_ be doing, when you've so very +kindly taken possession of my house for me? + +OLIVIA. I don't know, George. Travelling, I expect. You could come +down sometimes with a chaperone. I suppose there would be nothing +wrong in that. + +GEORGE (indignant). Thank you! And what if I refuse to be turned out +of my house? + +OLIVIA. Then, seeing that we can't _both_ be in it, it looks as though +you'd have to turn _me_ out. (Casually) I suppose there are legal ways +of doing these things. You'd have to consult your solicitor again. + +GEORGE (amazed). Legal ways? + +OLIVIA. Well, you couldn't _throw_ me out, could you? You'd have to +get an injunction against me--or prosecute me for trespass--or +something. It would make an awfully unusual case, wouldn't it? The +papers would be full of it. + +GEORGE. You must be mad! + +OLIVIA (dreamily). Widow of well-known ex-convict takes possession of +J.P.'s house. Popular country gentleman denied entrance to his own +home. Doomed to travel. + +GEORGE (angrily). I've had enough of this. Do you mean all this +nonsense? + +OLIVIA. I do mean, George, that I am in no hurry to go up to London +and get married. I love the country just now, and (with a sigh) after +this morning, I'm--rather tired of husbands. + +GEORGE (in a rage). I've never heard so much--damned nonsense in my +life. I will leave you to come to your senses. (He goes out +indignantly.) + +(OLIVIA, who has forgiven him already, throws a loving kiss after him, +and then turns triumphantly to her dear curtains. She takes them, +smiling, to the sofa, and has just got to work again, when MR. PIM +appears at the open windows.) + +PIM (in a whisper). Er, may I come in, Mrs. Marden? + +OLIVIA (turning round in surprise). Mr. Pim! + +PIM (anxiously). Mr. Marden is--er--not here? + +OLIVIA (getting up). Do you want to see him? I will tell him. + +PIM. No, no, no! Not for the world! (He comes in and looks anxiously +at the door) There is no immediate danger of his returning, Mrs. +Marden? + +OLIVIA (surprised). No, I don't think so. What is it? You-- + +PIM. I took the liberty of returning by the window in the hope +of--er--coming upon you alone, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Yes? + +PIM (still rather nervous). I--er--Mr. Marden will be very angry with +me. Quite rightly. I blame myself entirely. I do not know how I can +have been so stupid. + +OLIVIA. What is it, Mr. Pim? Has my husband come to life again? + +PIM. Mrs. Marden, I throw myself on your mercy entirely. The fact +is--his name was Polwittle. + +OLIVIA (at a loss). Whose? My husband's? + +PIM. Yes, yes. The name came back to me suddenly, just as I reached +the gate. Polwittle, poor fellow. + +OLIVIA. But, Mr. Pim, my husband's name was Telworthy. + +PIM. No, no, Polwittle. + +OLIVIA. But, really I ought to. . . . + +PIM (firmly). Polwittle. It came back to me suddenly just as I reached +the gate. For the moment, I had thoughts of conveying the news by +letter. I was naturally disinclined to return in person, +and--Polwittle. (Proudly) If you remember, I always said it was a +curious name. + +OLIVIA. But who _is_ Polwittle? + +PIM (in surprise at her stupidity). The man I have been telling you +about, who met with the sad fatality at Marseilles. Henry +Polwittle--or was it Ernest? No, Henry, I think. Poor fellow. + +OLIVIA (indignantly). But you said his name was Telworthy! How _could_ +you? + +PIM. Yes, yes, I blame myself entirely. + +OLIVIA. But how could you _think_ of a name like Telworthy, if it +wasn't Telworthy? + +PIM (eagerly). Ah, that is the really interesting thing about the +whole matter. + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, all your visits here to-day have been interesting. + +PIM. Yes, but you see, on my first appearance here this morning, I was +received by--er--Miss Diana. + +OLIVIA. Dinah. + +PIM. Miss Dinah, yes. She was in--er--rather a communicative mood, and +she happened to mention, by way of passing the time, that before your +marriage to Mr. Marden you had been a Mrs.--er-- + +OLIVIA. Telworthy. + +PIM. Yes, yes, Telworthy, of course. She mentioned also Australia. By +some process of the brain--which strikes me as decidedly curious--when +I was trying to recollect the name of the poor fellow on the boat, +whom you remember I had also met in Australia, the fact that this +other name was also stored in my memory, a name equally peculiar--this +fact I say . . . + +OLIVIA (seeing that the sentence is rapidly going to pieces). Yes, I +understand. + +PIM. I blame myself, I blame myself entirely. + +OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't do that, Mr. Pim. It was really Dinah's fault +for inflicting all our family history on you. + +PIM. Oh, but a charming young woman. I assure you I was very +much interested in all that she told me. (Getting up) Well, +Mrs.--er--Marden, I can only hope that you will forgive me for the +needless distress I have caused you to-day. + +OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't worry about that--please. + +PIM. And you will tell your husband--you will break the news to him? + +OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I will--break the news to him. + +PIM. You understand how it is that I thought it better to come to you +in the first place? + +OLIVIA. I am very glad you did. + +PIM (holding out his hand). Then I will say good-bye, and--er-- + +OLIVIA. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. Let us have it quite clear this time. +You never knew my husband, Jacob Telworthy, you never met him in +Australia, you never saw him on the boat, and nothing whatever +happened to him at Marseilles. Is that right? + +PIM. Yes, yes, that is so. + +OLIVIA. So that, since he was supposed to have died in Australia six +years ago, he is presumably still dead? + +PIM. Yes, yes, undoubtedly. + +OLIVIA (holding out her hand with a charming smile). Then good-bye, +Mr. Pim, and thank you so much for--for all your trouble. + +PIM. Not at all, Mrs. Marden. I can only assure you I-- + +DINAH (from the window). Hullo, here's Mr. Pim! (She comes in, +followed by BRIAN.) + +PIM (anxiously looking at the door in case MR. MARDEN should come in). +Yes, yes, I--er-- + +DINAH. Oh, Mr. Pim, you mustn't run away without even saying how do +you do! Such old friends as we are. Why, it is ages since I saw you! +Are you staying to tea? + +PIM. I'm afraid I-- + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim has to hurry away, Dinah. You mustn't keep him. + +DINAH. Well, but you'll come back again? + +PIM. I fear that I am only a passer-by, Miss--er--Dinah. + +OLIVIA. You can walk with him to the gate, dear. + +PIM (gratefully to OLIVIA). Thank you. (He edges towards the window) +If you would be so kind, Miss Dinah-- + +BRIAN. I'll catch you up. + +DINAH. Come along then, Mr. Pim. (As they go out) I want to hear all +about your _first_ wife. You haven't really told me anything yet. + +(OLIVIA resumes her work, and BRIAN sits on the back of the sofa +looking at her.) + +BRIAN (awkwardly). I just wanted to say, if you don't think it cheek, +that I'm--I'm on your side, if I may be, and if I can help you at all +I should be very proud of being allowed to. + +OLIVIA (looking up at him). Brian, you dear. That's sweet of you . . . +But it's quite all right now, you know. + +BRIAN. Oh, I'm so glad. + +OLIVIA. Yes, that's what Mr. Pim came back to say. He'd made a mistake +about the name. (Smiling) George is the only husband I have. + +BRIAN (surprised). What? You mean that the whole thing--that +Pim--(With conviction) Silly ass! + +OLIVIA (kindly). Oh, well, he didn't mean to be. (After a pause) +Brian, do you know anything about the Law? + +BRIAN. I'm afraid not. I hate the Law. Why? + +OLIVIA (casually). Oh, I just--I was wondering--thinking about all the +shocks we've been through to-day. Second marriages, and all that. + +BRIAN. Oh! It's a rotten business. + +OLIVIA. I suppose there's nothing wrong in getting married to the +_same_ person twice? + +BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think. + +OLIVIA. Oh? + +BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice, don't +they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in church. + +OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it's rather a +nice idea. They ought to do it in England more. + +BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can work it. +(Anxiously) D'you think there's any chance, Olivia? + +OLIVIA (smiling). Every chance, dear. + +BRIAN (jumping up). I say, do you really? Have you squared him? I +mean, has he-- + +OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later on. + +BRIAN. Bless you. Righto. + +(As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the door. GEORGE +stands looking after him, and then turns to OLIVIA, who is absorbed in +her curtains. He walks up and down the room, fidgeting with things, +waiting for her to speak. As she says nothing, he begins to talk +himself, but in an obviously unconcerned way. There is a pause after +each answer of hers, before he gets out his next remark.) + +GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange. + +OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian--yes, isn't he? And such a nice +boy . . . + +GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? Hey? + +OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . . + +GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what? + +OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's any +doubt about it . . . + +GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about painting. + +OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear. + +GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in this +new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint like--like +Rubens or--or Reynolds? + +OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find his +directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. . . . + +GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what? + +OLIVIA. Oh yes! + +GEORGE. H'm! . . . Good-looking fellow. (There is rather a longer silence +this time, GEORGE continues to hope that he is appearing casual and +unconcerned. He stands looking at OLIVIA'S work for a moment.) + +GEORGE. Nearly finished 'em? + +OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there? + +GEORGE (looking round). Scissors? + +OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . . + +GEORGE. Where are you going to put 'em? + +OLIVIA (as if really wondering). I don't quite know. . . . I _had_ +thought of this room, but--I'm not quite sure. + +GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit. + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . + +GEORGE (walking over to the present curtains). H'm. They _are_ a bit +faded. + +OLIVIA (shaking out hers, and looking at them critically). Sometimes I +think I love them, and sometimes I'm not quite sure. + +GEORGE. Best way is to hang 'em up and see how you like 'em then. +Always take 'em down again. + +OLIVIA. That's rather a good idea, George! + +GEORGE. Best way. + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . I think we might do that. . . . The only thing is--(she +hesitates). + +GEORGE. What? + +OLIVIA. Well, the carpet and the chairs, and the cushions and things-- + +GEORGE. What about 'em? + +OLIVIA. Well, if we had new curtains-- + +GEORGE. You'd want a new carpet, eh? + +OLIVIA (doubtfully). Y--yes. Well, new chair-covers anyhow. + +GEORGE. H'm. . . . Well, why not? + +OLIVIA. Oh, but-- + +GEORGE (with an awkward laugh). We're not so hard up as all that, you +know. + +OLIVIA. No, I suppose not. (Thoughtfully) I suppose it would mean that +I should have to go up to London for them. That's rather a nuisance. + +GEORGE (extremely casual). Oh, I don't know. We might go up together +one day. + +OLIVIA. Well, of course if we _were_ up--for anything else--we could +just look about us, and see if we could find what we want. + +GEORGE. That's what I meant. + +(There is another silence. GEORGE is wondering whether to come to +closer quarters with the great question.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, by the way, George-- + +GEORGE. Yes? + +OLIVIA (innocently). I told Brian, and I expect he'll tell Dinah, that +Mr. Pim had made a mistake about the name. + +GEORGE (astonished). You told Brian that Mr. Pim-- + +OLIVIA. Yes--I told him that the whole thing was a mistake. It seemed +the simplest way. + +GEORGE. Olivia! Then you mean that Brian and Dinah think that--that we +have been married all the time? + +OLIVIA. Yes . . . They both think so now. + +GEORGE (coming close to her). Olivia, does that mean that you _are_ +thinking of marrying me? + +OLIVIA. At your old Registry Office? + +GEORGE (eagerly). Yes! + +OLIVIA. To-morrow? + +GEORGE. Yes! + +OLIVIA. Do you want me to _very_ much? + +GEORGE. My darling, you know I do! + +OLIVIA (a little apprehensive). We should have to do it very quietly. + +GEORGE. Of course, darling. Nobody need know at all. We don't _want_ +anybody to know. And now that you've put Brian and Dinah off the +scent, by telling them that Mr. Pim made a mistake--(He breaks off, +and says admiringly) That was very clever of you, Olivia. I should +never have thought of that. + +OLIVIA (innocently). No, darling. . . . You don't think it was wrong, +George? + +GEORGE (his verdict). An innocent deception . . . perfectly harmless. + +OLIVIA. Yes, dear, that was what I thought about--about what I was +doing. + +GEORGE. Then you will come to-morrow? (She nods.) And if we happen to +see the carpet, or anything that you want-- + +OLIVIA. Oh, what fun! + +GEORGE (beaming). And a wedding lunch at the Carlton, what? (She nods +eagerly.) And--and a bit of a honeymoon in Paris? + +OLIVIA. Oh, George! + +GEORGE (hungrily). Give us a kiss, old girl. + +OLIVIA (lovingly). George! + +(She holds up her cheek to him. He kisses it, and then suddenly takes +her in his arms.) + +GEORGE. Don't ever leave me, old girl. + +OLIVIA (affectionately). Don't ever send me away, old boy. + +GEORGE (fervently). I won't. . . . (Awkwardly) I--I don't think I would +have, you know. I--I-- + +(DINAH and BRIAN appear at the windows, having seen MR. PIM safely +off.) + +DINAH (surprised). Oo, I say! + +(GEORGE hastily moves away.) + +GEORGE. Hallo! + +DINAH (going up impetuously to him). Give _me_ one, too, George; Brian +won't mind. + +BRIAN. Really, Dinah, you are the limit. + +GEORGE (formally, but enjoying it). Do you mind, Mr. Strange? + +BRIAN (a little uncomfortably). Oh, I say, sir-- + +GEORGE. We'll risk it, Dinah. (He kisses her.) + +DINAH (triumphantly to BRIAN). Did you notice that one? That +wasn't just an ordinary affectionate kiss. It was a special +bless--you--my--children one. (to GEORGE) Wasn't it? + +OLIVIA. You do talk nonsense, darling. + +DINAH. Well, I'm so happy, now that Mr. Pim has relented about your +first husband-- + +(GEORGE catches OLIVIA'S eye and smiles; she smiles back; but they are +different smiles.) + +GEORGE (the actor). Yes, yes, stupid fellow Pim, what? + +BRIAN. Absolute idiot. + +DINAH.--And now that George has relented about _my_ first husband. + +GEORGE. You get on much too quickly, young woman. (to BRIAN) So you +want to marry my Dinah, eh? + +BRIAN (with a smile). Well, I do rather, sir. + +DINAH (hastily). Not at once, of course, George. We want to be engaged +for a long time first, and write letters to each other, and tell each +other how much we love each other, and sit next to each other when we +go out to dinner. + +GEORGE (to OLIVIA). Well, _that_ sounds fairly harmless, I think. + +OLIVIA (smiling). I think so. . . . + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). Then you'd better have a talk with me--er--Brian. + +BRIAN. Thank you very much, sir. + +GEORGE. Well, come along then. (Looking at his watch) I am going up to +town after tea, so we'd better-- + +DINAH. I say! Are you going to London? + +GEORGE (with the smile of the conspirator). A little business. Never +you mind, young lady. + +DINAH (calmly). All right. Only, bring me back something nice. + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). Shall we walk down and look at the pigs? + +BRIAN. Righto! + +OLIVIA. Don't go far, dear. I may want you in a moment. + +GEORGE. All right, darling, we'll be on the terrace. + + [They go out together. + +DINAH. Brian and George always try to discuss me in front of the pigs. +So tactless of them. Are you going to London, too, darling? + +OLIVIA. To-morrow morning. + +DINAH. What are you going to do in London? + +OLIVIA. Oh, shopping, and--one or two little things. + +DINAH. With George? + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . + +DINAH. I say, wasn't it lovely about Pim? + +OLIVIA. Lovely? + +DINAH. Yes; he told me all about it. Making such a hash of things, I +mean. + +OLIVIA (innocently). Did he make a hash of things? + +DINAH. Well, I mean keeping on coming like that. And if you look at it +all round--well, for all he had to say, he needn't really have come at +all. + +OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I shouldn't quite say that, Dinah. (She +stands up and shakes out the curtains.) + +DINAH. I say, aren't they jolly? + +OLIVIA (demurely). I'm so glad everybody likes them. Tell George I'm +ready, will you? + +DINAH. I say, is _he_ going to hang them up for you? + +OLIVIA. Well, I thought he could reach best. + +DINAH. Righto! What fun! (At the windows) George! George! (to OLIVIA) +Brian is just telling George about the five shillings he's got in the +Post Office. . . . George! + +GEORGE (from the terrace). Coming! + +(He hurries in, the model husband, BRIAN follows.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, George, just hang these up for me, will you? + +GEORGE. Of course, darling. I'll get the steps from the library. + + [He hurries out. + +(BRIAN takes out his sketching block. It is obvious that his five +shillings has turned the scale. He bows to DINAH. He kisses OLIVIA'S +hand with an air. He motions to DINAH to be seated.) + +DINAH (impressed). What is it? + +BRIAN (beginning to draw). Portrait of Lady Strange. + +(GEORGE hurries in with the steps, and gets to work. There is a great +deal of curtain, and for the moment he becomes slightly involved in +it. However, by draping it over his head and shoulders, he manages to +get successfully up the steps. There we may leave him.) + +(But we have not quite finished with MR. PIM. It is a matter of honour +with him now that he should get his little story quite accurate before +passing out of the MARDENS' life for ever. So he comes back for the +last time; for the last time we see his head at the window. He +whispers to OLIVIA.) + +MR. PIM. Mrs. Marden! I've just remembered. His name was _Ernest_ +Polwittle--_not_ Henry. + +(He goes off happily. A curious family the MARDENS. Perhaps somebody +else would have committed bigamy if he had not remembered in time that +it was Ernest. . . . Ernest. . . . Yes. . . . Now he can go back with an +easy conscience to the Trevors.) + + + + + +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE + +A COMEDY IN ONE ACT + + + + +CHARACTERS + +KATE CAMBERLEY. +CYRIL NORWOOD (her lover). +DENNIS CAMBERLEY (her husband). + + * * * * * + +This play was first produced by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the Coliseum on +September 8, 1919, with the following cast: + +Dennis Camberley--GODFREY TEARLE. +Kate Camberley--MARY MALONE. +Cyril Norwood--EWAN BROOK. + + + + +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE + + +(It is an evening of 1919 in KATE'S drawing-room. She is expecting +him, and the Curtain goes up as he is announced.) + +MAID. Mr. Cyril Norwood. + +(He comes in.) + +NORWOOD (for the MAID'S benefit, but you may be sure she knows). Ah, +good evening, Mrs. Camberley! + +KATE. Good evening! + +(They shake hands. NORWOOD is sleek and prosperous, in a morning coat +with a white slip to his waistcoat. He is good-looking in rather an +obvious way with rather an obvious moustache. Most women like him--at +least, so he will tell you.) + +NORWOOD (as soon as they are alone). My darling! + +KATE. Cyril! + +(He takes her hands and kisses them. He would kiss her face, but she +is not quite ready for this.) + +NORWOOD. You let me yesterday. Why mayn't I kiss you to-day? + +KATE. Not just yet, dear. I want to talk to you. Come and sit down. + +(They sit on the sofa together.) + +NORWOOD. You aren't sorry for what you said yesterday? + +KATE (looking at him thoughtfully, and then shaking her head). No. + +NORWOOD. Then what's happened? + +KATE. I've just had a letter from Dennis. + +NORWOOD (anxiously). Dennis--your husband? + +KATE. Yes. + +NORWOOD. Where does he write from? + +KATE. India. + +NORWOOD. Oh, well! + +KATE. He says I may expect him home almost as soon as I get the +letter. + +NORWOOD. Good Heavens! + +KATE. Yes. . . . + +NORWOOD (always hopeful). Perhaps he didn't catch the boat that he +expected to. Wouldn't he have cabled from somewhere on the way? + +KATE. You can't depend on cables nowadays. _I_ don't know--What are we +to do, Cyril? + +NORWOOD. You know what I always wanted you to do. (He takes her hands) +Come away with me. + +KATE (doubtfully). And let Dennis come home and find--an empty house? + +NORWOOD (eagerly). You are nothing to him, and he is nothing to you. A +war-wedding!--after you'd been engaged to each other for a week! And +forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent out to India--and you haven't +seen him since. + +KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that. + +NORWOOD. The world may say that you're his wife and he's your husband, +but--what do you know of him? He won't even be the boy you married. +He'll be a stranger whom you'll hardly recognise. And you aren't the +girl _he_ married. You're a woman now, and you're just beginning to +learn what love is. Come with _me_. + +KATE. It's true, it's true. But he _has_ been fighting for us. And to +come home again after those four years of exile, and find-- + +NORWOOD. Exile--that's making much too much of it. He's come through +the war safely, and he's probably had what he'd call a topping good +time. Like enough he's been in love half-a-dozen times himself +since--on leave in India and that sort of thing. India! Well, you +should read Kipling. + +KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don't know him. But I feel +that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight about +it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing what you +say, he would understand--and perhaps be glad of it. + +NORWOOD (uneasily). Really, darling, it's hardly a thing you can talk +over calmly with a husband, even if he--We don't want any unpleasantness, +and--er--(Taking her hands again) Besides, I want you, Kate. It +may be weeks before he comes back. We can't go on like this . . . Kate! + +KATE. Do you love me so very much? + +NORWOOD. My darling! + +KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week--in case he comes. I +don't want to seem to be afraid of him. + +NORWOOD (eagerly). And then? + +KATE. Then I'll come with you. + +NORWOOD (taking her in his arms). My darling! . . . There! And now what +are you going to do? Ask me to stay to dinner or what? + +KATE. Certainly not, sir. I'm going _out_ to dinner to-night. + +NORWOOD (jealously). Who with? + +KATE. You. + +NORWOOD (eagerly). At our little restaurant? (She nods) Good girl! +Then go and put on a hat, while I ring 'em up and see if they've got a +table. + +KATE. What fun! I won't be a moment. (She goes to the door) Cyril, you +will _always_ love me? + +NORWOOD. Of course I will, darling. (She nods at him and goes out. He +is very well pleased with himself when he is left alone. He goes to +the telephone with a smile) Gerrard 11,001. Yes . . . I want a table for +two. To-night . . . Mr. Cyril Norwood . . . Oh, in about half an hour . . . +Yes, for two. Is that all right? . . . Thank you. + +(He puts the receiver back and turns round to see DENNIS CAMBERLEY, +who has just come in. DENNIS is certainly a man now; very easily and +pleasantly master of himself and of anybody else who gets in his way.) + +NORWOOD (surprised). Hallo! + +DENNIS (nodding pleasantly). Hallo! + +NORWOOD (wondering who he is). You--er----? + +DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood. + +NORWOOD. You know my name? + +DENNIS. Oh yes, I've heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril Norwood. + +NORWOOD (stiffly). I don't think I've had the pleasure of--er---- + +DENNIS (winningly). Oh, but I'm sure you must have heard a good deal +about _me_. + +NORWOOD. Good God, you don't mean---- + +DENNIS. I do, indeed. (With a bow) Dennis Camberley, the missing +husband. (Pleadingly) You _have_ heard about me, _haven't_ you? + +NORWOOD. I--er--Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So you're back? + +DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. Norwood, +and sometimes--they do. . . . Even after four years. . . . But you _did_ +talk about me sometimes? + +NORWOOD. How did you know my name? + +DENNIS. A little bird told me about you. + +NORWOOD (turning away in anger). Pooh! + +DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the backs of +crocodiles, searching for--well, let us say, breakfast. He said to me +one morning: "Talking of parasites," he said, "do you know Mr. Cyril +Norwood?" he said, "because I could tell you an interesting story +about him," he said, "if you care to--" + +NORWOOD (wheeling round furiously). Look here, sir, we'd better have +it out quite plainly. I don't want any veiled insults and sneers from +you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has arisen, but we must +look facts in the face. You may be Mrs. Camberley's husband, but she +has not seen you for four years, and--well, she and I love each other. +There you have it. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS (anxiously). You don't feel that I have neglected her, Mr. +Norwood? You see, I couldn't come home for week-ends very well, and-- + +NORWOOD. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS (pleasantly). Well, what do you suggest? + +NORWOOD (taken aback). Really, sir, I--er-- + +DENNIS. You see, I feel so out of it all. I've been leading such a +nasty, uncivilised life for the last four years, I really hardly know +what is--what is being done. Now _you_ have been mixing in Society . . . +making munitions . . . + +NORWOOD (stiffly). I have been engaged on important work for the +Government of a confidential nature-- + +DENNIS. You, as I was saying, have been mixing in Society, engaged on +important work for the Government of a confidential nature---- + +NORWOOD. It was my great regret that I had no opportunity of +enlisting---- + +DENNIS. With no opportunity, as I was about to say, of enlisting, but +with many opportunities, fortunately, of making love to my wife. + +NORWOOD. Now look here, Mr. Camberley, I've already told you---- + +DENNIS (soothing him). But, my dear Mr. Norwood, I'm only doing what +you said. I'm looking facts in the face. (Surprised) You aren't +ashamed of having made love to my wife, are you? + +NORWOOD (impatiently). What are you going to do? That's all that +matters between you and me. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS. Well, that was what I was going to ask you. You're so much +more in the swim than I am. (Earnestly) What _is_ being done in +Society just now? You must have heard a good deal of gossip about it. +All your friends, who were also engaged on important work of a +confidential nature, with no opportunity of enlisting--don't they tell +you their own experiences? What _have_ the husbands been doing lately +when they came back from the front? + +NORWOOD (advancing on him angrily). Now, once and for all, sir---- + +(KATE comes in, with a hat in each hand, calling to NORWOOD as she +comes.) + +KATE. Oh, Cyril--which of these two hats--(she sees her +husband)--Dennis! + +DENNIS (looking at her steadfastly). How are _you_, Kate? + +KATE (stammering). You've--you've come back? (She puts the hats down.) + +DENNIS. I've come back. As I was telling Mr. Norwood. + +KATE (looking from one to the other). You--? + +DENNIS (smiling). Oh, we're quite old friends. + +NORWOOD (going to her). I've told him, Kate. + +(He takes her hands, and tries to look defiantly at DENNIS, though he +is not feeling like that at all.) + +KATE (looking anxiously at DENNIS). What are you going to do? + +(She can hardly make him out. He is different from the husband who +left her four years ago.) + +DENNIS. Well, that's what Cyril keeps asking me. (to NORWOOD) You +don't mind my calling you Cyril?--such an old friend of my wife's-- + +KATE (unable to make him out). Dennis! (She is frightened.) + +NORWOOD (soothingly). It's all right, dear. + +DENNIS. Do let's sit down and talk it over in a friendly way. + +KATE (going to him). Dennis, can you ever forgive me? We never ought +to have got married--we knew each other so little--you had to go away +so soon--I--I was going to write and tell you--oh, I wish-- + +DENNIS. That's all right, Kate. (He will not let her come too close to +him. He steps back and looks at her from head to feet) You've altered. + +KATE. That's just it, Dennis. I'm not the girl who-- + +DENNIS. You've grown four years younger and four years prettier. + +KATE (dropping her eyes). Have I? + +DENNIS. Yes. . . . You do your hair a new way. + +KATE (surprised). Do you like it? + +DENNIS. I love it. + +NORWOOD (coughing). Yes, well, perhaps we'd better-- + +DENNIS (with a start). I beg your pardon, Cyril. I was forgetting you +for the moment. Well, now do sit down, (NORWOOD and KATE sit down +together on the sofa, but DENNIS remains standing) That's right. + +KATE. Well? + +DENNIS (to KATE). You want to marry him, eh? + +NORWOOD. We have already told you the circumstances, Mr. Camberley. I +need hardly say how regrettable it is that--er--but at the same time +these--er--things will happen, and since it--er--has happened-- + +KATE. I feel I hardly know you, Dennis. Did I love you when I married +you? I don't know. It was so sudden. We had no time to find out +anything about each other. And now you come back--a stranger-- + +DENNIS (jerking his head at NORWOOD). And he's not a stranger, eh? + +KATE (dropping her eyes). N-no. + +DENNIS. You feel you know all about _him_? + +KATE. I--we--(She is unhappy.) + +NORWOOD. We have discovered that we love each other. (Taking her +hands) My darling one, this is distressing for you. Let _me_-- + +DENNIS (sharply). It wouldn't be distressing for her, if you didn't +keep messing her about. Why the devil can't you sit on a chair by +yourself? + +NORWOOD (indignantly). Really! + +KATE (freeing herself from him, and moving to the extreme end of the +sofa). What are you going to do, Dennis? + +DENNIS (looking at them thoughtfully, his chin on his hand). I don't +know. . . . It's difficult. I don't want to do anything melodramatic. I +mean (to KATE) it wouldn't really help matters if I did shoot him, +would it? + +(KATE looks at him without saying anything, trying to understand this +new man who has come into her life. NORWOOD swallows, and tries very +hard to say something) + +NORWOOD. I--I-- + +DENNIS (turning to him). You_ don't think so, do you? + +NORWOOD. I--I-- + +DENNIS. No, I'm quite sure you're right. It wouldn't really help. It +is difficult, isn't it? You see (to KATE) _you_ love _him_--(he waits +a moment for her to say it if she will, but she only looks at +him)--and _he_ says _he_ loves _you_, but at the same time I _am_ your +husband. . . . (He walks up and down thoughtfully, and then says suddenly +to NORWOOD) I'll tell you what--I'll fight you for her. + +NORWOOD (trying to be firm). I think we'd better leave this +eighteenth-century nonsense out of it. + +DENNIS (pleasantly). They fight in the twentieth century, too, Mr. +Norwood. Perhaps you hadn't heard what we've been doing these last +four years? Oh, quite a lot of it. . . . Well? + +NORWOOD. You don't wish me to believe that you're serious? + +DENNIS. Perfectly. Swords, pistols, fists, catch-as-catch-can--what +would you like? + +NORWOOD. I do not propose to indulge in an undignified scuffle for +the--er--lady of my heart. + +DENNIS (cheerfully). Nothing doing in scuffles, eh? All right, then, +I'll toss you for her. + +NORWOOD. Now you're merely being vulgar. (to KATE) My dear-- + +(She motions him back with her hand, but does not take her eyes off +DENNIS.) + +DENNIS. Really, Mr. Norwood, you're a little hard to please. If you +don't like my suggestions, perhaps you will make one of your own. + +NORWOOD. This is obviously a matter in which it is for the--er--lady +to choose. + +DENNIS. You think Mrs. Camberley should choose between us? + +NORWOOD. Certainly. + +DENNIS. What do you say, Kate? + +KATE. You are very generous, Dennis. + +DENNIS (after a pause). Very well, you shall choose. + +NORWOOD (complacently). Ah! + +DENNIS. Wait a moment, Mr. Norwood. (to KATE) When did you first meet +him? + +KATE. A year ago. + +DENNIS. And he's been making love to you for a year? (KATE bends her +head) He's been making love to you for a year? + +NORWOOD. I think, sir, that the sooner the lady makes her choice, and +brings this distressing scene to a close--After all, is it fair to her +to--? + +DENNIS. Are you fair to _me_? You've been making love to her for a +year. _I_ made love to her for a fort-night--four years ago. And now +you want her to choose between us. Is _that_ fair? + +NORWOOD. You hardly expect us to wait a year before she is allowed to +make up her mind? + +DENNIS. I waited four years for her out there. . . . However, I won't ask +you to wait a year. I'll ask you to wait for five minutes. + +KATE. What is it you want us to do, Dennis? + +DENNIS. I want you to listen to both of us, for five minutes each; +that's all. After all, we're your suitors, aren't we? You're going to +choose between us. Very well, then, you must hear what we have to say. +Mr. Norwood shall have five minutes alone with you in which to present +his case; five minutes in which to tell you how beautiful you +are. . . . and how rich he is . . . and how happy you'll be together. +And I shall have _my_ five minutes. + +NORWOOD (sneering). Five minutes in which to tell her lies about _me_, +eh? + +DENNIS. Damn it, you've had a whole year in which to tell her lies +about yourself; you oughtn't to grudge me five minutes. (to KATE) +Well? + +KATE. I agree, Dennis. + +DENNIS. Good. (He spins a coin, puts it on the back of his hand, and +says to NORWOOD) Call! + +NORWOOD. What on _earth_-- + +DENNIS. Choice of innings. + +NORWOOD. I never heard of anything so--Tails. + +DENNIS (uncovering it). Heads. You shall have first knock. + +NORWOOD (bewildered). What do you--I don't-- + +DENNIS. You have five minutes in which to lay your case before Mrs. +Camberley. (He looks at his watch) Five minutes--and then I shall come +back. . . . Is there a fire in the dining-room, Kate? + +KATE (smiling in spite of herself). A gas-fire; it isn't lit. + +DENNIS. Then I shall light it. (to NORWOOD) That will make the room +nice and warm for you by the time you've finished. (He goes to the +door and says again) Five minutes. + +(There is an awkward silence after he is gone. KATE waits for NORWOOD +to say something, but NORWOOD doesn't know in the least what is +expected of him.) + +NORWOOD (looking anxiously at the door). What's the fellow's game, eh? + +KATE. Game? + +NORWOOD. Yes. What's he up to? + +KATE. Is he up to anything? + +NORWOOD. I don't like it. Why the devil did he choose to-day to come +back? If he'd waited another week, we'd have been safely away +together. What's his game, I wonder? + +(He walks up and down, worrying it out.) + +KATE. I don't think he's playing a game. He's just giving me my +chance. + +NORWOOD. What chance? + +KATE. A chance to decide between you. + +NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think about +it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming away with +me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he up to? + +KATE (sitting down and talking to herself). You're quite right about +my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage in those early +days of the war--knowing nothing about each other. And then they come +back, and even the little one thought one did know is different. . . . I +suppose he feels the same about me. + +NORWOOD (to himself). Damn him! + +KATE (after a pause). Well, Cyril? + +NORWOOD (looking sharply round at her). Well? + +KATE. We haven't got very long. + +NORWOOD (looking at his watch). He really means to come back--in five +minutes? + +KATE. You heard him say so. + +NORWOOD (going up to her and speaking eagerly). What's the matter with +slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can slip out quietly. He +won't hear us. He'll come back and find us gone--well, what can he do? +Probably he'll hang about for a bit and then go to his club. We'll +have a bit of dinner; ring up your maid; get her to meet you with some +things, and go off by the night mail. Scotland--anywhere you like. Let +the whole business simmer down a bit. We don't want any melodramatic +eighteenth-century nonsense. + +KATE. Go out now, and not wait for him to have _his_ five minutes? + +NORWOOD (impatiently). What does he _want_ with five minutes? What's +the _good_ of it to him? Just to take a pathetic farewell of you, and +pretend that you've ruined his life, when all the time he's chuckling +in his sleeve at having got rid of you so easily. _I_ know these young +fellows. Some Major's wife in India is what _he's_ got his eye on. . . . +Or else he'll try fooling around with the hands-up business. You don't +want to be mixed up with any scandal of _that_ sort. No, the best +thing we can do--I'm speaking for _your_ sake, Kate--is to slip off +quietly, while we've got the chance. We can _write_ and explain all +that we want to explain. + +KATE (looking wonderingly at him--another man whom she doesn't know). +Is that playing quite fair to Dennis? + +NORWOOD. Good Lord, this isn't a game! Camberley may think so with his +tossing-up and all the rest of it, but you and I aren't children. +Everything's fair in a case like this. Put your hat on--quickly--(he +gets it for her)--here you are-- + +KATE (standing up). I'm not sure, Cyril. + +NORWOOD. What d'you mean? + +KATE. He expects me to wait for him. + +NORWOOD. If it comes to that, he expected you to wait for him four +years ago. + +KATE. Yes. . . . (Quietly) Thank you for reminding me. + +NORWOOD. Kate, don't be stupid. What's happened to you? Of course, I +know it's been beastly upsetting for you, all this--but then, why do +you want to go on with it? Why do you want _more_ upsetting scenes? + +You've got a chance now of getting out of it all, and--(He looks at +his watch) Good Lord! + +KATE. Is the five minutes over? + +NORWOOD. Quick, quick! (He puts his fingers to his lips) Quietly. (He +walks on tiptoe to the door.) + +KATE. Cyril! + +NORWOOD. H'sh! + +KATE (sitting down again). It's no good, Cyril, I must wait for him. + +(The door opens, and NORWOOD starts back quickly as DENNIS comes in.) + +DENNIS (looking at his watch). Innings declared closed. (to NORWOOD) +The dining-room is nicely warmed now, and I've left you an evening +paper. + +NORWOOD (going to KATE). Look here, Mr. Camberley, Kate and I-- + +DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley, no doubt, will tell me. + +(He holds the door open and waits politely for NORWOOD to go.) + +NORWOOD. I don't know what your game is-- + +DENNIS. You've never been in Mesopotamia, Mr. Norwood? + +NORWOOD. Never. + +DENNIS. It's a very trying place for the temper. . . . I'm waiting for +you. + +NORWOOD (irresolute). Well, I---- (He comes sulkily to the door) Well, +I shall come back for Kate in five minutes. + +DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley and I will be ready for you. You know your way? + + [NORWOOD goes out. + +(DENNIS shuts the door. He comes into the room and stands looking at +KATE.) + +KATE (uncomfortably). Well? + +DENNIS. No, don't move. I just want to look at you. . . . I've seen you +like that for four years. Don't move. . . . I've been in some dreary +places, but you've been with me most of the time. Just let's have a +last look. + +KATE. A last look? + +DENNIS. Yes. + +KATE. You're saying good-bye to me? + +DENNIS. I don't know whether it's to you, Kate. To the girl who has +been with me these last four years. Was that you? + +KATE (dropping her eyes). I don't know, Dennis. + +DENNIS. I wish to God I wasn't your husband. + +KATE. What would you do if you weren't my husband? + +DENNIS. Make love to you. + +KATE. Can't you do that now? + +DENNIS. Being your husband rather handicaps me, you know. I never +really stood a chance against the other fellow. + +KATE. I was to choose between you, you said. You think that I have +already made up my mind? + +DENNIS (smiling). I think so. + +KATE. And chosen him? + +DENNIS (shaking his head). Oh, no! + +KATE (surprised). You think I have chosen _you_? + +DENNIS (nodding). M'm. + +KATE (indignantly). Really, Dennis! Considering that I had practically +arranged to run away with him twenty minutes ago! You must think me +very fickle. + +DENNIS. Not fickle. Imaginative. + +KATE. What do you mean? And why are you so certain that I am going to +choose you? And why in that case did you talk about taking a last look +at me? And what--? + +DENNIS. Of course, we've only got five minutes, but I think that if +you asked your questions one at a time---- + +KATE (smiling). Well, you needn't _answer_ them all together. + +DENNIS. All right then, one at a time. Why am I certain that you will +choose me? Because for the first time in your life you have just been +alone with Mr. Cyril Norwood. That's what I meant by saying you were +imaginative. The Norwood you've been thinking yourself in love with +doesn't exist. I'm certain that you've seen him for the first time in +these last few minutes. Why, the Archangel Gabriel would have made a +hash of a five minutes like that; it would have been impossible for +him to have said the right thing to you. Norwood? Good Lord, he didn't +stand a chance. You were judging him all the time, weren't you? + +KATE (thoughtfully). You're very clever, Dennis. + +DENNIS (cheerfully). Four years' study of the Turkish character. + +KATE. But how do you know I'm not judging _you_ all the time? + +DENNIS. Of course you are. But there's all the difference in the world +between judging a stranger like me, and judging the man you thought +you were in love with. + +KATE. You _are_ a stranger to me. + +DENNIS. I know. That's why I said good-bye to the girl who had been +with me these last four years, the girl I had married. Well, I've said +good-bye to her. You're not my wife any longer, Kate; but if you don't +mind pretending that I'm not your husband, and just give me a chance +of making love to you--well, that's all I want. + +KATE. You're very generous, Dennis. + +DENNIS. No, I'm not. I'm very much in love; and for a man very much in +love I'm being rather less of a silly ass than usual. Why should you +love me? You fell in love with my uniform at the beginning of the war. +I was ordered out, and you fell in love with the departing hero. After +that? Well, I had four years--alone--in which to think about _you_, +and you had four years--with other men--in which to forget _me_. Is it +any wonder that--? + +(NORWOOD comes in.) + +NORWOOD (roughly). Well? + +DENNIS. You arrive just in time, Mr. Norwood. I was talking too much. +(to KATE) Mrs. Camberley, we are both at your disposal. Will you +choose between us, which one is to have the happiness of--serving you? + +NORWOOD (holding out his hand to her, and speaking in the voice of the +proprietor). Kate! + +(KATE goes slowly up to him with her hand held out.) + +KATE (shaking NORWOOD'S hand). Good-bye, Mr. Norwood. + +NORWOOD (astounded). Kate! (to DENNIS) You devil! + +DENNIS. And only a moment ago I was comparing you to the Archangel +Gabriel. + +NORWOOD (sneeringly to KATE). So you're going to be a loving wife to +him after all? + +DENNIS (tapping him kindly on the shoulder). You'll remember what I +said about Mesopotamia? + +NORWOOD (pulling himself together hastily). Good-bye, Mrs. Camberley. +I can only hope that you will be happy. + +(He goes out with dignity.) + +DENNIS (closing the door). Well, there we agree. + +(He comes back to her.) + +KATE. What a stupid little fool I have been. (She holds out her arms +to him) Dennis! + +DENNIS (retreating in mock alarm). Oh no, you don't! (He shakes a +finger at her) We're not going to rush it _this_ time. + +KATE (reproachfully). Dennis! + +DENNIS. I think you should call me Mr. Camberley. + +KATE (with a smile). Mr. Camberley. + +DENNIS. That's better. Now our courtship begins. (Bowing low) Madam, +will you do me the great honour of dining with me this evening? + +KATE (curtseying). I shall be charmed. + +DENNIS. Then let us hasten. The carriage waits. + +KATE (holding up the two hats). Which of these two chapeaux do you +prefer, Mr. Camberley? + +DENNIS. Might I express a preference for the black one with the pink +roses? + +KATE. It is very elegant, is it not? (She puts it on.) + +DENNIS. Vastly becoming, upon my life. . . . I might mention that I am +staying at the club. Is your ladyship doing anything to-morrow? + +KATE. Nothing of any great importance. + +(He offers his arm and she takes it.) + +DENNIS (as they go to the door). Then perhaps I may be permitted to +call round to-morrow morning about eleven, and make inquiries as to +your ladyship's health. + +KATE. It would be very obliging of you, sir. + + [They go out together. + + + + + +THE ROMANTIC AGE + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + +CHARACTERS + +HENRY KNOWLE. +MARY KNOWLE (his wife). +MELISANDE (his daughter). +JANE BAGOT (his niece). +BOBBY COOTE. +GERVASE MALLORY. +ERN. +GENTLEMAN SUSAN. +ALICE. + + * * * * * + +ACT I +The hall of MR. KNOWLE'S house. Evening. + +ACT II +A glade in the wood. Morning. + +ACT III +The hall again. Afternoon. + + * * * * * + +This play was first produced by Mr. Arthur Wontner at the Comedy +Theatre on October 18, 1920, with the following cast: + +Henry Knowle--A. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT. +Mary Knowle--LOTTIE VENNE. +Melisande--BARBARA HOFFE. +Jane--DOROTHY TETLEY. +Bobby--JOHN WILLIAMS. +Gervase Mallory--ARTHUR WONTNER. +Ern--ROY LENNOL. +Gentleman Susan--H.O. NICHOLSON. +Alice--IRENE RATHBONE. + + + + +THE ROMANTIC AGE + +ACT I + + +(We are looking at the inner hall of MR. HENRY KNOWLE'S country house, +at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors R. and L.--on the +right leading to the drawing-room, on the left to the entrance hall, +the dining-room and the library. At the back are windows--French +windows on the right, then an interval of wall, then casement +windows.) + +(MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, her daughter, MELISANDE, and her niece, JANE +BAGOT, are waiting for their coffee, MRS. KNOWLE, short and stoutish, +is reclining on the sofa; JANE, pleasant-looking and rather obviously +pretty, is sitting in a chair near her, glancing at a book; MELISANDE, +the beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows, +gazing into the night.) + +(ALICE, the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands in front +of MRS. KNOWLE, a little embarrassed because MRS. KNOWLE'S eyes are +closed. She waits there until JANE looks up from her book.) + +JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee? + +MRS. KNOWLE (opening her eyes with a start). Coffee. Oh, yes, coffee. +Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr. Anderson is very firm +about that. "No sugar, Mrs. Knowle," he said. "Oh, Dr. Anderson!" I +said. + +(ALICE has taken the tray to JANE, who pours out her own and her +aunt's coffee, and takes her cup off the tray.) + +JANE. Thank you. + +(ALICE takes the tray to MRS. KNOWLE.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. + +(ALICE goes over to MELISANDE, who says nothing, but waves her away.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (as soon as ALICE is gone). Jane! + +JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open? + +JANE. Oh, _no_, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I'm glad of that. It's so bad for the servants. (She +finishes her coffee.) + +JANE (getting up). Shall I put it down for you? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. + +(JANE puts the two cups down and goes back to her book. MRS. KNOWLE +fidgets a little on her sofa.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (There is no answer) Sandy! + +JANE. Melisande! + +(MELISANDE turns round and comes slowly towards her mother.) + +MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn't you hear me? + +MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other things. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the great +poet tells us. "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." +Tennyson, wasn't it? I know I wrote it in your album for you when you +were a little girl. It's so true. + +MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson. + +JANE (nodding). Kingsley, that's right. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it's the same thing. I know when _my_ mother used +to call me I used to come running up, saying, "What is it, Mummy, +darling?" And even if it was anything upstairs, like a handkerchief or +a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off happily, saying to +myself, "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." + +MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want doing? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I've forgotten. If only you'd come at +once, dear-- + +MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It's a wonderful night. +Midsummer Night. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will start +drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know where we +are. All these changes of the seasons are very inconsiderate to an +invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted, dear. Can you find me +another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it most important that the +small of the back should be well supported after a meal. (Indicating +the place) Just here, dear. + +JANE (jumping up with the cushion from her chair). Let me, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. (JANE arranges it.) + +JANE. Is that right? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson's sake. + +(JANE goes back to her book and MELISANDE goes back to her Midsummer +Night. There is silence for a little.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy! + +JANE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE (coming patiently down to them). Yes, Mother? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I've just remembered--(MELISANDE shudders.) +What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That comes of standing by the +open window in a treacherous climate like this. Close the window and +come and sit down properly. + +MELISANDE. It's a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I'm not +cold. + +MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder. Didn't +you see her, Jane? + +JANE. I'm afraid I wasn't looking, Aunt Mary. + +MELISANDE. I didn't shudder because I was cold. I shuddered because +you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder every time I +hear it. + +MRS. KNOWLE (surprised). What name, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by such a +wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were going to +call me Sandy? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I've told you, that was a mistake +of your father's. I suppose he got it out of some book. I should +certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him distinctly. I +thought he said Millicent--after your Aunt Milly. And not being very +well at the time, and leaving it all to him, I never really knew about +it until it was too late to do anything. I did say to your father, +"Can't we christen her again?" But there was nothing in the prayer +book about it except "riper years," and nobody seemed to know when +riper years began. Besides, we were all calling you Sandy then. I +think Sandy is a very pretty name, don't you, Jane? + +JANE. Oh, but don't you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary? I +mean really beautiful. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not for a +nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes me think +of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to whom she has +never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest with her hair +coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a pool. Not at all +the thing one wants for one's daughter. + +JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with "Jane," dear. Your +mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child from +floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it is my +duty to do so. + +MELISANDE (to her self ecstatically). Melisande! + +MRS. KNOWLE (to MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about floating in a pool +reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner to-night. You heard what +your father said? You must give cook a good talking to in the morning. +She has been getting very careless lately. I don't know what's come +over her. + +MELISANDE. _I've_ come over her. When _you_ were over her, everything +was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you take an interest +in it. I don't. I hate it. How can you expect the house to be run +properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you ever give it up and +make me do it when you know how I hate it? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I'm sure Jane here +doesn't hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a great help +she is. + +MELISANDE (warningly). It's no good your saying you like it, Jane, +after what you told me yesterday. + +JANE. I don't like it, but it doesn't make me miserable doing it. But +then I'm different. I'm not romantic like Melisande. + +MELISANDE. One doesn't need to be very romantic not to want to talk +about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of myself. If +I thought about myself I should disregard all the warnings that Dr. +Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on doing the +housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to think of you. I +want to see you married to some nice, steady young man before I +die--my handkerchief, Jane--(JANE gets up and gives her her +handkerchief from the other end of the sofa)--before I die (she +touches her eyes with her handkerchief), and no nice young man will +want to marry you, if you haven't learnt how to look after his house +for him. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). If that's marriage, I shall never get +married. + +JANE (shocked). Melisande, darling! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to make +me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live another +hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't _want_ to live +another hundred years. I only want to live until my dear daughter, +Melisande"--I didn't say Sandy to him because it seemed rather +familiar--"I only want to live until my daughter Melisande is happily +married to some nice, steady young man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson," +I said, "and I shall be your lifelong debtor." He promised to do his +best. It was then that he mentioned about the cushion in the small of +the back after meals. And so don't forget to tell cook about the +bread-sauce, will you, dear? + +MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his food. +I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper interest +in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been married some +years, and told each other everything you did and saw before you met, +there isn't really anything to talk about at meals except food. And +you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. Nothing breaks up +the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, breakfast doesn't +matter, because he has his paper then; and after you have said, "Is +there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has said, "No," then he +doesn't expect anything more. I wonder sometimes why they go on +printing the newspapers. I've been married twenty years, and there has +never been anything in the paper yet. + +MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage like +that. Wasn't there ever _any_ kind of romance between you and Father? +Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one magic Midsummer +morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald twinkle in the +grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't there ever one +passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with one long kiss my +whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew"? Or did you talk +about bread-sauce _all_ the time? + +JANE (eagerly). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am quite +sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, as Sandy +suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at Surbiton. He used +to come down from London with his racquet and play tennis with us. And +then he would stay on to supper sometimes, and then after supper we +would go into the garden together--it was quite dark then, but +everything smelt so beautifully, I shall always remember it--and we +talked, oh, I don't know what about, but I knew somehow that I should +marry him one day. I don't think _he_ knew--he wasn't sure--and then +he came to a subscription dance one evening--I think Mother, your +grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because she +was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me +upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right pair +of shoes on--rather a tight pair--however, I put them on. And there +was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and +he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?" Well, of course, I was +only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round +Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don't know, but, +of course, I never told her. And when we got home after the dance, I +went up to her room--as soon as I'd got my shoes off--and said, +"Mother, I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "_Not_ Mr. +Knowle--Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, and +wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" and--Jane, +where's my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks +it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that's really all, +you know, except that--(she dabs her eyes again)--I'm afraid I'm +feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very +bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, dear, +why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and compose +myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't know what I +should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And +after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that +if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little +girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather +than cause either of them a moment's remorse. (She is up now) There! + +JANE. Shall I come with you? + +MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a little. +(She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the +men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your +Uncle Henry--if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of +course. + + [She goes. + +JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so +queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their +romances too. + +MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription +dances and wearing tight shoes? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you +know what I mean. + +MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has +just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history. +Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so +little? + +JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt Mary-- + +MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost everywhere +nowadays. There is no romance left. + +JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do +agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is no--(she searches for +the right word)--no _romance_ left. + +MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one shudder. + +JANE (doing her best). Positively shudder! + +MELISANDE. He meets Her at--(she shudders)--a subscription dance, or a +tennis party--(she shudders again) or--at _golf_. He calls upon her +mother--perhaps in a top hat--perhaps (tragically) even in a bowler +hat. + +JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders. + +MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his +income--discovers that he is a nice, steady young man--and decides +that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked to come again, he is +invited to parties; it is understood that he is falling in love with +the daughter. The rest of the family are encouraged to leave them +alone together--if the opportunity occurs, Jane. (Contemptuously) But, +of course, only if it occurs. + +JANE (awkwardly). Yes, dear. + +MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her. + +JANE (to herself ecstatically). Oh! + +MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she takes to +be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and tells Father. +They are engaged. They talk about each other as "my fiancé." Perhaps +they are engaged for months and months-- + +JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. For years and years--and wherever they go, people make +silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if they go into a +room where the two of them are. And then they get married at last, and +everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly +jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell +everybody--they shout it out in the newspapers--_where_ they are going +for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about +bread-sauce. Oh, Jane, it's horrible. + +JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you? + +MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I, +Jane? + +JANE. Because you see, Sandy--I mean Melisande--you see, darling, this +_is_ the twentieth century, and-- + +MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my +lattice window. + +All in the blue unclouded weather +Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather, +The helmet and the helmet feather +Burned like one burning flame together, + As he rode down to Camelot. + +And from his blazoned baldric slung +A mighty silver bugle hung, +And as he rode his armour rung + As he rode down to Camelot. + +JANE. I know, dear. But of course they _don't_ nowadays. + +MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave +one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage +for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose. + +JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him? +(She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather--_you_ know. Rather +forward. + +MELISANDE. Forward! + +JANE (upset). Well, I mean--Well, of course, I suppose it was +different in those days. + +MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he +wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle? + +JANE. Well, of course, there _is_ that. + +MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes +back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope--for I have +been immured in my room--and I let myself down to him. He places me on +the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the +world--together for always! + +JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get _married_, I suppose, +darling, or do you--er-- + +MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest +marries us. + +JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes. + +MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince from +Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a country +which is sorely troubled by a dragon. + +JANE. By a what, dear? + +MELISANDE. A dragon. + +JANE. Oh, yes, of course. + +MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his kingdom to +anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens to be passing +through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the dragon devours +him. + +JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't _the_ one? + +MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused no +emotion in my heart. + +JANE. Oh, I'm so glad. + +MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes upon +the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed. + +JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow + +MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in blue +and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be allowed +to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the great hall on +my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our eyes meet. . . . Oh, +Jane! + +JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, Melisande. +They would have suited you so well. + +MELISANDE. Will they never come back again? + +JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress in blue +and gold nowadays. I mean men. + +MELISANDE. No. (She sighs) Well, I suppose I shall never marry. + +JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't have +time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I quite +agree with everything you say, and of course it must have been +thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still here we +are, and (with a wave of the hand)--and what I mean is--here we are. + +MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and to +make the ordinary commonplace marriage? + +JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was the +right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't say +beautiful--pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not very clever +perhaps, but making enough money---- + +MELISANDE (carelessly). It sounds rather like Bobby. + +JANE (confused). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else particularly. +It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I was just +describing the sort of man without thinking of any one in---- + +MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right. + +JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to _you_. + +MELISANDE (firmly). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you solemnly that if +you think you are going to leave me and Bobby alone together this +evening---- (Voices are heard outside.) Well, I warn you. + +JANE (in a whisper). Of course not, darling. (With perfect tact) And, +as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the most----Ah, here you are +at last! We wondered what had happened to you! + +(Enter BOBBY and MR. KNOWLE. JANE has already described BOBBY for us. +MR. KNOWLE is a pleasant, middle-aged man with a sense of humour, +which he cultivates for his own amusement entirely.) + +BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (He goes towards them.) + +JANE (laughing). Very. + +(MELISANDE gets up as BOBBY comes, and moves away.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget what I +said about the bread-sauce, will you? + +MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What you +said? + +MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that you +should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between +bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there is +no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy chicken, +such as we had to-night, but that a properly made bread-sauce is a +necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to be obtained. + +MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A little +quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer Night. Why +aren't you two out in the garden looking for fairies? + +BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be out. +D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out. + +BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take _you_ out. If we meet any of +Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me. + +MELISANDE (looking across warningly at her). Jane---- + +JANE (awkwardly). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande and I--I +promised Sandy--we---- + +MR. KNOWLE (putting her arm firmly through his). Nonsense. I'm not +going to have my niece taken away from me, when she is only staying +with us for such a short time. Besides I insist upon being introduced +to Titania. I want to complain about the rings on the tennis-lawn. +They must dance somewhere else. + +JANE (looking anxiously at MELISANDE). You see, Uncle Henry, I'm not +feeling very---- + +MELISANDE (resigned) All right, Jane. + +JANE (brightly). All right, Uncle Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE (very brightly). It's all right, Bobby. + +JANE. Come along! (They go to the open windows together.) + +MR. KNOWLE (as they go). Any message for Oberon, if we meet him? + +MELISANDE (gravely). No, thank you, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose. + +(JANE laughs as they go out together.) + +(Left alone, MELISANDE takes up a book and goes to the sofa with it, +while BOBBY walks about the room unhappily, whistling to himself. He +keeps looking across at her, and at last their eyes meet.) + +MELISANDE (putting down her book). Well, Bobby? + +BOBBY (awkwardly). Well, Sandy? + +MELISANDE (angrily). Don't call me that; you know how I hate it. + +BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And your +father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say anything. + +MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes a time +when it is almost useless to say things to them. + +BOBBY (eagerly). I never mind your saying things to _me_, Sandy--I +mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, really I shan't. Of course, I +know I'm not worthy of you, and all that, but--I say, Melisande, isn't +there _any_ hope? + +MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that again. + +BOBBY (coming to her). I know you did, but I must. I can't believe +that you-- + +MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like that +again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that it +shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not even +Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they propose to a +girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of the country and +shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to do. But I did try +and make it easy for _you_, Bobby. (Sadly) And now you're beginning +all over again. + +BOBBY (awkwardly). I though perhaps you might have changed your mind. +Lots of girls do. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). Lots of girls! Is that how you think of +me? + +BOBBY. Well, your mother said--(He breaks off hurriedly.) + +MELISANDE (coldly). Have you been discussing me with my mother? + +BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on. + +BOBBY. Well, I didn't _discuss_ you with your mother. She just +happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and that they +always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be downhearted, +because-- + +MELISANDE. That _you_ needn't? You mean you _told_ her? + +BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out. + +MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, you went +and _told_ her! And then I suppose you went and told the cook, and +_she_ said that her brother's young woman was just the same, and then +you told the butcher, and _he_ said, "You stick to it, sir. All women +are alike. My missis said 'No' to me the first time." And then you +went and told the gardeners--I suppose you had all the gardeners +together in the potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it--and +when you had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go +and tell the postman," and then-- + +BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair. + +MELISANDE. Oh, what a world! + +BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair. + +MELISANDE (picking up her book). Father and Jane are outside, Bobby, +if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I suppose they know +already. (She pretends to read.) + +BOBBY. I say, you know--(He doesn't quite know what to say. There is +an awkward silence. Then he says humbly) I'm awfully sorry, Melisande. +Please forgive me. + +MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). That's nice of you, Bobby. Please +forgive _me_. I wasn't fair. + +BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your +mother. And it sort of came out with _her_. She began talking about +you-- + +MELISANDE. _I_ know. + +BOBBY. But I never told anybody else. + +MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother. + +BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should mind +so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't help +falling in love with you, and--well, it _is_ a sort of a compliment to +you, isn't it?--even if it's only me. + +MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the +compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so--so unromantic. +(After a pause) Sometimes I think I shall never marry. + +BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do _like_ me, don't you? + +MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't +say beautiful-- + +BOBBY. I should hope not! + +MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable--not very clever, +perhaps, but making enough money-- + +BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad. + +MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more! + +BOBBY. What sort of things? + +MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so--so ordinary! + +BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did you? + +MELISANDE. So--commonplace. So--unromantic. + +BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry and all +that, if that's what you mean by romantic, but--commonplace! I'm +blessed if I see how you make out that. + +MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings-- + +BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings. + +MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass! + +(BOBBY goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his clothes.) + +BOBBY (looking back at her). Well? + +MELISANDE. Well! + +BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong. + +MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give +myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my +prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how +can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like that! + +BOBBY (looking at it). What's the matter with it? It's what every +other fellow wears. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). What every other fellow wears! And you +think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what every other fellow +talks, and eat what every other--I suppose _you_ didn't like the +bread-sauce this evening? + +BOBBY (guardedly). Well, not as bread-sauce. + +MELISANDE (nodding her head). I thought so, I thought so. + +BOBBY (struck by an idea). I say, you didn't make it, did you? + +MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it? + +BOBBY. I thought perhaps--You know, I really don't know what you _do_ +want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean-- + +MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did. + +BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is _he_ going to do +the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I don't. + +MELISANDE (shaking her head gently at him). No, I'm sure you don't, +Bobby. + +BOBBY (still trying, however). I suppose it's because he's doing the +cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. He sounds a funny +sort of chap; I should like to see him. + +MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him. + +BOBBY (jealously). Have you seen him? + +MELISANDE. Only in my dreams. + +BOBBY (relieved). Oh, well. + +MELISANDE (dreamily to herself). Perhaps I shall never see him in this +world--and then I shall never marry. But if he ever comes for me, he +will come not like other men; and because he is so different from +everybody else, then I shall know him when he comes for me. He won't +talk about bread-sauce--billiards--and the money market. He won't wear +a little black suit, with a little black tie--all sideways. (BOBBY +hastily pulls his tie straight.) I don't know how he will be dressed, +but I know this, that when I see him, that when my eyes have looked +into his, when his eyes have looked into mine-- + +BOBBY. I say, steady! + +MELISANDE (waking from her dream). Yes? (She gives a little laugh) +Poor Bobby! + +BOBBY (appealingly). I say, Sandy! (He goes up to her.) + +(MRS. KNOWLE has seized this moment to come back for her handkerchief. +She sees them together, and begins to walk out on tiptoe.) + +(They hear her and turn round suddenly.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a whisper). Don't take any notice of me. I only just +came for my handkerchief. (She continues to walk on tiptoe towards the +opposite door.) + +MELISANDE (getting up). We were just wondering where you were, Mother. +Here's your handkerchief. (She picks it up from the sofa.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (still in the voice in which you speak to an invalid). +Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you--I was just going-- + +MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to +Bobby, won't you? + +MRS. KNOWLE (with a happy smile, hoping for the best). Yes, my +darling. + +MELISANDE (going to the windows). That's right. (She stops at the +windows and holds out her hands to the night)-- + +The moon shines bright: In such a night as this +When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees +And they did make no noise, in such a night +Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, +And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents, +Where Cressid lay that night. In such a night +Stood Dido with a willow in her hand, +Upon the wild sea banks, and waft her love +To come again to Carthage. + +(She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling voice) In such +a night! Ah! + + [She goes to it. + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a different voice). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. Coote? + +BOBBY (turning back to her with a start). Oh--er--yes? + +MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you Bobby, +mayn't I? + +BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle. + +MRS. KNOWLE (archly). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of a better +name? + +BOBBY (wondering if he ought to call her MARY). Er--I'm--I'm afraid I +don't quite-- + +MRS. KNOWLE. Mother. + +BOBBY. Oh, but I say-- + +MRS. KNOWLE (giving him her hand). And now come and sit on the sofa +with me, and tell me all about it. + +(They go to the sofa together.) + +BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle-- + +MRS. KNOWLE (shaking a finger playfully at him). Not Mrs. Knowle, +Bobby. + +BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think--I mean Sandy and I--we aren't-- + +MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has +refused you again. + +BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other day +was true. Girls don't know their own minds. + +BOBBY (ruefully). I think Sandy knows hers--about me, anyhow. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet +said--Shakespeare, or was it the other man?--"Faint heart never won +fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would never have +won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he came again--like +Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a revolver, and threatened to shoot +himself. I was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I +loved him. "Henry," I said, "I am yours." He took me in his +arms--putting down the revolver first, of course. I have never +regretted my surrender, Mr. Coote. (With a sigh) Ah, me! We women are +strange creatures. + +BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot myself. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very warm-hearted. +I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you are taking too +gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it. + +BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her again. +I know when I'm not wanted. + +MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and I-- + +BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I +practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to you this +time. + +MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how should +I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not? + +BOBBY. Well, of course--I mean I haven't really said anything, have I? +Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about things. + +MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she gets it +from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was all the +result of being christened in that irreligious way--I quite thought he +said Millicent--and reading all those books, instead of visiting the +sick as I used to do. I was quite a little Red Riding Hood until Henry +sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE and JANE come in by the window, +and she turns round towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was +wondering where you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all +about his prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get +your feet wet, I hope. + +JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary. + +MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been talking +to the fairies--haven't we, Jane? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see Sandy? + +MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania--and Peters. He had an +appointment, apparently--but not with Titania. + +JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the +morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an +unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a mistake. + +MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about it as +you. He is doing his best to remedy the error. + +MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I have been +through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know about. + +MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What's the matter, my love? Indigestion? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my lips +are sealed. I shall suffer my cross--my mental cross--in silence. + +JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary? + +MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (To Heaven) My only daughter has +left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece has offered to +help me out of my--to help me. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Mr. +Coote. + +BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (in a loud whisper) what +Shakespeare said. (She presses his hand and holds it) Good-night! +Good-night! . . . Good-night! + +MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he said, +"Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I could +say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE looks at him severely, +and then, without saying anything, goes over to him and holds up her +cheek.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well. + +MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane. + +JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary. + +(MRS. KNOWLE goes to the door, BOBBY hurrying in front to open it for +her.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (at the door). I shall _not_ sleep well. I shall lie awake +all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much distressed. "Dr. Anderson," +I shall say, "it is not your fault. I lay awake all night, thinking of +my loved ones." In five minutes, Jane. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the library, if +anybody wants to think of me--or say good-night to me--or anything +like that. + +JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now, Uncle Henry. (She +goes up to him.) + +MR. KNOWLE (kissing her). Good-night, dear. + +JANE. Good-night. + +MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss me--what about +you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library and have a smoke first? + +BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather tired +to-day, somehow. + +MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a business this +is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she should come back, +Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she will find it in the +library--just above the back of the armchair nearest the door. [He +goes out. + +JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden? + +BOBBY (gloomily). Yes--about five minutes ago. + +JANE (timidly). I'm so sorry, Bobby. + +BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (After a pause) Don't let's +talk about it. + +JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I _had_ to +say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did you? + +BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind. + +JANE (gently). I mind very much when my friends are unhappy. + +BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (He stands up, buttons his coat, and looks at +himself) I say, do _you_ see anything wrong with it? + +JANE. Wrong with what? + +BOBBY. My clothes. (He revolves slowly.) + +JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully. + +BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she means half +the time. + +JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what you +mean. She's so (searching for the right word)--so _romantic_. + +BOBBY (eagerly). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of living up to. +I say, have a cigarette, won't you? + +JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do +feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who marries her. + +BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that? + +JANE. Yes. She's too (getting the right word at last)--too _romantic_. + +BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about doing +deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but when one +marries and settles down--you know what I mean? + +JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to Melisande +only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I happen to +like the twentieth century. That's all. + +BOBBY. I see what you mean. + +JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen on +games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else wears--as long as +they fit well, of course--and to talk about the ordinary things that +everybody talks about. Of course, Melisande would say that that was +very stupid and unromantic of me---- + +BOBBY. I don't think it is at all. + +JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do understand so +wonderfully. + +BOBBY (with a laugh). I say, that's rather funny. I was just thinking +the same about you. + +JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that we are +really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't know +whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make friends very +easily. + +BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends? + +JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly think of +any--not what you call real friends. + +BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each other all +your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you? + +JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I could +never tell even her. (Impressively) I could never show her my inmost +heart. + +BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I bet +there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything. + +JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. That +sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be liked. + +BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit +horrid. + +JANE. How nice of you. (She gets up) Well, I must be going, I suppose. + +BOBBY. What's the hurry? + +JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes. + +BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down again, +won't you? + +JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. (Holding +out her hand) Good-night, Bobby. + +BOBBY (taking it). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light your candle +for you. + +JANE. How nice of you! + +(She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door +together.) + +BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself. + +JANE (at the door). Well, if you are, we'd better put the lights out. + +BOBBY. Righto. (He puts them out.) I say, what a night! (The moonlight +streams through the windows on them.) You'll hardly want a candle. + + [They go out together. + +(The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to ring. +After a little interval, ALICE comes in, turns on the light, and looks +round the hall. She is walking across the hall to the drawing-room +when MR. KNOWLE comes in from behind her, and she turns round.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice? + +ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it? + +ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he wondered +if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how very sorry he +was to trouble you---- + +MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all--particularly if Peters +is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if it's not +troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And ask the +gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the door-mat. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is about +to bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out, and returns a moment later) He says, +thank you very much, sir, but he really won't come in, and he's very +sorry indeed to trouble you about the petrol. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him. + +ALICE (hopefully). Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present Mr. +Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much honoured if he +will drink a glass of whiskey with me before proceeding on his +journey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out. In a little while she comes back +followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in a long +cloak.) Mr. Gervase Mallory. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see you. +(They shake hands.) + +GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for bothering +you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance. + +MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far? + +GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty miles +away. Do you know it? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as far +away as that. + +GERVASE (with a laugh). Well, perhaps only by the way I came. The fact +is I've lost myself rather. + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to have come +within five miles of us. + +GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now that you +_are_ here. + +GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you. + +(ALICE comes in.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE puts down the whiskey.) You've +told Peters? + +ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now. + +MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE goes out.) You'll have some whiskey, +won't you? + +GERVASE. Thanks very much. + +(He comes to the table.) + +MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make yourself +comfortable? + +GERVASE. Er--thanks. I don't think---- (He smiles to himself and keeps +his cloak on.) + +MR. KNOWLE (busy with the drinks). Say when. + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +MR. KNOWLE. And soda? + +GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks! + +(He takes the glass.) + +MR. KNOWLE (giving himself one). I'm so glad you came, because I have +a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives me cough-mixture, +I insist on somebody else in the house having cough-mixture too. A +glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just before going to bed---- +(He looks up) But do take your coat off, won't you, and sit down and +be comfortable? + +GERVASE. Er--thanks very much, but I don't think---- (With a shrug and +a smile) Oh, well! (He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. +He is in fancy dress--the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold of +MELISANDE'S dream.) + +(MR. KNOWLE turns round to him again just as he has put his cloak +down. He looks at GERVASE in amazement.) + +MR. KNOWLE (pointing to his whiskey glass). But I haven't even begun +it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port. + +GERVASE (laughing). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder what on earth +I'm doing. + +MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth _I'd_ been doing. + +GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at Collingham. + +MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably. + +GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in--or take my cloak off. + +MR. KNOWLE (inspecting him). It becomes you extraordinarily well, if I +may say so. + +GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it when +other people are in ordinary clothes. + +MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. I +don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but +(looking at himself) I am sure that I could have found something more +expressive of my emotions than this. + +GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, Davy." + +MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed. + +GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a whiskey and +soda. + +MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette, too? + +GERVASE. May I have one of my own? + +MR. KNOWLE. Do. + +GERVASE (feeling for it). If I can find it. They were very careless +about pockets in the old days. I had a special one put in somewhere, +only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, here it is. (He takes a +cigarette from his case, and after trying to put the case back in his +pocket again, places it on the table.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Match? + +GERVASE. Thanks. (Picking up his whiskey) Well, here's luck, and--my +most grateful thanks. + +MR. KNOWLE (raising his glass). May you slay all your dragons. + +GERVASE. Thank you. (They drink.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw a map +outside in the hall. + +GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was too much +interested in your prints. + +MR. KNOWLE (eagerly). You don't say that you are interested in prints? + +GERVASE. Very much--as an entire amateur. + +MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the art +began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I have +something in the library--but of course I mustn't take up your time +now. If you could bear to come over another day--after all, we are +neighbours---- + +GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it. + +MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it because +you seem to have lost your way so completely---- + +GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different in the +moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on +afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your +hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in +one afternoon. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea. + +GERVASE. That will be ripping. (Getting up) Well, I suppose I ought to +be getting on. (He picks up his cloak.) + +MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the way. + +GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's. + +(They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking at the +casement windows.) + +MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (He switches off the +lights, and the moon streams through the windows) Just look. + +GERVASE (with a deep sigh). Wonderful! + + [They go out together. + +(The hall is empty for a moment. Then GERVASE reappears. He has +forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and on his way out again +stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking through the casement +windows.) + +(MELISANDE comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and at the +same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. It is He! +The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each other. . . . Silently +he makes obeisance to her; silently she acknowledges it. . . . Then he is +gone.) + + + + +ACT II + +(It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The scene is a +glade in a wood a little way above the village of Hedgling.) + + +GERVASE MALLORY, still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak on, +comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He takes +off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns round, and, +seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While he is looking he +hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round with a start; the +whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries to get to his cloak. +It is too late. ERN, a very small boy, comes through the trees into +the glade. GERVASE gives a sigh of resignation and stands there. ERN +stops in the middle of his tune and gazes at him. + +ERN. Oo--er! Oo! (He circles slowly round GERVASE.) + +GERVASE. I quite agree with you. + +ERN. Oo! Look! + +GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the +back--take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . . Been all +round? Good! + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very difficult. +Do you mind if I sit down? + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE (sitting down on a log). I gather that I have your consent. I +thank you. + +ERN. Oo! Look! (He points at GERVASE'S legs.) + +GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed those +before? + +ERN (sitting down in front of GERVASE). Oo! + +GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a walk in +a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say "Oo." What +does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you don't walk +all round _him_ and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle George wear when +he's reaping? I suppose you don't--By the way, I wish you'd tell me +your name. (ERN gazes at him dumbly.) Oh, come! They must have told +you your name when you got up this moving. + +ERN (smiling sheepishly). Ern. + +GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? I am very glad to meet you, Mr. +Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN grins) Thank you. + +ERN (tapping himself). I'm Ern. + +GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory. + +ERN. Ern. + +GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, you +know, because then we never get any farther. Once an introduction is +over, Mr. Hearne, we are-- + +ERN. Ern. + +GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But now--Oh, I see +what you mean. Ern--short for Ernest? + +ERN (nodding). They calls me Ern. + +GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger I +shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest-- (getting up) Just excuse me a +moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree has. It must be a +Pomeranian. (He folds his cloak upon it and sits down again) That's +better. Now we can talk comfortably together. I don't know if there's +anything you particularly want to discuss--nothing?--well, then, I +will suggest the subject of breakfast. + +ERN (grinning). 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. You've _had_ yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of course, you're +wondering why I haven't had mine. + +ERN. Bacon fat. (He makes reminiscent noises.) + +GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what +happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a motor +car of your own. + +ERN. Don't like moty cars. + +GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree with +you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't broken +down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if you're +married or anything of that sort, but I think even your rough stern +heart would have been moved by that vision of loveliness which I saw +last night. (He is silent for a little, thinking of her.) Well, then, +I lost my way. There I was--ten miles from anywhere--in the middle of +what was supposed to be a short cut--late at night--Midsummer +Night--what would _you_ have done, Ernest? + +ERN. Gone 'ome. + +GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know where +home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen the +Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or any wise +man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of Her. + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . Have you +ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer Night--I don't mean just +for a minute or two, but all through the night until the dawn came? +You aren't really alone, you know. All round you there are little +whisperings going on, little breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is +out hunting; somebody stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt +of yesterday; somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, +and then, finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little +head back under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies +are out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in +them last night. I heard them whispering. + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE (coming out of his thoughts with a laugh). Well, of course, I +can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about thinking that +there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and bull's-eyes. Well, +then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up suddenly and it was +morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical morning--but, of course, +_you_ were just settling down to business then. + +ERN. Oo! (He makes more reminiscent noises.) + +GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, breakfast. + +ERN. 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old friend, +Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, has got an +estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his simple meal +with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you didn't do, +young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on a +pocket-handkerchief--one of my sister's, unfortunately--and then I +came out to look for breakfast. And suddenly, whom should I meet but +my old friend, Ernest, the same hearty fellow, the same inveterate +talker as when we shot dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay. +(Shaking his hand) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about +it? + +ERN. 'Ad my-- + +GERVASE. S'sh. (He gets up) Now then--to business. Do you mind looking +the other way while I try to find my purse. (Feeling for it.) Every +morning when you get up, you should say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big +boy now and I've got pockets in my trousers." And you should feel very +sorry for the poor people who lived in fairy books and had no trousers +to put pockets in. Ah, here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very +carefully. Where do you live? + +ERN. 'Ome. + +GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, how +far away is your home? (ERN grins and says nothing) A mile? (ERN +continues to grin) Half a mile? (ERN grins) Six inches? + +ERN (pointing). Down there. + +GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this-- (giving him +half-a-crown)-- + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you--and I want you to ask +your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, listen +very carefully, because we are coming to the important part. +Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk--and anything +else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because your old +friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is starving by +the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket quickly, I'll +give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a week. (Very +earnestly) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and emotion of which I am +capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you got that? + +ERN (nodding). Going 'ome. (He looks at the half-crown again.) + +GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But--returning with breakfast. Starving +man--lost in forest--return with basket--save life. (To himself) I +believe I could explain it better to a Chinaman. (to ERN) Now then, +off you go. + +ERN (as he goes off). 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine. + +(GERVASE walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as he goes +down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another stranger in the +distance.) + +GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (He walks towards the log) +Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (He puts on his +coat.) + +(A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of SUSAN, comes in singing. +He sees GERVASE sitting on the log.) + +SUSAN (with a bow). Good morning, sir. + +GERVASE. (looking round). Good morning. + +SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not +discommode you. + +GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on. + +SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there. + +GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again? + +SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (Taking off his hat) Would +it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few minutes? + +GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? Have you +come far this morning? + +SUSAN. Three or four miles--a mere nothing on a morning like this. +Besides, what does the great William say? + +GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say? + +SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way. + +GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes. + +SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry? + +GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you merry? + +SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say? + +GERVASE (trying hard). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've got me there. +I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he say? + +SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of Empires +ridiculous. + +GERVASE. Emerson, of course. Silly of me. + +SUSAN. So you see, sir--I am well, the day is well, all is well. + +GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great Percy--(to +himself) that's got him. + +SUSAN (at a loss). The--er--great Percy? + +GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! + +SUSAN (eagerly). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, there's a poet, +Mr.--er--I don't think I quite caught your name. + +GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory--to be referred to by +posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase. + +SUSAN. Not a poet, too? + +GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally. + +SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit--like myself. I am very glad +to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you to converse +with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE bows.) Generally called Master +Susan in these parts, or sometimes Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling +Peddler by profession. + +GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure. + +SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (He begins to undo his +pack,) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I may so far +venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, or +collar-studs? + +GERVASE (smiling). Well, no, not at this actual moment. On almost any +other day perhaps--but no, not this morning. + +SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing--_en passant_, as the +French say. (He brings out a paper bag from his pack.) Would the fact +of my eating my breakfast in this pleasant resting place detract at +all from your appreciation of the beautiful day which Heaven has sent +us? + +GERVASE. Eating your _what_? + +SUSAN. My simple breakfast. + +GERVASE (shaking his head). I'm very sorry, but I really don't think I +could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest--I don't know if you know +Ernest? + +SUSAN. The great Ernest? + +GERVASE (indicating with his hand). No, the very small one--Well, +_he_ was telling me all about the breakfast he'd just had, and now +_you're_ showing me the breakfast you're just going to have--no, I +can't bear it. + +SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do me the +honour of joining me at my simple repast? + +GERVASE (jumping up excitedly). The honour of joining you!--the +_honour_! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why they call you Gentleman +Susan. (Shaking his head sadly) But no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I +should eat too much. Besides, Ernest may come back. No, I will wait. +It wouldn't be fair. + +SUSAN (unpacking his breakfast). Bacon or cheese? + +GERVASE. Cheese--I mean bacon--I mean--I say, you aren't serious? + +SUSAN (handing him bread and cheese). I trust you will find it up to +your expectations. + +GERVASE (taking it). I say, you really--(Solemnly) Master Susan, with +all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I +say "Thank you." (He takes a bite) Thank you. + +SUSAN (eating also). Please do not mention it. I am more than repaid +by your company. + +GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to be +your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful +cheese. + +SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it. + +GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for this +delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your boot-laces. Nay, +more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your buttons. Your +profession would then be gone. + +SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence? + +GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, nothing +less than half-a-crown will satisfy me. + +SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more. + +GERVASE (with a sigh). Very well, then. (He begins to feel in his +pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress. SUSAN opens his +eyes at it, and then goes on eating. GERVASE finds his purse and +produces sixpence, which he gives to SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (He +resumes his breakfast.) + +SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but you are not +by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road? + +GERVASE. Do you mean professionally? + +SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and +sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human +Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I +wondered-- + +(He glances at GERVASE's legs, which are uncovered. GERVASE hastily +wraps his coat round them.) + +GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . . . +Er--my costume-- + +SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to have +inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free world. + +GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe. + +SUSAN (with a bow). I congratulate you on your bathing costume. + +GERVASE. Not at all. + +SUSAN. You live near here then? + +GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car. + +SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away. + +GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely. + +SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there. + +GERVASE (surprised). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have lost my +way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. And I never +knew! + +SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No. Not yet. + +SUSAN. Get married. + +GERVASE. What? + +SUSAN. Take my advice and get married. + +GERVASE. You recommend it? + +SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you marry the +right woman. + +GERVASE. Oh? + +SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of happiness. + +GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife a good +deal. + +SUSAN (smiling). But then I come back to her a good deal. + +GERVASE (thoughtfully). Yes, that must be rather jolly. + +SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I came +upon you here this morning? + +GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well---- + +SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. When +you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You have your +adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have your adventure +again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second time. You can say +the things which you didn't quite say the first time, and do the +things which you didn't quite do. When my week's travels are ever, and +I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole week's happenings to tell +her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. Mallory. Our little breakfast +here this morning--she will love to hear about that. I can see her +happy excited face as I tell her all that I said to you, and--if I +can remember it--all that you said to me. + +GERVASE (eagerly). I say, how jolly! (Thoughtfully) You won't forget +what I said about the Great Percy? I thought that was rather good. + +SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I shall find +myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. That's why I say +"Get married." Then you can make things fair for yourself. You can +tell her all the good things of mine which _you_ said. + +GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that. + +SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship is at +the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship means? + +GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally? + +SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art of +having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of +sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible to +_them_, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not impossible to +two people who have found what love is. + +GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic. + +SUSAN (solemnly). It is the most romantic thing in the whole world. . . . +Some more cheese? + +GERVASE (taking it). Thank you. . . . (Thoughtfully) Do you believe in +love at first sight, Master Susan? + +SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not only +the face. + +GERVASE. I see. (After a pause) It's rather hard to tell, you know. I +suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have breakfast with +you, and see how you get on. + +SUSAN. Well, you might do worse. + +GERVASE (laughing). And propose to her after breakfast? + +SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball as +some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss in the +moonlight. + +GERVASE (shaking his head). Nothing like that happened last night. + +SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss? + +GERVASE. I never read the _Daily Mail_. + +SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson. + +GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon. + +SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem but to +be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have found in +thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the art of having +breakfast with a person. (Getting up) Well, I must be moving on. _We_ +have been companions for a short time; I thank you for it. I wish you +well. + +GERVASE (getting up). I say, I've been awfully glad to meet you. And I +shall never forget the breakfast you gave me. + +SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so. + +GERVASE (hesitatingly). You won't mind my having another one when +Ernest comes back--I mean, if Ernest comes back? You won't think I'm +slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor bathe, you know, one +does---- + +SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an appetite. + +GERVASE (holding out his hand). Well, good-bye, Mr. Susan, (SUSAN +looks at his hand doubtfully, and GERVASE says with a laugh) Oh, come +on! + +SUSAN (shaking it). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said. + +SUSAN (smiling). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. Good-bye. + + [He goes off. + +GERVASE (calling after him). Because it wasn't the moonlight, it +wasn't really. It was just _Her_. (To himself) It was just _Her_. . . . I +suppose the great Whatsisname would say, "It was just She," but then, +that isn't what I mean. + +(GERVASE watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to the other +side, says, "Hallo!" suddenly in great astonishment, and withdraws a +few steps.) + +GERVASE. It can't be! (He goes cautiously forward and looks again) It +is! + +(He comes back, and walks gently off through the trees.) + +(MELISANDE comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two plaits to her +waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to any century. She +stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, holds out her hands +to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a sigh of happiness. . . .) + +(GERVASE, his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a moment he +is half-hidden by the trees.) + +GERVASE (very softly). Princess! + +(She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a little.) + +GERVASE (a little more loudly). Princess! + +(She listens and nods to herself, GERVASE steps out into the open.) + +GERVASE. Princess! + +(She turns round.) + +MELISANDE (looking at him wonderingly). You! + +GERVASE. At your service, Princess. + +MELISANDE. It was you who came last night. + +GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You +looked at me. + +MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I +thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a +dream? + +GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming. + +MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland? + +GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest. + +MELISANDE (with a sigh of happiness). Ah! + +GERVASE. You have been looking for it? + +MELISANDE. For so long. (She is silent for a little, and then says +with a smile) May one sit down in an enchanted forest? + +GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (He spreads his cloak over the log.) + +MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too? + +GERVASE (shaking his head). I haven't finished looking at you yet. . . . +You are very lovely, Princess. + +MELISANDE. Am I? + +GERVASE. Haven't they told you? + +MELISANDE. Perhaps I wondered sometimes. + +GERVASE. Very lovely. . . . Have you a name which goes with it? + +MELISANDE. My name is Melisande. + +GERVASE (his whole heart in it). Melisande! + +MELISANDE (content at last). Ah! + +GERVASE (solemnly). Now the Princess Melisande was very beautiful. (He +lies down on the grass near her, looks up at her and is silent for a +little.) + +MELISANDE (smiling shyly). May we talk about _you_, now? + +GERVASE. It is for the Princess to say what we shall talk about. If +your Royal Highness commands, then I will even talk about myself. + +MELISANDE. You see, I don't know your name yet. + +GERVASE. I am called Gervase. + +MELISANDE. Gervase. It is a pretty name. + +GERVASE. I have been keeping it for this morning. + +MELISANDE. It will be Prince Gervase, will it not, if this is +Fairyland? + +GERVASE. Alas, no. For I am only a humble woodcutter's son. One of +seven. + +MELISANDE. Of seven? I thought that humble woodcutters always had +three sons, and that it was the youngest who went into the world to +seek his fortune. + +GERVASE. Three--that's right. I said "one of several." Now that I +count them up, three. (Counting on his fingers) Er--Bowshanks, +er--Mulberry-face and myself. Three. I am the youngest. + +MELISANDE. And the fairies came to your christening? + +GERVASE. Now for the first time I think that they did. + +MELISANDE (nodding). They always come to the christening of the third +and youngest son, and they make him the tallest and the bravest and +the most handsome. + +GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well. + +MELISANDE. You _are_ the tallest and the bravest and the most +handsome, aren't you? + +GERVASE (with a modest smile). Well, of course, Mulberry-face is +hardly a starter, and then Bowshanks-- (he indicates the curve of his +legs)--I mean, there's not much competition. + +MELISANDE. I have no sisters. + +GERVASE. The Princess never has sisters. She has suitors. + +MELISANDE (with a sigh). Yes, she has suitors. + +GERVASE (taking out his dagger). Tell me their names that I may remove +them for you. + +MELISANDE. There is one dressed in black and white who seeks to win my +hand. + +GERVASE (feeling the point). He bites the dust to-morrow. + +MELISANDE. To-morrow? + +GERVASE. Unless it rains in the night. Perhaps it would be safer if we +arranged for him to bite it this afternoon. + +MELISANDE. How brave you are! + +GERVASE. Say no more. It will be a pleasure. + +MELISANDE. Ah, but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for me. + +GERVASE. The sacrifice will be his. + +MELISANDE. But are you so certain that _you_ will kill him? Suppose he +were to kill _you_? + +GERVASE (getting up). Madam, when the third son of a humble woodcutter +engages in mortal combat with one upon whom the beautiful Princess has +frowned, there can be but one end to the struggle. To doubt this would +be to let Romance go. + +MELISANDE. You are right. I should never have doubted. + +GERVASE. At the same time, it would perhaps be as well to ask the help +of my Uncle Otto. + +MELISANDE. But is it fair to seek the assistance of an uncle in order +to kill one small black and white suitor? + +GERVASE. Ah, but he is a wizard. One is always allowed to ask the help +of a wizard. My idea was that he should cast a spell upon the +presumptuous youth who seeks to woo you, so that to those who gazed +upon him he should have the outward semblance of a rabbit. He would +then realise the hopelessness of his suit and . . . go away. + +MELISANDE (with dignity). I should certainly never marry a small black +and white rabbit. + +GERVASE. No, you couldn't, could you? + +MELISANDE (gravely). No. (Then their eyes meet. There is a twinkle in +his; hers respond; and suddenly they are laughing together.) What +nonsense you talk! + +GERVASE. Well, it's such an absurdly fine morning, isn't it? There's a +sort of sparkle in the air. I'm really trying to be quite sensible. + +MELISANDE (making room for him at her feet). Go on talking nonsense. +(He sits down on the ground and leans against the log at her side.) +Tell me about yourself. You have told me nothing yet, but that (she +smiles at him) your father is a woodcutter. + +GERVASE. Yes. He--er--cuts wood. + +MELISANDE. And you resolved to go out into the world and seek your +fortune? + +GERVASE. Yes. You see if you are a third son of a humble woodcutter, +nobody thinks very much of you at home, and they never take you out +with them; and when you are cutting wood, they always put you where +the sawdust gets into your mouth. Because, you see, they have never +read history, and so they don't know that the third and youngest son +is always the nicest of the family. + +MELISANDE. And the tallest and the bravest and the most handsome. + +GERVASE. _And_ all the other things you mention. + +MELISANDE. So you ran away? + +GERVASE. So I ran away--to seek my fortune. + +MELISANDE. But your uncle the wizard, or your godmother or somebody, +gave you a magic ring to take with you on your travels? (Nodding) They +always do, you know. + +GERVASE (showing the ring on his finger). Yes, my fairy godmother gave +me a magic ring. Here it is. + +MELISANDE (looking at it). What does it do? + +GERVASE. You turn it round once and think very hard of anybody you +want, and suddenly the person you are thinking of appears before you. + +MELISANDE. How wonderful! Have you tried it yet? + +GERVASE. Once. . . . That's why you are here. + +MELISANDE. Oh! (Softly) Have you been thinking of me? + +GERVASE. All night. + +MELISANDE. I dreamed of you all night. + +GERVASE (happily). Did you, Melisande? How dear of you to dream of me! +(Anxiously) Was I--was I all right? + +MELISANDE. Oh, yes! + +GERVASE (pleased). Ah! (He spreads himself a little and removes a +speck of dust from his sleeve) + +MELISANDE (thinking of it still). You were so brave. + +GERVASE. Yes, I expect I'm pretty brave in other people's dreams--I'm +so cowardly in my own. Did I kill anybody? + +MELISANDE. You were engaged in a terrible fight with a dragon when I +woke up. + +GERVASE. Leaving me and the dragon still asleep--I mean, still +fighting? Oh, Melisande, how could you leave us until you knew who had +won? + +MELISANDE. I tried so hard to get back to you. + +GERVASE. I expect I was winning, you know. I wish you could have got +back for the finish. . . . Melisande, let me come into your dreams again +to-night. + +MELISANDE. You never asked me last night. You just came. + +GERVASE. Thank you for letting me come. + +MELISANDE. And then when I woke up early this morning, the world was +so young, so beautiful, so fresh that I had to be with it. It called +to me so clearly--to come out and find its secret. So I came up here, +to this enchanted place, and all the way it whispered to me--wonderful +things. + +GERVASE. What did it whisper, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. The secret of happiness. + +GERVASE. Ah, what is it, Melisande? (She smiles and shakes her +head). . . . I met a magician in the woods this morning. + +MELISANDE. Did he speak to you? + +GERVASE. _He_ told _me_ the secret of happiness. + +MELISANDE. What did he tell you? + +GERVASE. He said it was marriage. + +MELISANDE. Ah, but he didn't mean by marriage what so many people +mean. + +GERVASE. He seemed a very potent magician. + +MELISANDE. Marriage to many people means just food. Housekeeping. _He_ +didn't mean that. + +GERVASE. A very wise and reverend magician. + +MELISANDE. Love is romance. Is there anything romantic in +breakfast--or lunch? + +GERVASE. Well, not so much in lunch, of course, but--- + +MELISANDE. How well you understand! Why do the others not understand? + +GERVASE (smiling at her). Perhaps because they have not seen +Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Oh no, no, that isn't it. All the others--- + +GERVASE. Do you mean your suitors? + +MELISANDE. Yes. They are so unromantic, so material. The clothes they +wear; the things they talk about. But you are so different. Why is it? + +GERVASE. I don't know. Perhaps because I am the third son of a +woodcutter. Perhaps because they don't know that you are the Princess. +Perhaps because they have never been in the enchanted forest. + +MELISANDE. What would the forest tell them? + +GERVASE. All the birds in the forest are singing "Melisande"; the +little brook runs through the forest murmuring "Melisande"; the tall +trees bend their heads and whisper to each other "Melisande." All the +flowers have put on their gay dresses for her. Oh, Melisande! + +MELISANDE (awed). Is it true? (They are silent for a little, happy to +be together. . . . He looks back at her and gives a sudden little laugh.) +What is it? + +GERVASE. Just you and I--together--on the top of the world like this. + +MELISANDE. Yes, that's what I feel, too. (After a pause) Go on +pretending. + +GERVASE. Pretending? + +MELISANDE. That the world is very young. + +GERVASE. _We_ are very young, Melisande. + +MELISANDE (timidly). It is only a dream, isn't it? + +GERVASE. Who knows what a dream is? Perhaps we fell asleep in +Fairyland a thousand years ago, and all that we thought real was a +dream, until now at last we are awake again. + +MELISANDE. How wonderful that would be. + +GERVASE. Perhaps we are dreaming now. But is it your dream or my +dream, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (after thinking it out). I think I would rather it were your +dream, Gervase. For then I should be in it, and that would mean that +you had been thinking of me. + +GERVASE. Then it shall be _my_ dream, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Let it be a long one, my dear. + +GERVASE. For ever and for ever. + +MELISANDE (dreamily). Oh, I know that it is only a dream, and that +presently we shall wake up; or else that you will go away and I will +go away, too, and we shall never meet again; for in the real world, +what could I be to you, or you to me? So go on pretending. + +(He stands up and faces her.) + +GERVASE. Melisande, if this were Fairyland, or if we were knights and +ladies in some old romance, would you trust yourself to me? + +MELISANDE. So very proudly. + +GERVASE. You would let me come to your father's court and claim you +over all your other suitors, and fight for you, and take you away with +me? + +MELISANDE. If this were Fairyland, yes. + +GERVASE. You would trust me? + +MELISANDE. I would trust my lord. + +GERVASE (smiling at her). Then I will come for the Princess this +afternoon. (With sudden feeling) Ah, how can I keep away now that I +have seen the Princess? + +MELISANDE (shyly--happily). When you saw me last night, did you know +that you would see me again? + +GERVASE. I have been waiting for you here. + +MELISANDE. How did you know that I would come? + +GERVASE. On such a morning--in such a place--how could the loved one +not be here? + +MELISANDE (looking away). The loved one? + +GERVASE. I saw you last night. + +MELISANDE (softly). Was that enough? + +GERVASE. Enough, yes. Enough? Oh no, no, no! + +MELISANDE (nodding). I will wait for you this afternoon. + +GERVASE. And you will come away with me? Out into the world with me? +Over the hills and far away with me? + +MELISANDE (softly). Over the hills and far away. + +GERVASE (going to her). Princess! + +MELISANDE. Not Princess. + +GERVASE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE (holding out her hand to him). Ah! + +GERVASE. May I kiss your hands, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. They are my lord's to kiss. + +GERVASE (kissing them). Dear hands. + +MELISANDE. Now I shall love them, too. + +GERVASE. May I kiss your lips, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (proudly). Who shall, if not my lord? + +GERVASE. Melisande! (He touches her lips with his.) + +MELISANDE (breaking away from him). Oh! + +GERVASE (triumphantly). I love you, Melisande! I love you! + +MELISANDE (wonderingly). Why didn't I wake up when you kissed me? We +are still here. The dream goes on. + +GERVASE. It is no dream, Melisande. Or if it is a dream, then in my +dream I love you, and if we are awake, then awake I love you. I love +you if this is Fairyland, and if there is no Fairyland, then my love +will make a faery land of the world for you. For I love you, +Melisande. + +MELISANDE (timidly). Are we pretending still? + +GERVASE. No, no, no! + +(She looks at him gravely for a moment and then nods her head.) + +MELISANDE (pointing). I live down there. You will come for me? + +GERVASE. I will come. + +MELISANDE. I am my lord's servant. I will wait for him. (She moves +away from him. Then she curtsies and says) This afternoon, my lord. + +(She goes down the hill.) + +(He stands looking after her. While he is standing there, ERN comes +through the trees with breakfast.) + + + + +ACT III + + +(It is about four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. JANE is +sitting on the sofa in the hall, glancing at a paper, but evidently +rather bored with it, and hoping that somebody--BOBBY, did you +say?--will appear presently. However, it is MR. KNOWLE who comes in.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Jane! + +JANE (looking up). Hallo, Uncle Henry. Did you have a good day? + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, Peters and I had a very enjoyable drive. + +JANE. But you found nothing at the sale? What a pity! + +MR. KNOWLE (taking a catalogue from his pocket). Nothing which I +wanted myself, but there were several very interesting lots. Peters +was strongly tempted by Lot 29--"Two hip-baths and a stuffed +crocodile." Very useful things to have by you if you think of getting +married, Jane, and setting up house for yourself. I don't know if you +have any thoughts in that direction? + +JANE (a little embarrassed). Well, I suppose I shall some day. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Where's Bobby? + +JANE (carelessly). Bobby? Oh, he's about somewhere. + +MR. KNOWLE. I think Bobby would like to hear about Lot 29. (Returning +to his catalogue) Or perhaps Lot 42. "Lot 42--Twelve aspidistras, +towel-horse, and 'The Maiden's Prayer.'" All for seven and sixpence. I +ought to have had Bobby with me. He could have made a firm offer of +eight shillings. . . . By the way, I have a daughter, haven't I? How was +Sandy this morning? + +JANE. I didn't see her. Aunt Mary is rather anxious about her. + +MR. KNOWLE. Has she left us for ever? + +JANE. There's nothing to be frightened about really. + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm not frightened. + +JANE. She had breakfast before any of us were up, and went out with +some sandwiches afterwards, and she hasn't come back yet. + +MR. KNOWLE. A very healthy way of spending the day. (MRS. KNOWLE comes +in) Well, Mary, I hear that we have no daughter now. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, there you are, Henry. Thank Heaven that _you_ are +back safely. + +MR. KNOWLE. My dear, I always meant to come back safely. Didn't you +expect me? + +MRS. KNOWLE. I had given up hope. Jane here will tell you what a +terrible morning I have had; prostrate on the sofa, mourning for my +loved ones. My only child torn from me, my husband--dead. + +MR. KNOWLE (surprised). Oh, I was dead? + +MRS. KNOWLE. I pictured the car smashed to atoms, and you lying in the +road, dead, with Peters by your side. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! How was Peters? + +MRS. KNOWLE (with a shrug). I didn't look. What is a chauffeur to one +who has lost her husband and her only child in the same morning? + +MR. KNOWLE. Still, I think you might have looked. + +JANE. Sandy's all right, Aunt Mary. You know she often goes out alone +all day like this. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, _is_ she alone? Jane, did you count the gardeners as +I asked you? + +MR. KNOWLE. Count the gardeners? + +MRS. KNOWLE. To make sure that none of them is missing too. + +JANE. It's quite all right, Aunt Mary. Sandy will be back by tea-time. + +MRS. KNOWLE (resigned). It all comes of christening her Melisande. You +know, Henry, I quite thought you said Millicent. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, talking about tea, my dear--at which happy meal our +long-lost daughter will be restored to us--we have a visitor coming, a +nice young fellow who takes an interest in prints. + +MRS. KNOWLE. I've heard nothing of this, Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE. No, my dear, that's why I'm telling you now. + +MRS. KNOWLE. A young man? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Nice-looking? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Rich? + +MR. KNOWLE. I forgot to ask him, Mary. However, we can remedy that +omission as soon as he arrives. + +MRS. KNOWLE. It's a very unfortunate day for him to have chosen. +Here's Sandy lost, and I'm not fit to be seen, and--Jane, your hair +wants tidying---- + +MR. KNOWLE. He is not coming to see you or Sandy or Jane, my dear; he +is coming to see me. Fortunately, I am looking very beautiful this +afternoon. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, you had better be in the garden, dear, and see if +you can stop Sandy before she comes in, and just give her a warning. I +don't know _what_ she'll look like after roaming the fields all day, +and falling into pools---- + +MR. KNOWLE. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a +wantonness. + +MRS. KNOWLE. I will go and tidy myself. Jane, I think your mother +would like you to--but, after all, one must think of one's own child +first. You will tell Sandy, won't you? We had better have tea in +here. . . . Henry, your trousers--(she looks to see that JANE is not +listening, and then says in a loud whisper) your trousers---- + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear, Mary. It's a young +fellow who is coming to see my prints; not the Prince of Wales who is +coming to see my trousers. + +MRS. KNOWLE (turning to JANE). You'll remember, Jane? + +JANE (smiling). Yes, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's a good girl. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Your aunt wasn't very lucid, Jane. Which one of you +is it who is going to marry the gentleman? + +JANE. Don't be so absurd, Uncle Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE (taking out his catalogue again). Perhaps _he_ would be +interested in Lot 29. (BOBBY comes in through the windows.) Ah, here's +Bobby. Bobby, they tell me that you think of setting up house. + +BOBBY (looking quickly at JANE). Who told you that? + +MR. KNOWLE. Now, starting with two hip-baths and a stuffed crocodile +for nine shillings and sixpence, and working up to twelve aspidistras, +a towel-horse and "The Maiden's Prayer" for eight shillings, you +practically have the spare room furnished for seventeen and six. But +perhaps I had better leave the catalogue with you. (He presses it into +the bewildered BOBBY'S hands) I must go and tidy myself up. Somebody +is coming to propose to me this afternoon. + + [He hurries out. + +(BOBBY looks after him blankly, and then turns to JANE.) + +BOBBY. I say, what's happened? + +JANE. Happened? + +BOBBY. Yes, why did he say that about my setting up house? + +JANE. I think he was just being funny. He is sometimes, you know. + +BOBBY. You don't think he guessed---- + +JANE. Guessed what? About you and Melisande? + +BOBBY. I say, shut up, Jane. I thought we agreed not to say anything +more about that. + +JANE. But what else could he have guessed? + +BOBBY. _You_ know well enough. + +JANE (shaking her head). No, I don't. + +BOBBY. I told you this morning. + +JANE. What did you tell me? + +BOBBY. _You_ know. + +JANE. No, I don't. + +BOBBY. Yes, you do. + +JANE. No, I don't. + +BOBBY (coming closer). All right, shall I tell you again? + +JANE (edging away). I don't want to hear it. + +BOBBY. How do you know you don't want to hear it, if you don't know +what it is? + +JANE. I can guess what it is. + +BOBBY. There you are! + +JANE. It's what you say to everybody, isn't it? + +BOBBY (loftily). If you want to know, Miss Bagot, I have only said it +to one other person in my life, and that was in mistake for you. + +JANE (coldly). Melisande and I are not very much alike, Mr. Coote. + +BOBBY. No. You're much prettier. + +JANE (turning her head away). You don't really think so. Anyhow, it +isn't true. + +BOBBY. It is true, Jane. I swear it. + +JANE. Well, you didn't think so yesterday. + +BOBBY. Why do you keep talking about yesterday? I'm talking about +to-day. + +JANE. A girl has her pride, Bobby. + +BOBBY. So has a man. I'm awfully proud of being in love with _you_. + +JANE. That isn't what I mean. + +BOBBY. What do you mean? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well--well--well, what it comes to is that you get +refused by Sandy, and then you immediately come to me and expect me to +jump at you. + +BOBBY. Suppose I had waited a year and then come to you, would that +have been better? + +JANE. Of course it would. + +BOBBY. Well, really I can't follow you, darling. + +JANE (indignantly). You mustn't call me darling. + +BOBBY. Mustn't call you what? + +JANE (awkwardly). Darling. + +BOBBY. Did I call you darling? + +JANE (shortly). Yes. + +BOBBY (to himself). "Darling." No, I suppose I mustn't. But it suits +you so awfully well--darling. (She stamps her foot) I'm sorry, +darl---- I mean Jane, but really I can't follow you. Because you're so +frightfully fascinating, that after twenty-four hours of it, I simply +have to tell you how much I love you, then your pride is hurt. But if +you had been so frightfully unattractive that it took me a whole year +to see anything in you at all, then apparently you'd have been awfully +proud. + +JANE. You _have_ known me a whole year, Bobby. + +BOBBY. Not really, you know. Directly I saw you and Sandy together I +knew I was in love with one of you, but--well, love is a dashed rummy +thing, and I thought it was Sandy. And so I didn't really see you till +last night, when you were so awfully decent to me. + +JANE (wistfully). It sounds very well, but the trouble is that it will +sound just as well to the next girl. + +BOBBY. What next girl? + +JANE. The one you propose to to-morrow. + +BOBBY. You know, Jane, when you talk like that I feel that you don't +deserve to be proposed to at all. + +JANE (loftily). I'm sure I don't want to be. + +BOBBY (coming closer). Are you? + +JANE. Am I what? + +BOBBY. Quite sure. + +JANE. I should have thought it was pretty obvious seeing that I've +just refused you. + +BOBBY. Have you? + +JANE. Have I what? + +BOBBY. Refused me. + +JANE. I thought I had. + +BOBBY. And would you be glad if I went away and never saw you again? +(She hesitates) Honest, Jane. Would you? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well, of course, I _like_ you, Bobby. I always have. + +BOBBY. But you feel that you would like me better if I were somebody +else's husband? + +JANE (indignantly). Oh, I _never_ said that. + +BOBBY. Dash it, you've been saying it all this afternoon. + +JANE (weakly). Bobby, don't; I can't argue with you. But really, dear, +I can't say now that I will marry you. Oh, you _must_ understand. Oh, +_think_ what Sandy---- + +BOBBY. We won't tell Sandy. + +JANE (surprised). But she's bound to know. + +BOBBY. We won't tell anybody. + +JANE (eagerly). Bobby! + +BOBBY (nodding). Just you and me. Nobody else for a long time. A +little private secret. + +JANE. Bobby! + +BOBBY (coming to her). Is it a bargain, Jane? Because if it's a +bargain---- + +JANE (going away from him). No, no, Bobby. Not now. I must go upstairs +and tidy myself--no, I mustn't, I must wait for Melisande--no, Bobby, +don't. Not yet. I mean it, really. Do go, dear, anybody might come in. + +(BOBBY, who has been following her round the hall, as she retreats +nervously, stops and nods to her.) + +BOBBY. All right, darling, I'll go. + +JANE. You mustn't say "darling." You might say it accidentally in +front of them all. + +BOBBY (grinning). All right, Miss Bagot . . . I am going now, Miss +Bagot. (At the windows) Good-bye, Miss Bagot. (JANE blows him a kiss. +He bows) Your favour to hand, Miss Bagot. (He turns and sees MELISANDE +coming through the garden) Hallo, here's Sandy! (He hurries off in the +opposite direction.) + +MELISANDE. Oh, Jane, Jane! (She sinks into a chair.) + +JANE. What, dear? + +MELISANDE. Everything. + +JANE. Yes, but that's so vague, darling. Do you mean that---- + +MELISANDE (dreamily). I have seen him; I have talked to him; he has +kissed me. + +JANE (amazed). _Kissed_ you? Do you mean that he has--kissed you? + +MELISANDE. I have looked into his eyes, and he has looked into mine. + +JANE. Yes, but who? + +MELISANDE. The true knight, the prince, for whom I have been waiting +so long. + +JANE. But _who_ is he? + +MELISANDE. They call him Gervase. + +JANE. Gervase _who_? + +MELISANDE (scornfully). Did Elaine say, "Lancelot who" when they told +her his name was Lancelot? + +JANE. Yes, dear, but this is the twentieth century. He must have a +name. + +MELISANDE (dreamily). Through the forest he came to me, dressed in +blue and gold. + +JANE (sharply). Sandy! (Struck with an idea) Have you been out all day +without your hat, darling? + +MELISANDE (vaguely). Have I? + +JANE. I mean--blue and gold. They don't do it nowadays. + +MELISANDE (nodding to her). _He_ did, Jane. + +JANE. But how?--Why? Who can he be? + +MELISANDE. He said he was a humble woodcutter's son. That means he was +a prince in disguise. He called me his princess. + +JANE. Darling, how could he be a prince? + +MELISANDE. I have read stories sometimes of men who went to sleep and +woke up thousands of years afterwards and found themselves in a +different world. Perhaps, Jane, _he_ lived in those old days, and---- + +JANE. Did he _talk_ like an ordinary person? + +MELISANDE. Oh no, no! + +JANE. Well, it's really extraordinary. . . . Was he a gentleman? + +MELISANDE (smiling at her). I didn't ask him, Jane. + +JANE (crossly). You know what I mean. + +MELISANDE. He is coming this afternoon to take me away. + +JANE (amazed). To take you away? But what about Aunt Mary? + +MELISANDE (vaguely). Aunt Mary? What has _she_ got to do with it? + +JANE (impatiently). Oh, but---- (With a shrug of resignation) I don't +understand. Do you mean he's coming _here_? (MELISANDE nods gravely) +Melisande, you'll let me see him? + +MELISANDE. Yes. I've thought it all out. I wanted you here, Jane. He +will come in; I will present you; and then you must leave us alone. +But I should like you to see him. Just to see how different, how +utterly different he is from every other man. . . . But you will promise +to go when you have seen him, won't you? + +JANE (nodding). I'll say, "I'm afraid I must leave you now, and----" +Sandy, how _can_ he be a prince? + +MELISANDE. When you see him, Jane, you will say, "How can he not be a +prince?" + +JANE. But one has to leave princes backward. I mean--he won't +expect--_you_ know---- + +MELISANDE. I don't think so. Besides, after all, you are my cousin. + +JANE. Yes. I think I shall get that in; just to be on the safe side. +"Well, cousin, I must leave you now, as I have to attend my aunt." And +then a sort of--not exactly a curtsey, but--(she practises, murmuring +the words to herself). I suppose you didn't happen to mention _me_ to +him this morning? + +MELISANDE (half smiling). Oh no! + +JANE (hurt). I don't see why you shouldn't have. What did you talk +about? + +MELISANDE. I don't know. (She grips JANE'S arm suddenly) Jane, I +didn't dream it all this morning, did I? It did happen? I saw him--he +kissed me--he is coming for me--he---- + +(Enter ALICE) + +ALICE. Mr. Gervase Mallory. + +MELISANDE (happily). Ah! + +(GERVASE comes in, an apparently ordinary young man in a loud golfing +suit.) + +GERVASE. How do you do? + +MELISANDE (looking at him with growing amazement and horror). Oh! + +(JANE looks from one to the other in bewilderment.) + +GERVASE. I ought to explain. Mr. Knowle was kind enough to lend me +some petrol last night; my car broke down; he was good enough to say I +might come this afternoon and see his prints. I am hoping to be +allowed to thank him again for his kindness last night. And--er--I've +brought back the petrol. + +MELISANDE (still with her eyes on him). My father will no doubt be +here directly. This is my cousin, Miss Bagot. + +GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? + +JANE (nervously). How do you do? (After a pause) Well, I'm afraid I +must leave you now, as---- + +MELISANDE (with her eyes still on GERVASE, putting out a hand and +clutching at JANE). No! + +JANE (startled). What? + +MELISANDE. Don't go, Jane. Do sit down, won't you, Mr.--er---- + +GERVASE. Mallory. + +MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +MELISANDE. Where will you sit, Mr. Mallory? (She is still talking in +an utterly expressionless voice.) + +GERVASE. Thank you. Where are you---- (he indicates the sofa.) + +MELISANDE (moving to it, but still holding JANE). Thank _you_. + +(MELISANDE and JANE sit down together on the sofa. GERVASE sits on a +chair near. There is an awkward silence.) + +JANE (half getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must---- + +(MELISANDE pulls her down. She subsides.) + +MELISANDE. Charming weather we are having, are we not, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE (enthusiastically). Oh, rather. Absolutely top-hole. + +MELISANDE (to JANE). Absolutely top-hole weather, is it not, Jane? + +JANE. Oh, I love it. + +MELISANDE. You play golf, I expect, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh, rather. I've been playing this morning. (With a smile) +Pretty rotten, too, I'm afraid. + +MELISANDE. Jane plays golf. (to JANE) You're pretty rotten, too, +aren't you, Jane? + +JANE. Bobby and I were both very bad to-day. + +MELISANDE. I think you will like Bobby, Mr. Mallory. He is staying +with us just now. I expect you will have a good deal in common. He is +on the Stock Exchange. + +GERVASE (smiling). So am I. + +MELISANDE (valiantly repressing a shudder). Jane, Mr. Mallory is on +the Stock Exchange. Isn't that curious? I felt sure that he must be +directly I saw him. + +(There is another awkward silence.) + +JANE (getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must---- + +MELISANDE (pulling her down). Don't go, Jane. I suppose there are a +great many of you on the Stock Exchange, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh, quite a lot. + +MELISANDE. Quite a lot, Jane. . . . You don't know Bobby--Mr. Coote? + +GERVASE. N--no, I don't think so. + +MELISANDE. I suppose there are so many of you, and you dress so much +alike, and look so much alike, that it's difficult to be quite sure +whom you do know. + +GERVASE. Yes, of course, that makes it more difficult. + +MELISANDE. Yes. You see that, don't you, Jane? . . . You play billiards +and bridge, of course, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh yes. + +MELISANDE. They are absolutely top-hole games, aren't they? Are +you--pretty rotten at them? + +GERVASE. Well---- + +MELISANDE (getting up). Ah, here's my father. + +(Enter MR. KNOWLE) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Mr. Mallory, delighted to see you. And Sandy and Jane +to entertain you. That's right. + +(They shake hands) + +GERVASE. How do you do? + +(ALICE comes in with tea) + +MR. KNOWLE. I've been wasting my day at a sale. I hope you spent yours +more profitably, (GERVASE laughs pleasantly) And what have you been +doing, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. Wasting mine, too, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. Well, they say that the wasted hours are the +best. + +MELISANDE (moving to the door). I think I will go and---- (MRS. KNOWLE +comes in with outstretched hands) + +MR. KNOWLE. My dear, this is Mr. Mallory. + +MRS. KNOWLE. My dear Mr. Mallory! (Turning round) Sandy, dear! +(MELISANDE comes slowly back) How do you do? + +GERVASE (shaking hands). How do you do? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy, dear! (to GERVASE) My daughter, Melisande, Mr. +Mallory. My only child. + +GERVASE. Oh--er--we---- + +MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory and I have met, Mother. + +MRS. KNOWLE (indicating JANE). And our dear Jane. + +My dear sister's only daughter. But dear Jane has a brother. Dear +Harold! In the Civil Service. Sandy, dear, will you pour out tea? + +MELISANDE (resigned). Yes, Mother. (She goes to the tea-table.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (going to the sofa). I am such an invalid now, Mr. +Mallory---- + +GERVASE (helping her). Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I----? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. Dr. Anderson insists on my resting as much as +possible. So my dear Melisande looks after the house for me. Such a +comfort. You are not married yourself, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No. Oh no. + +MRS. KNOWLE (smiling to herself). Ah! + +MELISANDE. Jane, Mother's tea. (JANE takes it.) + +GERVASE (coming forward). Oh, I beg your pardon. Let me---- + +JANE. It's all right. + +(GERVASE takes up a cake-stand.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Where's Bobby? Bobby is the real expert at this. + +MELISANDE. I expect Mr. Mallory is an expert, too, Father. You enjoy +tea-parties, I expect, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. I enjoy most things, Miss Knowle. (To MRS. KNOWLE) What will +you have? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. I have to be careful. Dr. Anderson insists on +my being careful, Mr. Mallory. (Confidentially) Nothing organic, you +understand. Both my husband and I--Melisande has an absolutely sound +constitution. + +MELISANDE (indicating cup). Jane . . . Sugar and milk, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Please. (To MR. KNOWLE) Won't _you_ have this, sir? + +MR. KNOWLE. No thank you. I have a special cup. + +(He takes a large cup from MELISANDE). A family tradition, Mr. +Mallory. But whether it is that I am supposed to require more +nourishment than the others, or that I can't be trusted with anything +breakable, History does not relate. + +GERVASE (laughing). Well, I think you're lucky. I like a big cup. + +MR. KNOWLE. Have mine. + +GERVASE. No, thanks. + +BOBBY (coming in). Hallo! Tea? + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Bobby, you're just in time. (to GERVASE) This is Mr. +Coote. Bobby, this is Mr. Mallory. (They nod to each other and say, +"How do you do?") + +MELISANDE (indicating a seat next to her). Come and sit here, Bobby. + +BOBBY (who was making for JANE). Oh--er--righto. (He sits down.) + +MR. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). And how did the dance go last night? + +JANE. Oh, were you at a dance? How lovely! + +MELISANDE. Dance? + +MR. KNOWLE. And a fancy dress dance, too, Sandy. _You_ ought to have +been there. + +MELISANDE (understanding). Ah! + +MRS. KNOWLE. My daughter is devoted to dancing, Mr. Mallory. Dances so +beautifully, they all say. + +BOBBY. Where was it? + +GERVASE. Collingham. + +MR. KNOWLE. And did they all fall in love with you? You ought to have +seen him, Sandy. + +GERVASE. Well, I'm afraid I never got there. + +MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. . . . Peters is in love just now. . . . I hope he +didn't give you cider in mistake for petrol. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You have a car, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah! (to MELISANDE) Won't Mr. Mallory have some more tea, +Sandy? + +MELISANDE. Will you have some more tea, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Thank you. (to MRS. KNOWLE) Won't you---- + +(He begins to get up.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. _Please_ don't trouble. I never have more than one cup. +Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. Only one cup, Mrs. Knowle. + +BOBBY (to MELISANDE). Sandwich? Oh, you're busy. Sandwich, Jane? + +JANE (taking one). Thank you. + +BOBBY (to GERVASE). Sandwich? + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +BOBBY (to MR. KNOWLE). Sandwich? + +MR. KNOWLE. Thank you, Bobby. Fortunately nobody minds what _I_ eat or +drink. + +BOBBY (to himself). Sandwich, Mr. Coote? Thank you. (He takes one.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). Being such an invalid, Mr. Mallory, it is a +great comfort to me to have Melisande to look after the house. + +GERVASE. I am sure it is. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Of course, I can't expect to keep her for ever. + +MELISANDE (coldly). More tea, Jane? + +JANE. Thank you, dear. + +MRS. KNOWLE. It's extraordinary how she has taken to it. I must say +that I do like a girl to be a good housekeeper. Don't you agree, Mr. +Mallory? + +GERVASE. Well, of course, all that sort of thing _is_ rather +important. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's what I always tell Sandy. "Happiness begins in the +kitchen, Sandy." + +MELISANDE. I'm sure Mr. Mallory agrees with you, Mother. + +GERVASE (laughing). Well, one must eat. + +BOBBY (passing plate). Have another sandwich? + +GERVASE (taking one). Thanks. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Do you live in the neighbourhood, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. About twenty miles away. Little Malling. + +JANE (helpfully). Oh, yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I hope we shall see you here again. + +GERVASE. That's very kind of you indeed. I shall love to come. + +MELISANDE. More tea, Father? + +MR. KNOWLE. No, thank you, my love. + +MELISANDE. More tea, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No, thank you. + +MR. KNOWLE (getting up). I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Mallory, but +if you have really finished---- + +GERVASE (getting up). Right. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You won't go without seeing the garden, Mr. Mallory? +Sandy, when your father has finished with Mr. Mallory, you must show +him the garden. We are very proud of our roses, Mr. Mallory. Melisande +takes a great interest in the roses. + +GERVASE. I should like very much to see the garden. (Going to her) +Shall I see you again, Mrs. Knowle. . . . Don't get up, _please_. + +MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). In case we don't--(she holds out her hand). + +GERVASE (shaking it). Good-bye. And thank you so much. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Not good-bye. _Au revoir_. + +GERVASE (smiling). Thank you. (With a bow to JANE and BOBBY) Good-bye, +in case---- + +BOBBY. Cheero. + +JANE. Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, come along. (As they go out) It is curious how much +time one has to spend in saying "How do you do" and "Good-bye." I once +calculated that a man of seventy. . . . + + [MR. KNOWLE and GERVASE go out. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, dear, would you mind coming with me to the +drawing-room, and helping me to--er---- + +JANE (resigned). Of course, Aunt Mary. + + [They go towards the door. + +BOBBY (with his mouth full). May I come too, Mrs. Knowle? + +MELISANDE. You haven't finished your tea, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I shan't be a moment. (He picks up his cup.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Please come, dear Mr. Coote, when you have finished. + + [MRS. KNOWLE goes out. + +(JANE turns at the door, sees that MELISANDE is not looking, and blows +a hasty kiss to BOBBY.) + +MELISANDE. More tea, Bobby? + +BOBBY. No thanks. + +MELISANDE. Something more to eat? + +BOBBY. No thanks. (He gets up and walks towards the door.) + +MELISANDE. Bobby! + +BOBBY (turning). Yes? + +MELISANDE. There's something I want to say to you. Don't go. + +BOBBY. Oh! Righto. (He comes slowly back.) + +MELISANDE (with difficulty, after a pause). I made a mistake +yesterday. + +BOBBY (not understating). A mistake? Yesterday? + +MELISANDE. Yes. . . . You were quite right. + +BOBBY. How do you mean? When? + +MELISANDE. When you said that girls didn't know their own minds. + +BOBBY. Oh! (With an awkward laugh) Yes. Well--er--I don't expect any +of us do, really, you know. I mean--er--that is to say---- + +MELISANDE. I'm sorry I said what I did say to you last night, Bobby. I +oughtn't to have said all those things. + +BOBBY. I say, that's all right + +MELISANDE. I didn't mean them. And--and Bobby--I _will_ marry you if +you like. + +BOBBY (staggered). Sandy! + +MELISANDE. And it was silly of me to mind your calling me Sandy, and +to say what I did about your clothes, and I _will_ marry you, Bobby. +And--and thank you for wanting it so much. + +BOBBY. I say, Sandy. I say! I say---- + +MELISANDE (offering her cheek). You may kiss me if you like, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I say! . . . Er--er--(he kisses her gingerly) thanks! . . . Er--I +say---- + +MELISANDE. What is it, Bobby? + +BOBBY. I say, you know--(he tries again) I don't want you to--to feel +that--I mean, just because I asked you twice--I mean I don't want you +to feel that--well, I mean you mustn't do it just for _my_ sake, +Sandy. I mean Melisande. + +MELISANDE. You may call me Sandy. + +BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy. + +MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that. + +BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last night--afterwards, you +know--and I began to see, I began to see that perhaps you were right. +I mean about my not being romantic and--and all that. I mean, I'm +rather an ordinary sort of chap, and---- + +MELISANDE (sadly). We are all rather ordinary sort of chaps. + +BOBBY (eagerly). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, Sandy. I mean +Melisande. You _aren't_ ordinary. I don't say you'd be throwing +yourself away on me, but--but I think you could find somebody more +suitable. (Earnestly). I'm sure you could. I mean somebody who would +remember to call you Melisande, and who would read poetry with you +and--and all that. I mean, there are lots of fellows---- + +MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you _want_ to marry me now? + +BOBBY (with dignity). I don't want to be married out of pity. + +MELISANDE (coldly). I have told you that it isn't out of pity. + +BOBBY. Well, what _is_ it out of? I mean, after what you said +yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved me---- + +MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to you? + +BOBBY (taken aback). W-what? + +MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing me? + +BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all. + +MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (Carelessly) It _is_ +Jane, isn't it? + +BOBBY. I say, look here---- (She doesn't) Of course, I know you think +I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . well--oh, _damn_! + +MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you. + +(MRS. KNOWLE comes in.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you. + +BOBBY. Oh--er---- + +MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you. + +BOBBY (realising that he is not quite at his best). Er--oh--er, +righto. (He goes to the door and hesitates there) Er--(Now if he can +only think of something really good, he may yet carry it off.) +Er--(something really witty)--er--er, righto! (He goes out--to join +JANE, who is waiting for him.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a soft gentle voice). Where is your father, dear? In +the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to speak to him. Just on a +little matter of business. . . . Dear child! + + [She goes to the library. + +MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible! + +(She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling herself that +she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and she goes to the +open windows, and stands for a moment looking out, trying to recover +herself) + +(GERVASE comes in.) + +GERVASE (gently). Princess! (She hears; her hand closes and tightens; +but she says nothing.) Princess! + +(With an effort she controls herself, turns round and speaks coldly) + +MELISANDE. Please don't call me by that ridiculous name. + +GERVASE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE. Nor by that one. + +GERVASE. Miss Knowle. + +MELISANDE. Yes? What do you want, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. I want to marry you. + +MELISANDE (taken by surprise). Oh! . . . How dare you! + +GERVASE. But I told you this morning. + +MELISANDE. I think you had better leave this morning out of it. + +GERVASE. But if I leave this morning out of it, then I have only just +met you. + +MELISANDE. That is what I would prefer. + +GERVASE. Oh! . . . Then if I have only just met you, perhaps I oughtn't +to have said straight off that I want to marry you. + +MELISANDE. It is unusual. + +GERVASE. Yes. But not unusual to _want_ to marry you. + +MELISANDE. I am not interested in your wants. + +GERVASE. Oh! (Gently) I'm sorry that we've got to forget about this +morning. (Going closer to her) Is it so easy to forget, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. Very easy for you, I should think. + +GERVASE. But not for you? + +MELISANDE (bitterly). You dress up and amuse yourself, and then laugh +and go back to your ordinary life again--you don't want to remember +_that_, do you, every time you do it? + +GERVASE. You let your hair down and flirt with me and laugh and go +home again, but _you_ can't forget. Why should I? + +MELISANDE (furiously). How dare you say I flirted with you? + +GERVASE. How dare you say I laughed at you? + +MELISANDE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up to +the wood? + +GERVASE. Do you think _I_ knew you would be there when _I_ went up? + +MELISANDE. Then why were you there all dressed up like that? + +GERVASE. My car broke down and I spent the night in it. I went up the +hill to look for breakfast. + +MELISANDE. Breakfast! That's all you think about. + +GERVASE (cheerfully). Well, it's always cropping up. + +MELISANDE (in disgust). Oh! (She moves away from him and then turns +round holding out her hand) Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE (taking it). Good-bye, Miss Knowle. . . . (Gently) May I kiss +your hands, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (pathetically). Oh, don't! (She hides her face in them.) + +GERVASE. Dear hands. . . . May I kiss your lips, Melisande? (She says +nothing. He comes closer to her) Melisande! + +(He is about to put his arms round her, but she breaks away from him.) + +MELISANDE. Oh, don't, don't! What's the good of pretending? It was +only pretence this morning--what's the good of going on with it? I +thought you were so different from other men, but you're just the +same, just the same. You talk about the things they talk about, you +wear the clothes they wear. You were my true knight, my fairy Prince, +this morning, and this afternoon you come down dressed like that (she +waves her hand at it) and tell me that you are on the Stock Exchange! +Oh, can't you see what you've done? All the beautiful world that I had +built up for you and me--shattered, shattered. + +GERVASE (going to her). Melisande! + +MELISANDE. No, no! + +GERVASE (stopping). All right. + +MELISANDE (recovering herself). Please go. + +GERVASE (with a smile). Well, that's not quite fair, you know. + +MELISANDE. What do you mean? + +GERVASE. Well, what about _my_ beautiful world--the world that _I_ had +built up? + +MELISANDE. I don't understand. + +GERVASE. What about _your_ pretence this morning? I thought you were +so different from other women, but you're just the same, just the +same. You were my true lady, my fairy Princess, this morning; and this +afternoon the Queen, your mother, disabled herself by indigestion, +tells me that you do all the housekeeping for her just like any +ordinary commonplace girl. Your father, the King, has obviously never +had a battle-axe in his hand in his life; your suitor, Prince Robert +of Coote, is much more at home with a niblick than with a lance; and +your cousin, the Lady Jane---- + +MELISANDE (sinking on to the sofa and hiding her face). Oh, cruel, +cruel! + +GERVASE (remorsefully). Oh, forgive me, Melisande. It was horrible of +me. + +MELISANDE. No, but it's true. How could any romance come into this +house? Now you know why I wanted you to take me away--away to the ends +of the earth with you. + +GERVASE. Well, that's what I want to do. + +MELISANDE. Ah, don't! When you're on the Stock Exchange! + +GERVASE. But there's plenty of romance on the Stock Exchange. (Nodding +his head) Oh yes, you want to look out for it. + +MELISANDE (reproachfully). Now you're laughing at me again. + +GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am +laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can be +happy together, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want jokes. + +GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers. + +MELISANDE (bewildered). Did you expect me to? + +GERVASE. No. (After a pause) I think that's why I put 'em on. (She +looks at him in surprise.) You see, we had to come back to the +twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on pretending for ever. +Well, here we are--(indicating his clothes)--back. But I feel just as +romantic, Melisande. I want beauty--your beauty--just as much. (He +goes to her.) + +MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to you this +morning in the wood, or the one who--(bitterly) does all the +housekeeping for her mother? (Violently) And badly, badly, badly! + +GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her mother--and +badly, badly, badly, _bless_ her, because she has never realised what +a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping is. + +MELISANDE (amazed). Romantic! + +GERVASE (with enthusiasm). Most gloriously romantic. . . . Did you ever +long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert island? + +MELISANDE (clasping her hands). Oh yes! + +GERVASE. You imagined yourself there--alone or with a companion? + +MELISANDE. Often! + +GERVASE. And what were you doing? What is the romance of the desert +island which draws us all? Climbing the bread-fruit tree, following +the turtle to see where it deposits its eggs, discovering the spring +of water, building the hut--_housekeeping_, Melisande. . . . Or take +Robinson Crusoe. When Man Friday came along and left his footprint in +the sand, why did Robinson Crusoe stagger back in amazement? Because +he said to himself, like a good housekeeper, "By Jove, I'm on the +track of a servant at last." There's romance for you! + +MELISANDE (smiling and shaking her head at him). What nonsense you +talk! + +GERVASE. It isn't nonsense; indeed, indeed it isn't. There's romance +everywhere if you look for it. _You_ look for it in the old +fairy-stories, but did _they_ find it there? Did the gentleman who had +just been given a new pair of seven-league boots think it romantic to +be changed into a fish? He probably thought it a confounded nuisance, +and wondered what on earth to do with his boots. Did Cinderella and +the Prince find the world romantic after they were married? Think of +the endless silent evenings which they spent together, with nothing in +common but an admiration for Cinderella's feet--do you think _they_ +didn't long for the romantic days of old? And in two thousand or two +hundred thousand years, people will read stories about _us_, and sigh +and say, "Will those romantic days never come back again?" Ah, they +are here now, Melisande, for _us_; for the people with imagination; +for you and for me. + +MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were! + +GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this morning. +Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. Look at +yourself in the glass--how can you help being a princess? But if we +could be companions, Melisande! That's difficult; that's worth trying. + +MELISANDE (gently). What do you want me to do? + +GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat--see me in a bowler-hat. +Help me with my work; play games with me--I'll teach you if you don't +know how. I want to share the world with you for all our lives. That's +a long time, you know; we can't do it on one twenty-minutes' practice +before breakfast. We can be lovers so easily--can we be friends? + +MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). You are very wise. + +GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've been +thinking over what he said. (Suddenly) But when you look at me like +that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away with me now, now, +now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, you adorable child, +you funny foolish little girl. (Holding up a finger) Smile, Melisande. +Smile! (Slowly, reluctantly, she gives him a smile.) I suppose the +fairies taught you that. Keep it for _me_, will you--but give it to me +often. Do you ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together +sometimes--that makes life so easy. + +MELISANDE (with a happy little laugh). Oh, what can I say to you? + +GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase." + +MELISANDE (shyly). I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase. + +GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase." + +MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase. + +GERVASE (Jumping up and waving his hand) Say, "Hooray for things!" + +MELISANDE (standing up, but shyly still). Hooray for things! + +GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (He presses her hand and +goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes back, bends on one +knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it) My Princess! + + [Then GERVASE goes out. + +(MELISANDE stays there, looking after him, her hand to her cheek. . . . +But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must begin. With a +little smile at herself, at GERVASE, at things, she fetches out the +Great Book from its hiding-place, where she had buried it many weeks +ago in disgust. Now it comes into its own. She settles down with it in +her favourite chair. . . .) + +MELISANDE (reading). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an onion, peel and +quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . . + +(But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with it, +curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish little +girl.) + + + + +THE STEPMOTHER + +A PLAY IN ONE ACT + + + +CHARACTERS + +SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. +LADY PEMBURY. +PERKINS. +THE STRANGER. + + * * * * * + +The first performance of this play was given at the Alhambra Theatre +on November 16, 1920, with the following cast: + +Sir John Pembury--GILBERT HARE. +Lady Pembury--WINIFRED EMERY. +Perkins--C.M. LOWNE. +The Stranger--GERALD DU MAURIER. + + + + +THE STEPMOTHER + + +(A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest room in +the London house of SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. For this reason LADY +PEMBURY uses it a good deal, although it is not officially hers. It is +plainly furnished, and probably set out to be a sort of waiting-room +for SIR JOHN'S many callers, but LADY PEMBURY has left her mark upon +it.) + +(PERKINS, the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past his +prime, leads the may in, followed by THE STRANGER, PERKINS has already +placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the intelligent person +in the pit perceives that he is something better than that, though +whether he is in the process of falling from a higher estate, or of +rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty odd, shabbily dressed (but +then, so are most of us nowadays), and ill at ease; not because he is +shabby, but because he is ashamed of himself. To make up for this, he +adopts a blustering manner, as if to persuade himself that he is a +fine fellow after all. There is a touch of commonness about his voice, +but he is not uneducated.) + +PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll see +you, mind. + +STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right enough. + +PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well---- (He looks at THE STRANGER +doubtfully.) + +STRANGER (bitterly). I suppose you think I've got no business in a +gentleman's house. Is that it? + +PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a constituent? +Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty queer ones at times. +All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps you're a deputation? + +STRANGER (violently). What the hell's it got to do with you who I am. +You go and tell your master I'm here--that's all you've got to do. +See? + +PERKINS (unruffled). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even told me your +name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. Bottomley? + +STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, "Somebody +from Lambeth"--_he'll_ know what I mean. + +PERKINS (humorously). Ah, I beg your pardon--the Archbishop of +Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace. + +STRANGER (angrily). It's people like you who make one sick of the +world. Parasites--servile flunkeys, bolstering up an effete +aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to do? + +PERKINS (good-naturedly). Now, look here, young man, this isn't the +time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you want to get off +your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever it may be, keep it +till Sunday afternoon--when I'm off duty. (He comes a little closer to +THE STRANGER) Four o'clock Sunday afternoon--(jerking his thumb over +his shoulder)--just round the corner--in the Bolton Mews. See? Nobody +there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and secluded, and a +friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (He edges closer as he talks.) + +STRANGER (retreating nervously). No offence meant, mate. We're in the +same boat--you and me; we don't want to get fighting. My quarrel isn't +with you. You go and tell Sir John that there's a gentleman come to +see him--wants a few minutes of his valuable time--from Lambeth way. +_He'll_ know. That's all right. + +PERKINS (drawing back, disappointedly). Then I shan't be seeing you +Sunday afternoon? + +STRANGER (laughing awkwardly). There, that's all right. No offence +meant. Somebody from Lambeth--that's what _you've_ got to say. And +tell 'im I'm in a hurry. _He'll_ know what I mean. + +PERKINS (going slowly to the door). Well, it's a queer game, but being +in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be surprised. All sorts, as +you might say, _all_ sorts. + + [Exit PERKINS. + +(THE STRANGER, left alone, walks up and down the room, nervously +impatient.) + +(LADY PEMBURY comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married life, +she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has never had +a son--her only sorrow. Her motto might be, "It is just as easy to be +kind"; and whether you go to her for comfort or congratulation, you +will come away feeling that she is the only person who really +understands.) + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh! (She stops and then comes towards THE STRANGER) How +do you do? Are you waiting to see my husband? + +STRANGER (taken aback at seeing her). Yes. + +(He is not sure for the moment if this upsets his plans or forwards +them.) + +LADY PEMBURY. I think he's engaged just now. But he won't be long. +Perkins will tell him as soon as he is free. + +STRANGER (contemptuously). His name is Perkins, is it? + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Yes. + +STRANGER (contemptuously). Mister Perkins, the Butler. + +LADY PEMBURY (with a friendly smile). You don't _mind_ our having a +butler? (She picks up some work from the table and takes it to the +sofa) + +STRANGER (shrugging his shoulders). One more parasite. + +LADY PEMBURY (interested). I always thought parasites were much +smaller than Perkins. (Sitting down) Do sit down, won't you? (He sits +down reluctantly.) You mustn't mind my being here. This is really my +work-room. I expect my husband will take you into his own room when +he's ready. + +STRANGER. Your work-room? + +LADY PEMBURY (looking up at him with a smile). You don't seem to like +our domestic arrangements. + +STRANGER (waving his hand at her embroidery). You call that work? + +LADY PEMBURY (pleasantly). Other people's work always seems so +contemptible, doesn't it? Now I expect if you tried to do this, you +would find it very difficult indeed, and if I tried to do yours--what +_is_ your work, Mr.--er--Dear me, I don't even know your name. + +STRANGER (bitterly). Never mind my name. Take it that I haven't got a +name. + +LADY PEMBURY. But your friends must call you something. + +STRANGER. Take it that I haven't got any friends. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, _don't_ say that! How _can_ you? + +STRANGER (surly). What's it matter to you whether anybody cares about +me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, never mind whether anybody cares about _you_; don't +_you_ care about anybody? + +STRANGER. Nobody. + +LADY PEMBURY. Poor, poor man! (Going on with her work) If you can't +tell me your name, I wish you would tell me what work you do. +(Winningly) You don't mind my asking, do you? + +STRANGER. I can tell you what work I'm going to do after to-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, do! + +STRANGER (violently). None! + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). None? + +STRANGER. No more work after to-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. Won't that be rather dull? + +STRANGER. Well, _you_ ought to know. I'm going to be one of the idle +rich--like you and Sir John--and let other people work for me. + +LADY PEMBURY (thoughtfully). I shouldn't have said my husband was +idle. But there it is. No two people ever agree as to what is work and +what isn't. + +STRANGER. What do you know about work--you aristocrats? + +LADY PEMBURY (mildly). My husband is only a K.B.E., you know. Quite a +recent creation. + +STRANGER (not heeding her). You, who've been brought up in the lap of +luxury--never known a day's discomfort in your life---- + +LADY PEMBURY. My dear young man, you really mustn't tell a woman who +has had five children that she has never known a day's discomfort in +her life. . . . Ask any woman. + +STRANGER (upset). What's that? . . . I didn't come here to argue with +you. You began it. Why can't you let me alone? + +LADY PEMBURY (going to a side-table and taking up a photograph). Five +children--all girls--and now I'm a grandmother. (Showing him the +photograph) There! That's my eldest daughter with her eldest son and +my eldest grandchild. Isn't he a duck? He's supposed to be like me. . . . +I never had a son of my own. (THE STRANGER has taken the photograph in +his hand and is holding it awkwardly.) Oh, let me take it away from +you. Other's people's relations are so uninteresting, aren't they? +(She takes it away and puts it back in its place. Then she returns to +her seat and goes on with her work.) So you've made a lot of money? +How exciting for you! + +STRANGER (grimly). I haven't got it yet, but it's coming. + +LADY PEMBURY. Soon? + +STRANGER. To-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. You're not married, are you? + +STRANGER. You want to know a lot, don't you? Well, I'm not married. + +LADY PEMBURY. I was thinking how much nicer it is when you can share +that sort of news with somebody else, somebody you love. It makes good +news so much better, and bad news so much more bearable. + +STRANGER. That's what you and your husband do, is it? + +LADY PEMBURY (nodding). Always. For eight-and-twenty years. + +STRANGER. He tells you everything, eh? + +LADY PEMBURY. Well, not his official secrets, of course. Everything +else. + +STRANGER. Ha! I wonder. + +LADY PEMBURY. But you have nobody, you say. Well, you must share your +good news with _me_. Will you? + +STRANGER. Oh yes, you shall hear about it all right. + +LADY PEMBURY. That's nice of you. Well then, first question. How much +money is it going to be? + +STRANGER (thoughtfully). Well, I don't quite know yet. What do you say +to a thousand a year? + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, but what a lot! + +STRANGER. You think a thousand a year would be all right. Enough to +live on? + +LADY PEMBURY. For a bachelor, ample. + +STRANGER. For a bachelor. + +LADY PEMBURY. There's no one dependent on you? + +STRANGER. Not a soul. Only got one relation living. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh? + +STRANGER (enjoying a joke of his own). A father. But I shall not be +supporting _him_. Oh no. Far from it. + +LADY PEMBURY (a little puzzled by this, though the is not going to +show it) Then I think you will be very rich with a thousand a year. + +STRANGER. Yes, that's what _I_ thought. I should think it would stand +a thousand. + +LADY PEMBURY. What is it? An invention of some sort? + +STRANGER. Oh no, not an invention. . . . A discovery. + +LADY PEMBURY. How proud she would have been! + +STRANGER. Who? + +LADY PEMBURY. Your wife if you had had one; your mother if she had +been alive. + +STRANGER (violently). Look here, you leave my mother out of it. My +business is with Sir John---- (sneeringly) Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. If +I want to talk about my mother, he and I will have a nice little talk +together about her. Yes, and about my father, too. + +(LADY PEMBURY understands at last. She stands up slowly, and looks at +him, horrified.) + +LADY PEMBURY. What do you mean? + +STRANGER. A thousand a year. You said so yourself. Yes, I think it's +worth a thousand a year. + +LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name? + +STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? (Bitterly) And if you +want to know why, ask Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. + +LADY PEMBURY (in a whisper). He's your father. + +STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son--come to see him at last, after +all these years. + +LADY PEMBURY (hardly able to ask it). How--how old are you? + +STRANGER. Thirty. + +LADY PEMBURY (sitting down on the sofa). Oh, thank God! Thank God! + +STRANGER (upset by her emotion). Look here, I didn't want all this. I +ask you--did I begin it? It was you who kept asking questions. I just +came for a quiet talk with Sir John--Father and Son talking together +quietly--talking about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did +you want to come into it for? + +(LADY PEMBURY is quiet again now. She wipes away a tear or two, and +sits up, looking at him thoughtfully.) + +LADY PEMBURY. So _you_ are the son that I never had. + +STRANGER. What d'you mean? + +LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). The son whom I wanted so. Five +girls--never a boy. Let me look at you. (She goes up to him.) + +STRANGER (edging away). Here, none of that. + +LADY PEMBURY (looking at him earnestly to see if she can see a +likeness). No--and yet--(shaking her head sadly) Poor boy! What an +unhappy life you must have had! + +STRANGER. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to get my rightful +allowance--same as any other son. + +LADY PEMBURY (to herself). Poor boy! (She goes back to her seat and +then says) You don't mind my asking you questions _now_, do you? + +STRANGER. Go on. There's no mistake about it. I can promise you that. + +LADY PEMBURY. How did you find out? Did your Mother tell you? + +STRANGER. Never a word. "Don't ask questions, sonny----" "Father's +dead"--all that sort of thing. + +LADY PEMBURY. Does Sir John know? Did he ever know? + +STRANGER (feeling in his pocket). _He_ knew right enough. (Bringing +out letters) Look here--here you are. This was how I found out. +(Selecting one) There--read that one. + +LADY PEMBURY (taking it). Yes--that's John's writing. (She holds it +out to him.) + +STRANGER. Aren't you going to read it? + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head pathetically). He didn't write it to +_me_. + +STRANGER. He didn't write it to _me_, if it comes to that. + +LADY PEMBURY. You're her son--you have a right. I'm--nobody. + +STRANGER (putting it back in his pocket). Oh well, please yourself. + +LADY PEMBURY. Did Sir John provide for your mother? + +STRANGER. Well, why shouldn't he? He was a rich man. + +LADY PEMBURY. Not in those days. . . . But indeed--why shouldn't he? What +else could he do? I'm glad he did. + +STRANGER. And now he's going to provide for his loving son. He's rich +enough for that in these days. + +LADY PEMBURY. He's never seen you? + +STRANGER. Never. The historic meeting of Father and Son will take +place this afternoon. (With a feeble attempt at what he thinks is the +aristocratic manner) Afraid the Governor will be in the deuce of a +rage. Been exceedin' my allowance--what? Make it a thousand, dear old +Gov. + +LADY PEMBURY. Don't they call that blackmail? + +STRANGER (violently). Now look here, I'd better tell you straight that +there's no blackmail about this at all. He's my father, isn't he? +Well, can't a son come to his father if he's hard up? Where are your +threatening letters? Where's the blackmail? Anyway, what's he going to +do about it? Put his son in prison? + +LADY PEMBURY (following her own thoughts). You're thirty. Thank God +for that. We hadn't met then. . . . Ah, but he ought to have told me. He +ought to have told me. + +STRANGER. P'raps he thought you wouldn't marry him, if he did. + +LADY PEMBURY. Do you think that was it? (Earnestly to him, as if he +were an old friend) You know men--young men. I never had a son; I +never had any brothers. Do they tell? They ought to, oughtn't they? + +STRANGER. Well--well, if you ask _me_--I say, look here, this isn't +the sort of thing one discusses with a lady. + +LADY PEMBURY. Isn't it? But one can talk to a friend. + +STRANGER (scornfully). You and me look like friends, don't we? + +LADY PEMBURY (smiling). Well, we do, rather. + +(He gets up hastily and moves further away from her.) + +STRANGER. I know what _your_ game is. Don't think I don't see it. + +LADY PEMBURY. What is it? + +STRANGER. Falling on your knees, and saying with tears in your eyes: +"Oh, kind friend, spare me poor husband!" _I_ know the sort of thing. +And trying to work me up friendly before you begin. + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head). No, if I went on my knees to you, I +shouldn't say that. How can you hurt my husband now? + +STRANGER. Well, I don't suppose the scandal will do him much good. Not +an important Member of Parliament like _him_. + +LADY PEMBURY. Ah, but it isn't the outside things that really hurt +you, the things which are done to you, but the things which you do to +yourself. And so if I went on my knees to you, it would not be for my +husband's sake. For I should go on my knees, and I should say: "Oh, my +son that might have been, think before you give up everything that a +man should have. Ambition, hope, pride, self-respect--are not these +worth keeping? Is your life to end now? Have you done all that you +came into the world to do, so that now you can look back and say, 'It +is finished; I have given all that I had to give; henceforward I will +spend'?" (Very gently) Oh, my son that might have been! + +STRANGER (very uncomfortable). Here, I say, that isn't fair. + +LADY PEMBURY (gently). When did your mother die? + +STRANGER. Look here, I wish you wouldn't keep on about mothers. + +LADY PEMBURY. When did she die, proud mother? + +STRANGER (sulkily). Well, why shouldn't she be proud? (After a pause) +Two years ago, if you want to know. + +LADY PEMBURY. It was then that you found out who your father was? + +STRANGER. That's right. I found these old letters. She'd kept them +locked up all those years. Bit of luck for me. + +LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). And that was two years ago. And for +two years you had your hopes, your ambitions, for two years you were +proud and independent. . . . Why did you not come to us then? + +STRANGER (with a touch of vanity). Well, I was getting on all right, +you know--and---- + +LADY PEMBURY. And then suddenly, after two years, you lost hope. + +STRANGER. I lost my job. + +LADY PEMBURY. Poor boy! And couldn't get another. + +STRANGER (bitterly). It's a beast of a world if you're down. He's in +the gutter--kick him down--trample on him. Nobody wants him. That's +the way to treat them when they're down. Trample on 'em. + +LADY PEMBURY. And so you came to your father to help you up again. To +help you out of the gutter. + +STRANGER. That's right. + +LADY PEMBURY (pleadingly). Ah, but give him a chance! + +STRANGER. Now, look here, I've told you already that I'm not going to +have any of _that_ game. + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head sadly). Foolish boy! You don't +understand. Give him a chance to help you out of the gutter. + +STRANGER. Well, I'm----! Isn't that what I am doing? + +LADY PEMBURY. No, no. You're asking him to trample you right down into +it, deeper and deeper into the mud and slime. I want you to let him +help you back to where you were two years ago--when you were proud and +hopeful. + +STRANGER (looking at her in a puzzled way). I can't make out what your +game is. It's no good pretending you don't hate the sight of me--it +stands to reason you must. + +LADY PEMBURY (smiling). But then women _are_ unreasonable, aren't +they? And I think it is only in fairy-stories that stepmothers are +always so unkind. + +STRANGER (surprised). Stepmother! + +LADY PEMBURY. Well, that's practically what I am, isn't it? +(Whimsically) I've never been a stepmother before. (Persuasively) +Couldn't you let me be proud of my stepson? + +STRANGER. Well, you _are_ a one! . . . Do you mean to say that you and +your husband aren't going to have a row about this? + +LADY PEMBURY. It's rather late to begin a row, isn't it, thirty years +after it's happened? . . . Besides, perhaps you aren't going to tell him +anything about it. + +STRANGER. But what else have I come for except to tell him? + +LADY PEMBURY. To tell _me_. . . . I asked you to give him a chance of +helping you out of your troubles, but I'd rather you gave _me_ the +chance. . . . You see, John would be very unhappy if he knew that I knew +this; and he would have to tell me, because when a man has been +happily married to anybody for twenty-eight years, he can't really +keep a secret from the other one. He pretends to himself that he can, +but he knows all the time what a miserable pretence it is. And so John +would tell me, and say he was sorry, and I would say: "It's all right, +darling, I knew," but it would make him ashamed, and he would be +afraid that perhaps I wasn't thinking him such a wonderful man as I +did before. And it's very bad for a public man like John when he +begins to lose faith in what his wife is thinking about him. . . . So let +_me_ be your friend, will you? (There is a silence between them for a +little. He looks at her wonderingly. Suddenly she stands up, her +finger to her lips) H'sh! It's John. (She moves away from him) + +(SIR JOHN PEMBURY comes in quickly; big, good-looking, decisive, +friendly; a man who wears very naturally, and without any +self-consciousness, an air of being somebody.) + +PEMBURY (walking hastily past his wife to her writing-desk). Hallo, +darling! Did I leave a cheque-book in here? I was writing a cheque for +you this morning. Ah, here we are. (As he comes back, he sees THE +STRANGER) I beg your pardon, Kate. I didn't see---- (He is making for +the door with the cheque-book in his hand, and then stops and says +with a pleasant smile to THE STRANGER) But, perhaps you are waiting to +see _me_? Perkins said something---- + +STRANGER (coming forward). Yes, I came to see you, Sir John. + +(He stands close in front of SIR JOHN, looking at him. LADY PEMBURY +watches them steadfastly.) + +PEMBURY (tapping his cheque-book against his hand). Important? + +STRANGER. I came to ask your help. + +PEMBURY (looking at his cheque-book and then back with a smile at THE +STRANGER). A good many people do that. Have you any special claim on +me? + +STRANGER (after a long pause). No. + +(PEMBURY looks at him, undecided, LADY PEMBURY comes forward.) + +LADY PEMBURY. All right, dear. (Meaning that she will look after THE +STRANGER till he comes back.) + +PEMBURY. I'll be back in a moment. (He nods and hurries out) + +(There is silence for a little, and then LADY PEMBURY claps her hands +gently.) + +LADY PEMBURY (with shining eyes). Oh, brave, brave! Ah, but I am a +proud stepmother to-day. (She holds out her hand to him) Thank you, +son. + +STRANGER (not seeing it, and speaking in a hard voice). I'd better go. + +LADY PEMBURY. Mayn't I help you? + +STRANGER. I'd better go. + +LADY PEMBURY (distressed). You can't go like this. I don't even know +your name, nor where you live. + +STRANGER. Don't be afraid--you shan't hear from _me_ again. + +LADY PEMBURY (gently). Not even when you've got back to where you were +two years ago? Mayn't I then? + +STRANGER (looking at her, and then nodding slowly). Yes, you shall +then. + +LADY PEMBURY. Thank you. I shall wait. I shall hope. I shall pray. +(She holds out her hand again) Good-bye! + +STRANGER (shaking his head). Wait till you hear from me. (He goes to +the door, and then stops and comes slowly back. He says awkwardly) +Wish you'd do one thing for me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Yes? + +STRANGER. That fellow--what did you say his name was--Perkins? + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Perkins--yes? + +STRANGER. Would you give him a message from me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Of course. + +STRANGER (still awkwardly). Just to say--I'll _be_ there--at the +Mews--on Sunday afternoon. _He'll_ know. Tell him I'll be there. (He +squares his shoulders and walks out defiantly--ready to take the world +on again--beginning with PERKINS on Sunday afternoon) + +(LADY PEMBURY stands watching him as he goes. She waits after he has +gone, thinking her own thoughts, out of which she comes with something +of a shock as the door opens and SIR JOHN comes in.) + +PEMBURY. Hallo! Has he gone? + +LADY PEMBURY. Yes. + +PEMBURY. What did he want? Five pounds--or a place in the Cabinet? + +LADY PEMBURY. He came for--a subscription. + +PEMBURY. And got it, if I know my Kate. (Carelessly) What did he take +from you? + +LADY PEMBURY (with a wistful little sigh). Yes; he took something from +me. Not very much, I think. But just--something. (She takes his arm, +leads him to the sofa, and says affectionately) And now tell me all +that you've been doing this morning. + +(So he begins to tell her--just as he has told her a thousand times +before. . . . But it isn't quite the same) + + + + + +Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Plays, by A. A. Milne + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14734 *** diff --git a/14734-h/14734-h.htm b/14734-h/14734-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3a87e4 --- /dev/null +++ b/14734-h/14734-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8449 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta name="generator" content= +"HTML Tidy for Windows (vers 1st February 2004), see www.w3.org"> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Second Plays, by A.A. +Milne.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + * { font-family: Times;} + P { text-indent: 2em; + margin-top: .75em; + font-size: 12pt; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; } + HR { width: 33%; } + PRE { font-family: Courier, monospaced; } + // --> +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14734 ***</div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<center> +<p><b><font size="+1">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</font></b></p> +</center> +<div align="center"> +<p>FIRST PLAYS</p> +<p>THE DAY'S PLAY</p> +<p>THE HOLIDAY ROUND</p> +<p>ONCE A WEEK</p> +<p>ONCE ON A TIME</p> +<p>NOT THAT IT MATTERS</p> +<p>IF I MAY</p> +<p>MR. PIM</p> +<p>THE SUNNY SIDE</p> +</div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h1>SECOND PLAYS</h1> +<p> </p> +<center> +<h3>by A.A. MILNE</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +</center> +<div align="center"> +<h5>New York</h5> +<h5>ALFRED A. KNOPF</h5> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h6><i>Printed in Great Britain by</i> R. & R. Clark, Limited, +<i>Edinburgh</i>.</h6> +</div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h6>TO</h6> +<center> +<h4>D.M.</h4> +<h5>SO LITTLE IN RETURN FOR SO MUCH</h5> +</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<div align="center"> +<p> </p> +<b>CONTENTS</b><br> +<br> +<a href="#RULE4_2">MAKE-BELIEVE</a><br> +<a href="#RULE4_4">MR. PIM PASSES BY</a><br> +<a href="#BOLD_3">THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE</a><br> +<a href="#RULE4_1">THE ROMANTIC AGE</a><br> +<a href="#RULE4_14">THE STEPMOTHER</a></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p>Encouraged by the reviewer who announced that the Introduction +to my previous collection of plays was the best part of the book, I +venture to introduce this collection in a similar manner. But I +shall be careful not to overdo it this time, in the hope that I may +win from my critic some such tribute as, "Mr. Milne has certainly +improved as a dramatist, in that his plays are now slightly better +than his Introduction."</p> +<p>Since, then, I am trying to make this preface as distasteful as +possible, in order that the plays may shine out the more +pleasantly, I shall begin (how better?) with an attack on the +dramatic critics. I will relate a little conversation which took +place, shortly after the publication of "First Plays," between +myself and a very much more eminent dramatist.</p> +<p>EMINENT DRAMATIST (<i>kindly</i>) Your book seems to have been +well reviewed.</p> +<p>MYSELF (<i>ungratefully</i>). Not bad—by those who +reviewed it. But I doubt if it was noticed by more than three +regular dramatic critics. And considering that two of the plays in +it had never been produced—</p> +<p>EMINENT DRAMATIST (<i>amused by my innocence</i>). My dear +fellow, <i>you</i> needn't complain. I published an unproduced play +a little while ago, and it didn't get a single notice from +anybody.</p> +<p>Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays +which follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be +disturbed by this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in +the theatre are accustomed to read, and sometimes to make, +ridiculous accusations against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn +the mercenary fellow because he will not risk a loss of two or +three thousand pounds on the intellectual masterpiece of a +promising young dramatist, preferring to put on some contemptible +but popular rubbish which is certain to fill his theatre. But now +we see that the dramatic critic, that stern upholder of the best +interests of the British Drama, will not himself risk six shillings +(and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in order to read the +intellectual masterpiece of the promising young dramatist, and so +to be able to tell us with authority whether the Manager really +<i>is</i> refusing masterpieces or no. He will not risk six +shillings in order to encourage that promising young +dramatist—discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his +hopes of fame and fortune—by telling him that he <i>is</i> +right, and that his plays are worth something, or (alternatively) +to prevent him from wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form +to which he is not suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but +he will write an important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) +article, informing us that the British Drama is going to the dogs, +and that no promising young dramatist is ever given a fair +chance.</p> +<p>Absurd, isn't it?</p> +<p>Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask +ourselves why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three +reasons—in their order of importance.</p> +<p>(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of +not writing. He gets this anyhow.</p> +<p>(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the +criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank, +<i>réclame</i>—call it what you will. But it is +obvious that he cannot have it unless the masterpiece is given to +the world, either by manager or publisher.</p> +<p>(3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if +produced, possibly a great deal.</p> +<p>As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest +with ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a +desert island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps +all of us; for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves, +our manuscripts—written on bark with a burnt +stick—clutched in a skeleton hand—might be recovered +later by some literary sea-captain. (As it might be, Conrad.) But +how many of us would write masterpieces if we had to burn them +immediately afterwards, or if we were alone upon the world, the +last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to write? Could we +bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we can admit this +much without reserve; it is the second reward which tears at us, +and, lacking it, we should lose courage.</p> +<p>So when the promising young dramatist has his play refused by +the Managers—after what weeks, months, years of hope and +fear, uncertainty and bitter disappointment—he has this great +consolation: "Anyway, I can always publish it." Perhaps, after a +dozen refusals, a Manager offers to put on his play, on condition +that he alters the obviously right (and unhappy) ending into the +obviously foolish, but happy, ending which will charm the public. +Does he, the artist, succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must +get his play before the public somehow, and that, even if it is not +<i>his</i> play now, yet the first two acts are as he wrote them, +and that, if only to feel the thrill of the audience at that great +scene between the Burglar and the Bishop (his creations!) he must +deaden his conscience to the absurdity of a happy ending. But does +he succumb? No. Heroically he tells himself: "Anyway, I can publish +it; and I'm certain that the critics will agree with me +that——" But the critics are too busy to bother about +him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is +going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets +a fair chance.</p> +<p>Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt +if any dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the +critics, the managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever +right I have I renounce, in return for the good things which I have +received from them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our +craft. I say that, in the case of all dramatists, it is the +business of the dramatic critics to review their unacted plays when +published. Some of them do; most of them do not. It is ridiculous +for those who do not to pretend that they take any real interest in +the British Drama. But I say "review," not "praise." Let them damn, +by all means, if the plays are unworthy; and, by damning, do so +much of justice to the Managers who refused them.</p> +<p>We can now pass on safely to the plays in this volume.</p> +<p>We begin with a children's play. The difficulty in the way of +writing a children's play is that Barrie was born too soon. Many +people must have felt the same about Shakespeare. We who came later +have no chance. What fun to have been Adam, and to have had the +whole world of plots and jokes and stories at one's disposal. +Possibly, however, one would never have thought of the things. Of +course, there are still others to come after us, but our works are +not immortal, and they will plagiarise us without protest. Yet I +have hopes of <i>Make-Believe</i>, for it had the honour of +inaugurating Mr. Nigel Playfair's management at the Lyric, +Hammersmith. It is possible that the historians will remember this, +long after they have forgotten my plays; more likely (alas!) that +their history will be dated A.D. (After Drinkwater) and that the +honour will be given to "Abraham Lincoln." I like to think that in +this event my ghost will haunt them. <i>Make-Believe</i> appeared +with a Prologue by the Manager, lyrics by C.E. Burton, and music by +Georges Dorlay. As the title-page states that this book is, in the +language of children's competitions, "my own unaided work," I print +the play with a new Prologue, and without the charming lyrics. But +the reader is told when he may burst into an improvisation of his +own, though I warn him that he will not make such a good show of it +as did my collaborators.</p> +<p><i>Mr. Pim Passes By</i> appeared at several theatres. Let us +admit cheerfully that it was a success—in spite of the +warning of an important gentleman in the theatrical world, who told +me, while I was writing it, that the public wouldn't stand any talk +of bigamy, and suggested that George and Olivia should be engaged +only, not married. (Hence the line, "Bigamy! . . . It <i>is</i> an +ugly word," in the Second Act.) But, of course, nobody sees more +clearly than I how largely its success was due to Mr. Dion +Boucicault and Miss Irene Vanbrugh.</p> +<p><i>The Romantic Age</i> appeared first at the Comedy, and (like +<i>Mr. Pim</i>) found, in its need, a home at The Playhouse. Miss +Gladys Cooper has a charming way of withdrawing into a nursing home +whenever I want a theatre, but I beg her not to make a habit of it. +My plays can be spared so much more easily than she. By the way, a +word about Melisande. Many of the critics said that nobody behaved +like that nowadays. I am terrified at the thought of arguing with +them, for they can always reduce me to blushes with a scornful, "My +dear man, you <i>can't</i> do that in a <i>play</i>!" And when they +tell me to remember what Strindberg said in '93 (if he were alive +then; I really don't know) or what Aristotle wrote in—no, I +shan't even guess at Aristotle, well, then, I want to burst into +tears, my ignorance is so profound. So, very humbly, I just say now +that, when Melisande talks and behaves in a certain way, I do not +mean that a particular girl exists (Miss Jones, of 999 Bedford +Park) who talks and behaves like this, but I do mean that there is +a type of girl who, in her heart, secretly, <i>thinks</i> like +this. If, from your great knowledge of the most secret places of a +young girl's heart, you tell me that there is no such type, then I +shall only smile. But if you inform me sternly that a dramatist has +no business to express an attitude in terms of an actress, then you +reduce me to blushes again. For I really know nothing about +play-writing, and I am only sustained by two beliefs. The first is +that rules are always made for the other people; the second is +that, if a play by me is not obviously by me, and as obviously not +by anybody else, then (obviously) I had no business to write +it.</p> +<p>Of the one-act plays, <i>The Camberley Triangle</i> and <i>The +Stepmother</i>, nothing much need be said. The former was played at +the Coliseum; the latter, written for Miss Winifred Emery, was +deemed by the management too serious for that place of amusement. +This, however, was to the great advantage of the play, for now it +has appeared only at Charity <i>matinées</i> with an +"all-star" cast.</p> +<p>As before, the plays are printed in the order in which they were +written; in this case between October 1918 and June 1920. May the +reader get as much enjoyment from them as I had in their writing. +But no; that is plainly impossible.</p> +<center>A.A. MILNE.</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_2"><!-- RULE4 2 --></a> +<h2>MAKE-BELIEVE</h2> +<center>A CHILDREN'S PLAY IN A PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS</center> +<p><i>Make-Believe</i> was first produced at the Lyric Theatre, +Hammersmith, on December 24, 1918. The chief parts were played by +Marjory Holman, Jean Cadell, Rosa Lynd, Betty Chester, Roy Lennol, +John Barclay, Kinsey Peile, Stanley Drewitt, Ivan Berlyn, and +Herbert Marshall—several parts each.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>MAKE-BELIEVE</h2> +<p> </p> +<h3>PROLOGUE</h3> +<p><i>The playroom of the</i> HUBBARD FAMILY—<i>nine of them. +Counting</i> MR. <i>and</i> MRS. HUBBARD, <i>we realize that there +are eleven</i> HUBBARDS <i>in all, and you would think that one at +least of the two people we see in the room would be a</i> HUBBARD +<i>of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is</i> JAMES, <i>the</i> +HUBBARDS' <i>butler, for the</i> HUBBARDS <i>are able to afford a +butler now. How different from the time when Old Mother +Hubbard—called "old" because she was at least twenty-two, and +"mother" because she had a passion for children—could not +even find a bone for her faithful terrier; but, of course, that was +before</i> HENRY <i>went into work. Well, the tall figure is</i> +JAMES, <i>the butler, and the little one is</i> ROSEMARY, <i>a +friend of the</i> HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY <i>is going in for +literature this afternoon, as it's raining, and</i> JAMES <i>is +making her quite comfortable first with pens and ink and +blotting-paper—always so important when one wants to write. +He has even thought of a stick of violet sealing-wax; after that +there can be no excuse</i>.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (<i>She sits down</i>.) If any one +calls I am not at home.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my +auto—autobiography.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James?</p> +<p>JAMES. I believe so, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you. (<i>He goes to the door</i>.) Oh, +James?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss?</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. What <i>is</i> an autobiography?</p> +<p>JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss—not to explain +it properly.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>dismayed</i>). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew +everything.</p> +<p>JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and +then——</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead? +Very easy work, they tell me.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>nodding</i>). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a +play. Thank you, James.</p> +<p>JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(ROSEMARY <i>bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the +inspiration comes</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>as she writes</i>). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen +B-e-l—— (<i>she stops and frowns</i>) Now which way +<i>is</i> it? (<i>She tries it on the blotting-paper) That</i> +looks wrong. (<i>She tries it again</i>) So does that. Oh, dear! +(<i>She rings the bell</i> . . . JAMES <i>returns</i>.)</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss?</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play +Make-Believe.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>carelessly</i>). When you spell "believe," it is +"i-e," isn't it?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i."</p> +<p>JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>reproachfully</i>). Oh, James! Aren't you +certain?</p> +<p>JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l—— (<i>He stops and +scratches his whiskers</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Yes. <i>I</i> got as far as that.</p> +<p>JAMES. B-e-l——</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an +accident to the very first word of it.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l——I've noticed sometimes that +if one writes a word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then +looks at it with the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct +comes over one, as makes one say (<i>with a shake of the head</i>) +"Rotten." One can then write it the other way more hopeful.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. I've tried that.</p> +<p>JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name +altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy +words to spell, or "Red Revenge," or——</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. I <i>must</i> call it Make-Believe, because it's all +of the play I've thought of so far.</p> +<p>JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on +purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Does it?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which <i>is</i> the wrong way?</p> +<p>JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>inspired</i>). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it +"i-e"; and if it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then +I'm funny.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you, James.</p> +<p>JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>writing</i>). Make-Believe. A Christmas +Entertainment—— (<i>She stops and thinks, and then +shakes her head</i>.) No, play—a Christmas Play in three +acts. Er—— (<i>She is stuck</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> JAMES.</p> +<p>JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are +without, and crave admittance.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. All nine of them?</p> +<p>JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the +majority of them were present.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and +you being a visitor, if you <i>had</i> been at home, then you +wouldn't have been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram, +Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting when you're writing a play.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more +the merrier, as you might say.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. (<i>He opens the door and says very +rapidly</i>) The Misses Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and +Isabel Hubbard, The Masters Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold +Hubbard. (<i>They come in</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. How do you do?</p> +<p>ADA. Rosemary, darling, what <i>are</i> you doing?</p> +<p>BERTRAM. It's like your cheek, bagging our room.</p> +<p>CAROLINE (<i>primly</i>). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be +polite to our visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if +Rosemary wants our room——</p> +<p>DENNIS. Oh, chuck it!</p> +<p>ADA (<i>at</i> ROSEMARY'S <i>shoulder</i>). Oh, I say, she's +writing a play!</p> +<p>(<i>Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at</i> ROSEMARY.)</p> +<p>{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What's it about? Bet +it's awful rot. }</p> +<p>{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am <i>I</i> in it? Do tell us about +it. Is it for Christmas? }</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>in alarm</i>). James, could you——?</p> +<p>JAMES (<i>firmly</i>). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis, +down! Miss Gwendoline, if you wouldn't mind—— (<i>He +picks her up and places her on the floor</i>.) Thank you. (<i>Order +is restored</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. . . . Yes, it's a play for +Christmas, and it is called "Make-Believe," and that's all I'm +certain about yet, except that we're all going to be in it.</p> +<p>BERTRAM. Then I vote we have a desert island——</p> +<p>DENNIS. And pirates——</p> +<p>FRANK. And cannibals——</p> +<p>HAROLD (<i>gloatingly</i>). Cannibals eating +people—Oo!</p> +<p>CAROLINE (<i>shocked</i>). Harold! How would <i>you</i> like to +be eaten by a cannibal?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! How would <i>you</i> like to be a cannibal +and have nobody to eat? (CAROLINE <i>is silent, never having +thought of this before</i>.)</p> +<p>ADA. Let it be a fairy-story, Rosemary, darling. It's so much +<i>prettier</i>.</p> +<p>ELSIE. With a lovely princess——</p> +<p>GWENDOLINE. And a humble woodcutter who marries +her——</p> +<p>ISABEL (<i>her only contribution</i>). P'itty P'incess.</p> +<p>BERTRAM. Princesses are rot.</p> +<p>ELSIE (<i>with spirit</i>). So are pirates! +(<i>Deadlock</i>.)</p> +<p>CAROLINE. <i>I</i> should like something about Father Christmas, +and snow, and waits, and a lovely ball, and everybody getting nice +presents and things.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>selfishly, I'm afraid</i>). Bags I all the +presents.</p> +<p>(<i>Of course, the others aren't going to have that. They all +say so together</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>above the turmoil</i>). James, I <i>must</i> have +silence.</p> +<p>JAMES. Silence, all!</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you. . . . You will be interested to hear that I +have decided to have a Fairy Story <i>and</i> a Desert Island +<i>and</i> a Father Christmas.</p> +<p>ALL. Good! (<i>Or words to that effect</i>)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>biting her pen</i>). I shall begin with the Fairy +Story. (<i>There is an anxious silence. None of them has ever seen +anybody writing a play before. How does one do it? Alas</i>, +ROSEMARY <i>herself doesn't know. She appeals to</i> JAMES.) James, +how <i>do</i> you begin a play? I mean when you've <i>got</i> the +title.</p> +<p>JAMES (<i>a man of genius</i>). Well, Miss Rosemary, seeing that +it's to be called "Make-Believe," why not make-believe as it's +written already?</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James!</p> +<p>JAMES. All that is necessary is for the company to think very +hard of what they want, and—there we are! Saves all the +bother of writing and spelling and what not.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>admiringly</i>.) James, how clever you are!</p> +<p>JAMES. So-so, Miss Rosemary.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Now then, let's all think together. Are you all +ready?</p> +<p>ALL. Yes! (<i>They clench their hands</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Then one, two, three—Go!</p> +<p>(<i>They think. . . . The truth is that</i> JAMES, <i>who wasn't +really meant to be in it, thinks too. If there is anything in the +play which you don't like, it is</i> JAMES <i>thinking</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3><b><font size="+1">ACT I</font>.—THE PRINCESS AND THE +WOODCUTTER</b></h3> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>is discovered singing at his work, in +a glade of the forest outside his hut. He is tall and strong, and +brave and handsome; all that a woodcutter ought to be. Now it +happened that the</i> PRINCESS <i>was passing, and as soon as his +song is finished, sure enough, on she comes</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Good morning, Woodcutter.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Good morning. (<i>But he goes on with his +work</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>after a pause</i>). Good morning, Woodcutter.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Good morning.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Don't you ever say anything except good morning?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Sometimes I say good-bye.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. You <i>are</i> a cross woodcutter to-day.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I have work to do.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. You are still cutting wood? Don't you ever do anything +else?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Well, you are still a Princess; don't <i>you</i> +ever do anything else?</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>reproachfully</i>). Now, that's not fair, +Woodcutter. You can't say I was a Princess yesterday, when I came +and helped you stack your wood. Or the day before, when I tied up +your hand where you had cut it. Or the day before that, when we had +our meal together on the grass. Was I a Princess then?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Somehow I think you were. Somehow I think you were +saying to yourself, "Isn't it sweet of a Princess to treat a mere +woodcutter like this?"</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I think you're perfectly horrid. I've a good mind +never to speak to you again. And—and I would, if only I could +be sure that you would notice I wasn't speaking to you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. After all, I'm just as bad as you. Only yesterday I +was thinking to myself how unselfish I was to interrupt my work in +order to talk to a mere Princess.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes, but the trouble is that you <i>don't</i> +interrupt your work.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>interrupting it and going up to her with a +smile</i>). Madam, I am at your service.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I wish I thought you were.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Surely you have enough people at your service +already. Princes and Chancellors and Chamberlains and Waiting +Maids.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes, that's just it. That's why I want your help. +Particularly in the matter of the Princes.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Why, has a suitor come for the hand of her Royal +Highness?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Three suitors. And I hate them all.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. And which are you going to marry?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I don't know. Father hasn't made up his mind yet.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. And this is a matter which father—which His +Majesty decides for himself?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Why, of course! You should read the History Books, +Woodcutter. The suitors to the hand of a Princess are always set +some trial of strength or test of quality by the King, and the +winner marries his daughter.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Well, I don't live in a Palace, and I think my own +thoughts about these things. I'd better get back to my work. (He +<i>goes on with his chopping</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>gently, after a pause</i>). Woodcutter!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>looking up</i>). Oh, are you there? I thought you +were married by this time.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>meekly</i>). I don't want to be married. +(<i>Hastily</i>) I mean, not to any of those three.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. You can't help yourself.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I know. That's why I wanted <i>you</i> to help me.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>going up to her</i>). Can a simple woodcutter +help a Princess?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, perhaps a simple one couldn't, but a clever one +might.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What would his reward be?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. His reward would be that the Princess, not being +married to any of her three suitors, would still be able to help +him chop his wood in the mornings. . . . I <i>am</i> helping you, +aren't I?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>smiling</i>). Oh, decidedly.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>nodding</i>). I thought I was.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. It is kind of a great lady like yourself to help so +humble a fellow as I.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>meekly</i>). I'm not <i>very</i> great. (<i>And she +isn't. She is the smallest, daintiest little Princess that ever you +saw</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. There's enough of you to make a hundred men +unhappy.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. And one man happy?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. And one man very, very happy.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>innocently</i>). I wonder who he'll be. . . . +Woodcutter, if <i>you</i> were a Prince, would you be my +suitor?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>scornfully</i>). One of three?</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>excitedly</i>). Oo, would you kill the others? With +that axe?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I would not kill them, in order to help His Majesty +make up his mind about his son-in-law. But if the Princess had made +up her mind—and wanted me——</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Then I would marry her, however many suitors she +had.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, she's only got three at present.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What is that to me?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Oh, I just thought you might want to be doing +something to your axe.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. My axe?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes. You see, she <i>has</i> made up her mind.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>amazed</i>). You mean—But—but I'm +only a woodcutter.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. That's where you'll have the advantage of them, when +it comes to axes.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Princess! (<i>He takes her in his arms</i>) My +Princess!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Woodcutter! My woodcutter! My, oh so very slow and +uncomprehending, but entirely adorable woodcutter!</p> +<p>(<i>They sing together. They just happen to feel like +that</i>)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>the song finished</i>). But what will His Majesty +say?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. All sorts of things. . . . Do you really love me, +woodcutter, or have I proposed to you under a misapprehension?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I adore you!</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>nodding</i>). I thought you did. But I wanted to +hear you say it. If I had been a simple peasant, I suppose you +would have said it a long time ago?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I expect so.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>nodding</i>). Yes. . . . Well, now we must think of +a plan for making Mother like you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Might I just kiss you again before we begin?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, I don't quite see how I am to stop you.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>picks her up in his arms and kisses +her</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. There!</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>in his arms</i>). Oh, Woodcutter, woodcutter, why +didn't you do that the first day I saw you? Then I needn't have had +the bother of proposing to you. (<i>He puts her down suddenly</i>) +What is it?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>listening</i>). Somebody coming. (<i>He peers +through the trees and then says in surprise</i>) The King!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Oh! I must fly!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. But you'll come back?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Perhaps.</p> +<p>[<i>She disappears quickly through the trees</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>goes on with his work and is +discovered at it a minute later by the</i> KING <i>and</i> +QUEEN.)</p> +<p>KING (<i>puffing</i>). Ah! and a seat all ready for us. How +satisfying. (<i>They sit down, a distinguished couple—reading +from left to right,</i> "KING, QUEEN"—<i>on a bench outside +the</i> WOODCUTTER'S <i>hut</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>crossly—she was like that</i>). I don't know why +you dragged me here.</p> +<p>KING. As I told you, my love, to be alone.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Well, you aren't alone. (<i>She indicates the</i> +WOODCUTTER.)</p> +<p>KING. Pooh, he doesn't matter. . . . Well now, about these three +Princes. They are getting on my mind rather. It is time we decided +which one of them is to marry our beloved child. The trouble is to +choose between them.</p> +<p>QUEEN. As regards appetite, there is nothing to choose between +them. They are three of the heartiest eaters I have met for some +time.</p> +<p>KING. You are right. The sooner we choose one of them, and send +the other two about their business, the better. +(<i>Reflectively</i>) There were six peaches on the breakfast-table +this morning. Did I get one? No.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Did <i>I</i> get one? No.</p> +<p>KING. Did our darling child get one—not that it matters? +No.</p> +<p>QUEEN. It is a pity that the seven-headed bull died last +year.</p> +<p>KING. Yes, he had a way of sorting out competitors for the hand +of our beloved one that was beyond all praise. One could have felt +quite sure that, had the three competitors been introduced to him, +only one of them would have taken any further interest in the +matter.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>always the housekeeper</i>). And even he mightn't have +taken any interest in his meals.</p> +<p>KING (<i>with a sigh</i>). However, those days are over. We must +think of a new test. Somehow I think that, in a son-in-law, moral +worth is even more to be desired than mere brute strength. Now my +suggestion is this: that you should disguise yourself as a beggar +woman and approach each of the three princes in turn, supplicating +their charity. In this way we shall discover which of the three has +the kindest heart. What do you say, my dear?</p> +<p>QUEEN. An excellent plan. If you remember, I suggested it myself +yesterday.</p> +<p>KING (<i>annoyed</i>). Well, of course, it had been in my mind +for some time. I don't claim that the idea is original; it has +often been done in our family. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well then, if +you will get ready, my dear, I will go and find our three friends +and see that they come this way. [<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>As soon as they are out of sight the</i> PRINCESS <i>comes +back</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, Woodcutter, what did I tell you?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What did you tell me?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Didn't you listen to what they said?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I didn't listen, but I couldn't help hearing.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, <i>I</i> couldn't help listening. And unless you +stop it somehow, I shall be married to one of them to-night.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Which one?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. The one with the kindest heart—whichever that +is.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Supposing they all three have kind hearts?</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>confidently</i>). They won't. They never have. In +our circles when three Princes come together, one of them has a +kind heart and the other two haven't. (<i>Surprised</i>) Haven't +you read any History at all?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I have no time for reading. But I think it's time +History was altered a little. We'll alter it this afternoon.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. What do you mean?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Leave this to me. I've got an idea.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>clapping her hands</i>). Oh, how clever of you! But +what do you want me to do?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>pointing</i>). You know the glade over there +where the brook runs through it? Wait for me there.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I obey my lord's commands.</p> +<p>[<i>She blows him a kiss and runs off</i></p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>resumes his work. By and by the</i> +RED PRINCE <i>comes along. He is a—well, you will see for +yourself what he is like</i>.)</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Ah, fellow. . . . Fellow! . . . I said fellow! +(<i>Yes, that sort of man.)</i></p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>looking up</i>.) Were you speaking to me, my +lord?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. There is no other fellow here that I can see.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>looks round to make sure, peers behind +a tree or two, and comes back to the</i> PRINCE.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Yes, you must have meant me.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Yes, of course I meant you, fellow. Have you seen +the Princess come past this way? I was told she was waiting for me +here.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. She is not here, my lord. (<i>Looking round to see +that they are alone</i>) My lord, are you one of the Princes who is +seeking the hand of the Princess.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>complacently</i>). I am, fellow.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. His Majesty the King was here a while ago. He is to +make his decision between you this afternoon. (<i>Meaningly</i>) I +think I can help you to be the lucky one, my lord.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. You suggest that I take an unfair advantage over my +fellow-competitors?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I suggest nothing, my lord. I only say that I can +help you.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>magnanimously</i>). Well, I will allow you to +help me.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Thank you. Then I will give you this advice. If a +beggar woman asks you for a crust of bread this afternoon, +remember—it is the test!</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>staggered</i>). The test! But I haven't +<i>got</i> a crust of bread!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Wait here and I will get you one.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes into the hut</i>)</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>speaking after him as he goes</i>). My good +fellow, I am extremely obliged to you, and if ever I can do +anything for you, such as returning a crust to you of similar size, +or even lending you another slightly smaller one, or—— +(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>comes back with the</i> <i>crust</i>.) +Ah, thank you, my man, thank you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I would suggest, my lord, that you should take a +short walk in this direction (<i>pointing to the opposite direction +to that which the</i> PRINCESS <i>has taken</i>), and stroll back +casually in a few minutes' time when the Queen is here.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Thank you, my man, thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He puts the crust in his pocket and goes off</i>.) +(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>goes on with his work. The</i> BLUE +PRINCE <i>comes in and stands watching him in silence for some +moments</i>.) WOODCUTTER (<i>looking up</i>). Hullo!</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Hullo!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What do you want?</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. The Princess.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. She's not here.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Oh!</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>goes on with his work and the</i> +PRINCE <i>goes on looking at him</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>struck with an idea</i>). Are you one of the +Princes who is wooing the Princess?</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Yes.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>coming towards him</i>). I believe I could help +your Royal Highness.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Do.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>doubtfully</i>). It would perhaps be not Quite +fair to the others.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Don't mind.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Well then, listen. (<i>He pauses a moment and looks +round to see that they are alone</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. I'm listening.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. If you come back in five minutes, you will see a +beggar woman sitting here. She will ask you for a crust of bread. +You must give it to her, for it is the way His Majesty has chosen +of testing your kindness of heart.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE (<i>feeling in his pockets</i>). No bread.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I will give you some.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Do.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>taking a piece from his pocket</i>). Here you +are.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Thanks.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Not at all, I'm very glad to have been able to help +you.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes on with his work. The</i> BLUE PRINCE <i>remains +looking at him</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE (<i>with a great effort</i>). Thanks.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes slowly away. A moment later the</i> YELLOW PRINCE +<i>makes a graceful and languid entry</i>.)</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, come hither, my man, come hither.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>stopping his work and looking up</i>). You want +me, sir?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Come hither, my man. Tell me, has her Royal +Highness the Princess passed this way lately?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. The Princess?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, the Princess, my bumpkin. But perhaps you +have been too much concerned in your own earthy affairs to have +noticed her. You—ah—cut wood, I see.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Yes, sir, I am a woodcutter.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. A most absorbing life. Some day we must have a +long talk about it. But just now I have other business waiting for +me. With your permission, good friend, I will leave you to your +faggots. (<i>He starts to go</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Beg your pardon, sir, but are you one of those +Princes that want to marry our Princess?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. I had hoped, good friend, to obtain your +permission to do so. I beg you not to refuse it.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. You are making fun of me, sir.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Discerning creature.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. All the same, I <i>can</i> help you.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Then pray do so, log-chopper, and earn my +everlasting gratitude.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. The King has decided that whichever of you three +Princes has the kindest heart shall marry his daughter.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Then you will be able to bear witness to him that +I have already wasted several minutes of my valuable time in +condescending to a mere faggot-splitter. Tell him this and the +prize is mine. (<i>Kissing the tips of his fingers</i>) Princess, I +embrace you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. The King will not listen to me. But if you return +here in five minutes, you will find an old woman begging for bread. +It is the test which their Majesties have arranged for you. If you +share your last crust with her—</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, but do I look as if I carried a last crust +about with me?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. But see, I will give you one.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE (<i>taking it between the tips of his +fingers</i>). Yes, but—</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Put it in your pocket, and when—</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. But, my dear bark-scraper, have you no feeling +for clothes at all? How can I put a thing like this in my pocket? +(<i>Handing it back to him</i>) I beg you to wrap it up. Here take +this. (<i>Gives him a scarf</i>) Neatly, I pray you. (<i>Taking an +orange ribbon out of his pocket</i>) Perhaps a little of this round +it would make it more tolerable. You think so? I leave it to you. I +trust your taste entirely. . . . Leaving a loop for the little +finger, I entreat you . . . so. (<i>He hangs it on his little +finger</i>) In about five minutes, you said? We will be there. +(<i>With a bow</i>) We thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He departs delicately. The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>smiles to +himself, puts down his axe and goes off to the</i> PRINCESS. <i>And +just in time. For behold! the</i> KING <i>and</i> QUEEN <i>return. +At least we think it is the</i> QUEEN, <i>but she is so heavily +disguised by a cloak which she wears over her court dress, that for +a moment we are not quite sure</i>.)</p> +<p>KING. Now then, my love, if you will sit down on that log +there—(<i>placing her</i>)—excellent—I think +perhaps you should remove the crown. (<i>Removes it</i>) There! Now +the disguise is perfect.</p> +<p>QUEEN. You're sure they are coming? It's a very uncomfortable +seat.</p> +<p>KING. I told them that the Princess was waiting for them here. +Their natural disappointment at finding I was mistaken will make +the test of their good nature an even more exacting one. My own +impression is that the Yellow Prince will be the victor.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Oh, I hate that man.</p> +<p>KING (<i>soothingly</i>). Well, well, perhaps it will be the +Blue one.</p> +<p>QUEEN. If anything, I dislike him <i>more</i> intensely.</p> +<p>KING. Or even the Red.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Ugh! I can't bear him.</p> +<p>KING. Fortunately, dear, you are not called upon to marry any of +them. It is for our darling that we are making the great decision. +Listen! I hear one coming. I will hide in the cottage and take note +of what happens.</p> +<p>(<i>He disappears into the cottage as the</i> BLUE PRINCE +<i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN. Oh, sir, can you kindly spare a crust of bread for a poor +old woman! Please, pretty gentleman!</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE (<i>standing stolidly in front of her and feeling in +his pocket</i>). Bread . . . Bread . . . Ah! Bread! (<i>He offers +it</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN. Oh, thank you, sir. May you be rewarded for your gentle +heart.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He stands gazing at her. There is an awkward pause</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN. A blessing on you, sir.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. (<i>He indicates the crust</i>) +Bread.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Ah, you have saved the life of a poor old +woman——</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Eat it.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>embarrassed</i>). +I—er—you—er——(<i>She takes a bite and +mumbles something</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. What?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>swallowing with great difficulty</i>). I'm almost too +happy to eat, sir. Leave a poor old woman alone with her happiness, +and——</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Not too happy. Too weak. Help you eat. (<i>He +breaks off a piece and holds it to her mouth. With a great effort +the</i> QUEEN <i>disposes of it</i>.) Good! . . . Again! (<i>She +does it again</i>.) Now! (<i>She swallows another piece</i>.) Last +piece! (<i>She takes it in. He pats her kindly on the back, and she +nearly chokes</i>.) Good. . . . Better now?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>weakly</i>). Much.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Good day.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with an effort</i>). Good day, kind gentleman.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> KING <i>is just coming from the cottage, when he +returns suddenly. The</i> KING <i>slips back again</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Small piece left over. (<i>He gives it to her. She +looks hopelessly at him</i>.) Good-bye.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes</i>.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>throwing the piece down violently</i>). Ugh! What a +man!</p> +<p>KING (<i>coming out</i>). Well, well, my dear, we have +discovered the winner.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>from the heart</i>). Detestable person!</p> +<p>KING. The rest of the competition is of course more in the +nature of a formality—</p> +<p>QUEEN. Thank goodness.</p> +<p>KING. However, I think that it will prevent unnecessary +discussion afterwards if we—Take care, here is another one. +(<i>He hurries back</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Enter the</i> RED PRINCE.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with not nearly so much conviction</i>). Could you +spare a crust of bread, sir, for a poor hungry old woman?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. A crust of bread, madam? Certainly. As luck will +have it, I have a crust on me. My last one, but—your need is +greater than mine. Eat, I pray.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Not at all. Come, eat. Let me have the pleasure of +seeing you eating.</p> +<p>QUEEN. M-might I take it home with me, pretty gentleman?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>firmly</i>). No, no. I must see you eating. Come! +I will take no denial.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. (<i>Hopefully</i>) Won't you share it +with me?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. No, I insist on your having it all. I am in the mood +to be generous. Oblige me by eating it now for I am in a hurry; yet +I will not go until you have eaten. (<i>She does her best</i>.) You +eat but slowly. (<i>Sternly</i>) Did you deceive me when you said +you were hungry?</p> +<p>QUEEN. N-no. I'm very hungry. (<i>She eats</i>)</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. That's better. Now understand—however poor I +am, I can always find a crust of bread for an old woman. Always! +Remember this when next you are hungry. . . . You spoke? (<i>She +shakes her head and goes on eating</i>.) Finished?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with great difficulty</i>). Yes, thank you, pretty +gentleman.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. There's a piece on the ground there that you +dropped. (<i>She eats it in dumb agony</i>) Finished?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>huskily</i>). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Then I will leave you, madam. Good morning.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> QUEEN <i>rises in fury. The</i> KING <i>is about +to</i> <i>come out of the cottage, when the</i> YELLOW PRINCE +<i>enters. The</i> QUEEN <i>sits down again and</i> <i>mumbles +something. It is certainly not an</i> <i>appeal for bread, but +the</i> YELLOW PRINCE <i>is not</i> <i>to be denied</i>.)</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE (<i>gallantly</i>). My poor woman, you are in +distress. It pains me to see it, madam, it pains me terribly. Can +it be that you are hungry? I thought so, I thought so. Give me the +great pleasure, madam, of relieving your hunger. See (<i>holding up +his finger</i>), my own poor meal. Take it! It is yours.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with difficulty</i>). I am not hungry.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, madam, I see what it is. You do not wish to +deprive me. You tell yourself, perchance, that it is not fitting +that one in your station of life should partake of the meals of the +highly born. You are not used, you say, to the food of Princes. +Your rougher palate——</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>hopefully</i>). Did you say food of princes?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Where was I, madam? You interrupted me. No +matter—eat. (<i>She takes the scarf and unties the +ribbon</i>.) Ah, now I remember. I was saying that your rougher +palate——</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>discovering the worst</i>). No! No! Not bread!</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Bread, madam, the staff of life. Come, madam, +will you not eat? (<i>She tries desperately</i>.) What can be more +delightful than a crust of bread by the wayside?</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> QUEEN <i>shrieks and falls back in a swoon. The</i> +KING <i>rushes out to her</i>.)</p> +<p>KING (<i>to</i> YELLOW PRINCE). Quick, quick, find the +Princess.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. The Princess—find the Princess! (<i>He goes +vaguely off and we shall not see him again. But the</i> WOODCUTTER +<i>and the</i> PRINCESS <i>do not need to be found. They are +here</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>to</i> PRINCESS). Go to her, but don't show that +you know me.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes into the cottage, and the</i> PRINCESS <i>hastens to +her father</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Father!</p> +<p>KING. Ah, my dear, you're just in time. Your +mother——</p> +<p>PRINCESS. My mother?</p> +<p>KING. Yes, yes. A little plan of mine—of hers—your +poor mother. Dear, dear!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. But what's the matter?</p> +<p>KING. She is suffering from a surfeit of bread, +and——</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>comes up with a flagon of +wine</i>)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Poor old woman! She has fainted from exhaustion. Let +me give her some——</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>shrieking</i>). No, no, not bread! I will <i>not</i> +have any more bread.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Drink this, my poor woman.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>opening her eyes</i>). Did you say drink? (<i>She +seizes the flagon and drinks</i>)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Oh, sir, you have saved my mother's life!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Not at all.</p> +<p>KING. I thank you, my man, I thank you.</p> +<p>QUEEN. My deliverer! Tell me who you are!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. It is my mother, the Queen, who asks you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>amazed, as well he may be</i>). The Queen!</p> +<p>KING. Yes, yes. Certainly, the Queen.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>taking off his hat</i>). Pardon, your Majesty. I +am a woodcutter, who lives alone here, far away from courts.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Well, you've got more sense in your head than any of the +Princes that <i>I've</i> seen lately. You'd better come to +court.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>shyly</i>). You will be very welcome, sir.</p> +<p>QUEEN. And you'd better marry the Princess.</p> +<p>KING. Isn't that perhaps going a <i>little</i> too far, +dear?</p> +<p>QUEEN. Well, you wanted kindness of heart in your son-in-law, +and you've got it. And he's got common sense too. (<i>To</i> +WOODCUTTER) Tell me, what do you think of bread as—as a form +of nourishment?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>cautiously</i>). One can have too much of it.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Exactly my view. (<i>To</i> KING) There you are, you +see.</p> +<p>KING. Well, if you insist. The great thing, of course, is that +our darling child should be happy.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I will do my best, father. (<i>She takes the</i> +WOODCUTTER'S <i>hand</i>.)</p> +<p>KING. Then the marriage will take place this evening. (<i>With a +wave of his wand</i>) Let the revels begin.</p> +<p>(<i>They begin</i>)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3><font size="+1">ACT II</font>.—OLIVER'S ISLAND</h3> +<h4>SCENE I.—<i>The Schoolroom</i> (<i>Ugh!</i>)</h4> +<p>OLIVER <i>is discovered lying flat on his</i>—<i>well, +lying flat on</i> <i>the floor, deep in a book. The</i> CURATE +<i>puts his head in at the door</i>.</p> +<p>CURATE. Ah, our young friend, Oliver! And how are we this +morning, dear lad?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>mumbling</i>). All right, thanks.</p> +<p>CURATE. That's well, that's well. Deep in our studies, I see, +deep in our studies. And what branch of Knowledge are we pursuing +this morning?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>without looking up</i>). "Marooned in the Pacific," +or "The Pirate's Bride."</p> +<p>CURATE. Dear, dear, what will Miss Pinniger say to this +interruption of our studies?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Silly old beast.</p> +<p>CURATE. Tut-tut, dear lad, that is not the way to speak of our +mentors and preceptors. So refined and intelligent a lady as Miss +Pinniger. Indeed I came here to see her this morning on a little +matter of embroidered vestments. Where is she, dear lad?</p> +<p>OLIVER. It isn't nine yet.</p> +<p>CURATE (<i>looking at his watch</i>). Past nine, past nine.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>jumping up</i>). Je-hoshaphat!</p> +<p>CURATE. Oliver! Oliver! My dear lad! Swearing at <i>your</i> +age! Really, I almost feel it my duty to inform your +aunt——</p> +<p>OLIVER. Fat lot of swearing in just mentioning one of the Kings +of Israel.</p> +<p>CURATE. Of Judah, dear boy, of Judah. To be ignorant on such a +vital matter makes it even more reprehensible. I cannot believe +that our dear Miss Pinniger has so neglected your education +that——</p> +<p><i>Enter our dear</i> MISS PINNIGER, <i>the Governess</i>.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Ah, Mr. Smilax; how pleasant to see you!</p> +<p>CURATE. My dear Miss Pinniger! You will forgive me for +interrupting you in your labours, but there is a small matter +of—ah!——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Certainly, Mr. Smilax. I will walk down to the gate +with you. Oliver, where is Geraldine?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Aunt Jane wanted her.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Well, you should be at your lessons. It's nine +o'clock. The fact that I am momentarily absent from the room should +make no difference to your zeal.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>without conviction</i>). No, Miss Pinniger. (<i>He +sits down at his desk, putting "Marooned in the Pacific" inside +it</i>.)</p> +<p>CURATE (<i>playfully</i>). For men must work, Oliver, men must +work. How doth the little busy bee—Yes, Miss Pinniger, I am +with you. [<i>They go out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>opening his poetry book and saying it to +himself</i>). It was a summer evening—It was a summer +evening—(<i>He stops, refers to the book, and then goes on to +himself</i>) Old Kaspar's work was done. It was a summer evening, +Old Kaspar's work was done——</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> GERALDINE—<i>or</i> JILL.</p> +<p>JILL. Where's Pin?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Hallo, Jill. Gone off with Dearly Belovéd. Her +momentary absence from the room should make no difference to your +zeal, my dear Geraldine. And what are we studying this morning, +dear child? (<i>To himself</i>) It was a summer evening, Old +Kaspar's work was done.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>giggling</i>). Is that Pin?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Pin and Dearly Belovéd between them. She's a bit +batey this morning.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>at her desk</i>). And all my sums have done themselves +wrong. (<i>Hard at it with paper and pencil</i>) What's nine times +seven, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Fifty-six. Old Kaspar's work was done. Jolly well wish +mine was. And he before his cottage door. Fat lot of good my +learning this stuff if I'm going to be a sailor. I bet Beatty +didn't mind what happened to rotten old Kaspar when he saw a German +submarine.</p> +<p>JILL. Six and carry five. Aunt Jane has sent for the doctor to +look at my chest.</p> +<p>OLIVER. What's the matter with your chest?</p> +<p>JILL. I blew my nose rather loud at prayers this morning.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I say, Jill, you <i>are</i> going it!</p> +<p>JILL. It wasn't my fault, Oliver. Aunt Jane turned over two +pages at once and made me laugh, so I had to turn it into a +blow.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Bet you what you like she knew.</p> +<p>JILL. Of course she did, and she'll tell the doctor, and he'll +be as beastly as he can. What did she say to you for being +late?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I said somebody had bagged my sponge, and she wouldn't +like me to come down to prayers all unsponged, and she said, +"Excuses, Oliver, <i>always</i> excuses! Leave me. I will see you +later." Suppose that means I've got to go to bed this afternoon. +Jill, if I do, be sporty and bring me up "Marooned in the +Pacific."</p> +<p>JILL. They'll lock the door. They always do.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Then I shall jolly well go up for a handkerchief this +morning, and shove it in the bed, just in case. +Cavé—here's Pin.</p> +<p>MISS PINNIGER <i>returns to find them full of zeal</i>.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>sitting down at her desk</i>). Well, Oliver, have +you learnt your piece of poetry?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>nervously</i>). I—I think so, Miss +Pinniger.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Close the book, and stand up and say it. (<i>Oliver +takes a last despairing look, and stands up</i>.) Well?</p> +<p>OLIVER. It was a summer evening——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. The title and the author first, Oliver. Everything in +its proper order.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh, I say, I didn't know I had to learn the title.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>in a whisper</i>). After Blenheim.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Geraldine, kindly attend to your own work.</p> +<p>OLIVER. After Blenheim. It was a summer evening.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey. One of our +greatest poets.</p> +<p>OLIVER. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey, one of our greatest +poets. It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was +done—er—Old Kaspar's work was done—er—work +was done, er . . .</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. And he before——</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh yes, of course. And he before—er—and he +before—er—It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work +was done, and he before—er—and he before—— +Er, it <i>was</i> a summer evening——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. So you have already said, Oliver.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I just seem to have forgotten this bit, Miss Pinniger. +And he before——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Well, what was he before?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>hopefully</i>). Blenheim? Oh no, it was <i>after</i> +Blenheim.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>wearily</i>). His cottage door.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oo, yes. And he before his cottage door was sitting in +the sun. (<i>He clears his throat</i>) Was sitting in the sun. +Er—(<i>He coughs again</i>)—er——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. You have a cough, Oliver. Perhaps the doctor had +better see you when he comes to see Geraldine.</p> +<p>OLIVER. It was just something tickling my throat, Miss Pinniger. +Er—it was a summer evening.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. You haven't learnt it, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Yes, I have, Miss Pinniger, only I can't quite remember +it. And he before his cottage door——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Is it any good, Geraldine, asking you if you have got +any of your sums right?</p> +<p>JILL. I've got one, Miss Pinniger . . . nearly right . . . +except for some of the figures.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Well, we shall have to spend more time at our +lessons, that's all. This +afternoon—ah—er——</p> +<p>(<i>She stands up as</i> AUNT JANE <i>and the</i> DOCTOR <i>come +in</i>.)</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I'm sorry to interrupt lessons, Miss Pinniger, but I +have brought the Doctor to see Geraldine. (<i>To</i> DOCTOR) You +will like her to go to her room?</p> +<p>DOCTOR. No, no, dear lady. There is no need. Her pulse—(He +<i>feels it</i>)——dear, dear! Her tongue—(<i>She +puts it out</i>)—tut-tut! A milk diet, plenty of +rice-pudding, and perhaps she would do well to go to bed this +afternoon.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I will see to it, doctor.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>mutinously</i>). I <i>feel</i> quite well.</p> +<p>DOCTOR (<i>to</i> AUNT JANE). A dangerous symptom. <i>Plenty</i> +of rice-pudding.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oliver was coughing just now.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>to himself</i>). Shut up!</p> +<p>DOCTOR (<i>turning to</i> OLIVER). Ah! His pulse—(<i>Feels +it</i>) —tut-tut! His tongue—(OLIVER <i>puts it +out</i>) Dear, dear! The same treatment, dear lady, as prescribed +in the other case.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>under his breath</i>). Beast!</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. Castor-oil, liquorice-powder, ammoniated +quinine—anything of that nature, doctor?</p> +<p>DOCTOR. <i>As</i> necessary, dear lady, <i>as</i> necessary. The +system must be stimulated. Nature must be reinforced.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE (to GOVERNESS). Which do they dislike least?</p> +<p>OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL (<i>hastily</i>). Liquorice-powder!</p> +<p>DOCTOR. Then concentrate on the other two, dear lady.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. Thank you, doctor. [<i>They go out</i>.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. We will now go on with our lessons. Oliver, you will +have opportunities in your bedroom this afternoon of learning your +poetry. By the way, I had better have that book which you were +reading when I came in just now.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>trying to be surprised</i>). Which book?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>nobly doing her best to save the situation</i>). Miss +Pinniger, if you're multiplying rods, poles, or perches by nine, +does it matter if——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I am talking to Oliver, Geraldine. Where is that +book, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh, <i>I</i> know the one you mean. I must have put it +down somewhere. (<i>He looks vaguely about the room</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Perhaps you put it in your desk.</p> +<p>OLIVER. My desk?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>going up to</i> MISS PINNIGER <i>with her work</i>). +You see, it's all gone wrong here, and I think I must have +multiplied—— (<i>Moving in front of her as she +moves</i>) I think I must have multiplied——</p> +<p>(<i>Under cover of this</i>, OLIVER <i>makes a great effort to +get the book into</i> JILL'S <i>desk, but it is no good</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>brushing aside</i> JILL <i>and advancing on</i> +OLIVER). Thank you, <i>I</i> will take it.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>looking at the title</i>). Oh yes, this is the +one.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. And I will speak to your aunt at <i>once</i> about +the behaviour of both of you. [<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>gallantly</i>). <i>I</i> don't care.</p> +<p>JILL. I did try to help you, Oliver.</p> +<p>OLIVER. You wait. Won't I jolly well bag something of hers one +day, just when she wants it.</p> +<p>JILL. I'm afraid you'll find the afternoon rather tiring without +your book. What will you do?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I suppose I shall have to think.</p> +<p>JILL. What shall you think about?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I shall think I'm on my desert island.</p> +<p>JILL. Which desert island?</p> +<p>OLIVER. The one I always pretend I'm on when I'm thinking.</p> +<p>JILL. Isn't there any one else on it ever?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oo, lots of pirates and Dyaks and cannibals +and—other people.</p> +<p>JILL. What sort of other people?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I shan't tell you. This is a special think I thought +last night. As soon as I thought of it, I decided to keep it for +(<i>impressively</i>) a moment of great emergency.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>silenced</i>). Oh! . . . Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER Yes?</p> +<p>JILL. Let me be on your desert island this time. Because I did +try to help you.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well—well—— (<i>Generously</i>) Well, +you can if you like.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, thank you, Oliver. Won't you tell me what it's about, +and then we can both think it together this afternoon.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I expect you'll think all sorts of silly things that +<i>never</i> happen on a desert island.</p> +<p>JILL. I'll try not to, Oliver, if you tell me.</p> +<p>OLIVER. All right.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>coming close to him</i>). Go on.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well, you see, I've been wrecked, you see, and the ship +has foundered with all hands, you see, and I've been cast ashore on +a desert island, you see.</p> +<p>JILL. Haven't I been cast ashore too?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well, you will be this afternoon, of course. Well, you +see, we land on the island, you see, and it's a perfectly ripping +island, you see, and—and we land on it, you see, and . . +.</p> +<hr> +<p><i>But we are getting on too fast. When the good ship crashed +upon the rock and split in twain, it seemed like that all aboard +must perish. Fortunately</i> OLIVER <i>was made of stern mettle. +Hastily constructing a raft and placing the now unconscious</i> +JILL <i>upon it, he launched it into the seething maelstrom of +waters and pushed off. Tossed like a cockle-shell upon the +mountainous waves, the tiny craft with its precious freight was in +imminent danger of foundering. But</i> OLIVER <i>was made of stern +mettle. With dauntless courage he rigged a jury-mast, and placed a +telescope to his eye. "Pull for the lagoon</i>, JILL," <i>cried the +dauntless</i> OLIVER, <i>and in another moment</i>. . . .</p> +<p><i>As the raft glides into the still waters beyond the reef, we +can see it more clearly. Can it be</i> JILL'S <i>bed, with</i> +OLIVER <i>in his pyjamas perched on the rail, and holding up his +bath-towel? Does he shorten sail for a moment to thump his chest +and say, "But</i> OLIVER <i>was made of stern mettle"? Or is +it</i>——</p> +<p><i>But the sun is sinking behind the swamp where the +rattlesnakes bask. For a moment longer the sail gleams like copper +in its rays, and then</i>—<i>-fizz-z</i>—<i>we have +lost it. See! Is that speck on the inky black waters the dauntless +Oliver? It is. Let us follow to the island and see what adventures +befall him</i>.</p> +<p>SCENE II.—<i>It is the island which we have dreamed about +all our lives. But at present we cannot see it properly, for it is +dark. In one of those tropical darknesses which can be felt rather +than seen</i> OLIVER <i>hands</i> JILL <i>out of the boat</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Tread carefully, Jill, there are lots of deadly +rattlesnakes about.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>stepping hastily back into the boat</i>). Oli-ver!</p> +<p>OLIVER. You hear the noise of their rattles sometimes when the +sun is sinking behind the swamp. (<i>The deadly rattle of the +rattlesnake is heard</i>) There!</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, are they very deadly? Because if they are, I +don't think I shall like your island.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Those aren't. I always have their teeth taken out when +ladies are coming. Besides, it's daylight now.</p> +<p>(<i>With a rapidity common in the tropics</i>—<i>although +it may just be</i> OLIVER'S <i>gallantry</i>—<i>the sun +climbs out of the sea, and floods the island</i>, JILL, <i>no +longer frightened, steps out of the boat, and they walk up to the +clearing in the middle</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>looking about her</i>). Oh, what a lovely island! I +think it's lovely, Oliver.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>modestly</i>). It's pretty decent, isn't it? Won't +you lie down? I generally lie down here and watch the turtles +coming out of the sea to deposit their eggs on the sand.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>lying down</i>). How many do they de-deposit usually, +Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh, three—or a hundred. Just depends how hungry I +am. Have a bull's-eye, won't you?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>excitedly</i>). Oh, did you bring some?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>annoyed</i>). Bring some? (<i>Brightening up</i>) Oh, +you mean from the wreck?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>hastily</i>). Yes, from the wreck. I mean besides the +axe and the bag of nails and the gunpowder.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Couldn't. The ship sank with all hands before I could +get them. But it doesn't matter, because (<i>going up to one of the +trees</i>) I recognise this as the bull's-eye tree. (<i>He picks a +couple of bull's-eyes and gives one to her</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, how lovely! Thank you. (<i>She puts it in her +mouth</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>sucking hard</i>). There was nothing but breadfruit +trees here the first time I was marooned on it. Rotten things to +have on a decent island. So I planted a bull's-eye tree, and a +barley-sugar-cane grove, and one or two other things, and made a +jolly ripping place of it.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>pointing</i>). What's that tree over there?</p> +<p>OLIVER. That one? Rice-pudding tree.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>getting up indignantly</i>). Oliver! Take me back to +the boat at once.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I say, shut up, Jill. You didn't think I meant it for +<i>you</i>, did you?</p> +<p>JILL. But there's only you and me on the island.</p> +<p>OLIVER. What about the domestic animals? I suppose +<i>they've</i> got to eat.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, how lovely! Have we got a goat and a parrot, and +a—a—</p> +<p>OLIVER. Much better than that. Look in that cage there.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, is that a cage? I never noticed it. What do I do?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>going to it</i>). Here, I'll show you (<i>He draws +the blind, and the</i> DOCTOR <i>is exposed sitting on a stump of +wood and blinking at the sudden light</i>) What do you think of +that?</p> +<p>JILL. Oliver!</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>proudly</i>). I thought of that in bed one night. +Spiffing idea, isn't it? I've got some other ones in the plantation +over there. Awfully good specimens. I feed 'em on rice-pudding.</p> +<p>JILL. Can this one talk?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I'm teaching it. (<i>Stirring it up with a stick</i>) +Come up there.</p> +<p>DOCTOR (<i>mumbling</i>). Ninety-nine, ninety-nine . . .</p> +<p>OLIVER. That's all it can say at present. I'm going to give it a +swim in the lagoon to-morrow. I want to see if there are any +sharks. If there aren't, then we can bathe there afterwards.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> DOCTOR <i>shudders</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Have you given it a name yet? I think I should like to +call it Fluffkins.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Righto! Good night, Fluffkins. Time little doctors were +in bed. (<i>He pulls down the blind</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>lying down again</i>). Well, I think it's a lovely +island.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>lying beside her</i>). If there's anything you want, +you know, you've only got to say so. Pirates or anything like that. +There's a ginger-beer well if you're thirsty.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>closing her eyes</i>). I'm quite happy, Oliver, thank +you.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>after a pause, a little awkwardly</i>). Jill, you +didn't ever want to marry a pirate, did you?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>still on her back with her eyes shut</i>). I hadn't +thought about it much, Oliver dear.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Because I can get you an awfully decent pirate, if you +like, and if I was his brother-in-law it would be ripping. I've +often been marooned with him, of course, but never as his +brother-in-law.</p> +<p>JILL. Why don't you marry his daughter and be his +son-in-law?</p> +<p>OLIVER. He hasn't got a daughter.</p> +<p>JILL. Well, you could think him one.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I don't want to. If ever I'm such a silly ass as to +marry, which I'm jolly well not going to be, I shall marry +a—a dusky maiden. Jill, be sporty. All girls have to get +married some time. It's different with men.</p> +<p>JILL. Very well, Oliver. I don't want to spoil your +afternoon.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Good biz. (<i>He stands up, shuts his eyes and waves his +hands about</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Enter the</i> PIRATE CHIEF.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF (<i>with a flourish</i>). Gentles, your servant. +Commodore Crookshank, at your service. Better known on the Spanish +Main as One-eared Eric.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Glad to meet you, Commodore. I'm—er— +Two-toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks. But you may call me +Oliver, if you like. This is my sister Jill—the Pride of the +Pampas.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF (<i>with another bow</i>). Charmed!</p> +<p>JILL (<i>politely</i>). Don't mention it, Commodore.</p> +<p>OLIVER. My sister wants to marry you. Er—carry on. (<i>He +moves a little away from them and lies down</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>sitting down and indicating a place beside her</i>). +Won't you sit down, Commodore?</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Thank you, madam. The other side if I may. I shall +hear better if you condescend to accept me. (<i>He sits down on the +other side of her</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, I'm so sorry! I was forgetting about your ear.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Don't mention it. A little discussion in the La +Plata river with a Spanish gentleman. At the end of it I was an ear +short and he was a head short. It was considered in the family that +I had won.</p> +<p>(<i>There is an awkward pause</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>shyly</i>). Well, Commodore?</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Won't you call me Eric?</p> +<p>JILL. I am waiting, Eric.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Madam, I am not a marrying man, not to any extent, +but if you would care to be Mrs. Crookshank, I'd undertake on my +part to have the deck swabbed every morning, and to put a polish on +the four-pounder that you could see your pretty face in.</p> +<p>JILL. Eric, how sweet of you. But I think you must speak to my +brother in the library first. Oli-ver!</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>coming up</i>). Hallo! Settled it?</p> +<p>JILL. It's all settled, Oliver, between Eric and myself, but you +will want to ask him about his prospects, won't you?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Yes, yes, of course.</p> +<p>PIRATE. I shall be very glad to tell you anything I can, sir. I +think I may say that I am doing fairly well in my profession.</p> +<p>OLIVER. What's your ship? A sloop or a frigate?</p> +<p>PIRATE. A brigantine.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>excited</i>). Oh, that's what Oliver puts on his hair +when he goes to a party.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>annoyed</i>). Shut up, Jill! A brigantine? Ah yes, a +rakish craft, eh, Commodore?</p> +<p>PIRATE (<i>earnestly</i>). Extremely rakish.</p> +<p>OLIVER. And how many pieces of eight have you?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Nine thousand.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Ah! (To JILL) What's nine times eight?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>to herself</i>). Nine times eight.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>to himself</i>). Nine times eight.</p> +<p>PIRATE (to <i>himself</i>). Nine times eight.</p> +<p>JILL. Seventy-two.</p> +<p>PIRATE. I made it seventy-one, but I expect you're right.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Then you've seventy-two thousand pieces altogether?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Yes, sir, about that.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Any doubloons?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Hundreds of 'em.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Ingots of gold?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Lashings of 'em.</p> +<p>JILL. And he's going to polish up the four-pounder until I can +see my face in it.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I was just going to ask you about your guns. You've got +'em fore and aft of course?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Yes, sir. A four-pounder fore and a half-pounder +haft.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>a little embarrassed</i>). And do you ever have +brothers-in-law in your ship?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Well, I never have had yet, but I have always been +looking about for one.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, isn't Eric a <i>nice</i> man?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>casually</i>). I suppose the captain's brother-in-law +is generally the first man to board the Spaniard with his cutlass +between his teeth?</p> +<p>PIRATE. You might almost say always. Many a ship on the Spanish +Main I've had to leave unboarded through want of a brother-in-law. +They're touchy about it somehow. Unless the captain's +brother-in-law comes first they get complaining.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>bashfully</i>). And there's just one other thing. If +the brigantine happened to put in at an island for water, and the +captain's brother-in-law happened—just happened—to be a +silly ass and go and marry a dusky maiden, whom he met on the +beach——</p> +<p>PIRATE. Bless you, it's always happening to a captain's +brother-in-law.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>in a magnificent manner</i>). Then, Captain +Crookshank, you may take my sister!</p> +<p>JILL. Thank you, Oliver.</p> +<p>(<i>It is not every day that one-eared</i> ERIC, <i>that famous +chieftain, marries into the family of the</i> TERROR OF THE DYAKS. +<i>Naturally the occasion is celebrated by the whole pirate crew +with a rousing chorus, followed by a dance in which the dusky +maidens of the Island join. At the end of it</i>, JILL <i>finds +herself alone with</i> TUA-HEETA, <i>the Dusky Princess</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>fashionably</i>). I'm so pleased to meet my brother's +future wife. It's so nice of you to come to see me. You will have +some tea, won't you? (<i>She puts out her hand and presses an +imaginary bell</i>) I wanted to see you, because I can tell you so +many little things about my brother, which I think you ought to +know. You see, Eric—my husband—</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Ereec?</p> +<p>JILL. Yes. I wish you could see him. He's so nice-looking. But +I'm afraid he won't be home to tea. That's the worst of marrying a +sailor. They are away so much. Well, I was telling you about +Oliver. I think it would be better if you knew at once +that—he doesn't like rice-pudding.</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Rice-poodeeng?</p> +<p>JILL. Yes, he hates it. It is very important that you should +remember that. Then there's another thing—(<i>An untidy +looking servant comes in. Can it be—can it possibly be</i> +AUNT JANE? <i>Horrors!</i>) He dislikes—— Oh, there you +are, Jane. You've been a very long time answering the bell.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I'm so sorry ma'am, I was just dressing.</p> +<p>JILL. Excuses, Jane, always excuses. Leave me. Take a week's +notice. (<i>To</i> TUA-HEETA) YOU must excuse my maid. She's very +stupid. Tea at once, Jane. (AUNT JANE <i>sniffs and goes off</i>) +What was I saying? Oh yes, about Oliver. He doesn't care for +cod-liver oil in the way that some men do. You would be wise not to +force it on him just at first. . . . Have you any idea where you +are going to live?</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Live? (<i>These dusky maidens are no +conversationalists</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. I expect Oliver will wish to reside at Hammersmith, so +convenient for the City. You'll like Hammersmith. You'll go to St. +Paul's Church, I expect. The Vicar will be sure to call. +(<i>Enter</i> AUNT JANE <i>with small tea-table</i>.) Ah, here's +tea. (<i>To</i> JANE) You're very slow, Jane.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I'm sorry, ma'am.</p> +<p>JILL. It's no good being sorry. Take another week's notice. +(<i>To</i> TUA-HEETA) You must forgive my talking to my maid. She +wants such a lot of looking after. (JANE <i>puts down the +table</i>) That will do, Jane, (JANE <i>bumps against the +table</i>) Dear, dear, how clumsy you are. What wages am I giving +you now?</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. A shilling a month, ma'am.</p> +<p>JILL. Well, we'd better make it ninepence. (JANE <i>goes out in +tears</i>.) Servants are a great nuisance, aren't they? Jane is a +peculiarly stupid person. She used to be aunt to my brother, and I +have only taken her on out of charity. (<i>She pours out from an +imaginary tea-pot</i>) Milk? Sugar? (<i>She puts them in and hands +the imaginary cup to</i> TUA-HEETA.)</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Thank you. (<i>Drinks</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>pouring herself a cup</i>). I hope you like China. +(<i>She drinks, and then rings an imaginary bell</i>) Well, as I +was saying——(<i>Enter</i> AUNT JANE.) You can clear +away, Jane.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. Yes, ma'am.</p> +<p>(<i>She clears away the tea and</i> TUA-HEETA <i>and</i>— +<i>very quickly</i>—<i>herself, as</i> OLIVER <i>comes +back</i>. OLIVER <i>has been discussing boarding-tactics with his +brother-in-law.</i> CAPTAIN CROOKSHANK <i>belongs to the now +old-fashioned Marlinspike School;</i> OLIVER <i>is for well-primed +pistols</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, I love your island. I've been thinking things +all by myself. You're married to Tua-heeta. You don't mind, do +you?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Not at all, Jill. Make yourself at home. I've just been +trying the doctor in the lagoon. There <i>were</i> sharks there, +after all, so we'll have to find another place for bathing. Oh, and +I shot an elephant. What would you like to do now?</p> +<p>JILL. Just let's lie here and see what happens. (<i>What happens +is that a cassowary</i> <i>comes along</i>.) Oh, what a lovely +bird! Is it an ostrich?</p> +<p>(<i>The cassowary sniffs the air, puts its beak to the ground +and goes off again</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. Silly! It's a cassowary, of course.</p> +<p>JILL. What's a cassowary?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Jill! Don't you remember the rhyme?</p> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">I wish I were a +cassowary</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">Upon the plains of +Timbuctoo</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">And then I'd eat a +missionary—</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">And hat and gloves and +hymn-book too!</span><br> +<p>JILL. Is that all they're for?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well, what else would you want them for?</p> +<p>(<i>A</i> MISSIONARY, <i>pith-helmet, gloves, hymn-book, +umbrella, all complete</i>—<i>creeps cautiously up. He bears +a strong likeness to the curate, the</i> REVEREND SMILAX.)</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, dear +friends, but have you observed a cassowary on this island, +apparently looking for something?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Yes, we saw one just now.</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>shuddering</i>). Dear, dear, dear. You didn't +happen to ask him what was the object of his researches?</p> +<p>JILL. He went so quickly.</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>coming out of the undergrowth to them</i>). I +wonder if you have ever heard of a little rhyme which apparently +attributes to the bird in question, when residing in the level +pastures of Timbuctoo, an unholy lust for the body and +appurtenances thereto of an unnamed clerical gentleman?</p> +<p>OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL (<i>shouting together</i>). Yes! +Rather!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Dear, dear! Fortunately—I say +fortunately—this is not Timbuctoo! (OLIVER <i>slips away and +comes back with a notice-board "Timbuctoo," which he places at the +edge of the trees, unseen by the</i> MISSIONARY, <i>who goes on +talking to</i> JILL) I take it that a cassowary residing in other +latitudes is of a more temperate habit. His appetite, I venture to +suggest, dear lady, would be under better restraint. That being so, +I may perhaps safely—— (<i>He begins to move off, and +comes suddenly up to the notice-board</i>) Dear, dear, dear, dear, +dear! This is terrible! You said, I think, that +the—ah—bird in question was moving in <i>this</i> +direction?</p> +<p>OLIVER. That's right.</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Then I shall move, hastily yet with all due +precaution, in <i>that</i> direction. (<i>He walks off on tiptoe, +looking over his shoulder in case the cassowary should reappear. +Consequently, he does not observe the enormous</i> CANNIBAL <i>who +has appeared from the trees on the right, until he bumps into +him</i>) I beg your—— (<i>He looks up</i>) Dear, dear, +dear, dear, dear!</p> +<p>CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Yes, my dear sir, it is as you say, a beautiful +morning.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. But I was just going a little walk—in this +direction—if you will permit me.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL (<i>threateningly</i>). Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. I have noticed it, my dear sir, I have often made +that very observation to my parishioners.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL (<i>very threateningly</i>). Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Oh, what's he saying?</p> +<p>OLIVER. He says it's his birthday to-morrow.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL. Wurra, wurra wug!</p> +<p>OLIVER. And will you come to the party?</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>to</i> CANNIBAL). My dear sir, it is most kind of +you to invite me, but a prior engagement in a different part of the +country—a totally unexpected call upon me in another +locality—will unfortunately——</p> +<p>(<i>While he is talking, the cassowary comes back, sidles up to +him, and taps with his beak on the</i> MISSIONARY'S +<i>pith-helmet</i>.)</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>absently, without looking round</i>). Come in! . +. . As I was saying, my dear sir—— (<i>The bird taps +again. The</i> MISSIONARY <i>turns round annoyed</i>) Can't you see +I'm engaged——Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, dear!</p> +<p>(<i>He clasps the</i> CANNIBAL <i>in his anguish, recoils from +the</i> CANNIBAL <i>and clasps the cassowary. The three of them go +off together</i>, OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL <i>following eagerly +behind to see who gets most</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> PIRATES <i>come back, each carrying a small wooden +ammunition-box, and sit round in a semicircle, the</i> PIRATE CHIEF +<i>in the middle</i>.)</p> +<p>PIRATE. Steward! Steward!</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>hurrying in</i>). Yes, sir, coming, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Now then, tumble up, my lad. I would carouse. Circulate +the dry ginger.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>hurrying out</i>). Yes, sir, going, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Look lively, my lad, look lively.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>hurrying in</i>). Yes, sir, coming, sir. (<i>He +hands round mugs to them all</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>rising</i>). Gentlemen! (<i>They all stand up</i>) The +crew of the <i>Cocktail</i> will carouse—— (<i>They all +take one step to the right, one back, and one +left</i>—<i>which brings them behind their +boxes</i>—<i>and then place their right feet on the boxes +together</i>) One! (<i>They raise their mugs</i>) Two! (<i>They +drink</i>) Three! (<i>They bang down their mugs</i>) Four! (<i>They +wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands</i>) So! . . . +Steward!</p> +<p>STEWARD. Yes, sir, here, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. The carouse is over.</p> +<p>STEWARD. Yes, sir. (<i>He collects the mugs and goes out.) +(The</i> PIRATES <i>sit down again</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>addressing the men</i>). Having passed an hour thus in +feasting and song——</p> +<p>(<i>Hark! is it the voice of our dear</i> MISS PINNIGER? <i>It +is</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>off</i>). Oliver! Oliver! Jill! You may get up now +and come down to tea.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Having, as I say, slept off our carouse——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>off</i>). Oliver! Jill! (<i>She comes in</i>) Oh, +I beg your pardon, I—er——</p> +<p>(<i>All the</i> PIRATES <i>rise and draw their weapons</i>)</p> +<p>CHIEF. Pray do not mention it. (<i>Polishing his pistol +lovingly</i>) You were asking——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I—I was l-looking for a small +boy—Oliver—</p> +<p>CHIEF. Oliver? (<i>To</i> 1ST PIRATE) Have we any Olivers on +board?</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. NO, Captain. Only Bath Olivers.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to my +brother-in-law, hight Two-Toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh no, no—Just a small boy and his +sister—Jill.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 2ND PIRATE). Have we any Jills on board?</p> +<p>2ND PIRATE. No, Captain. Only gills of rum.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to Mrs. +Crookshank, styled the Pride of the Pampas?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh no, no, I am so sorry. Perhaps +I—er—</p> +<p>CHIEF. Wait, woman. (<i>To</i> 6TH PIRATE) Ernest, offer your +seat to the lady.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> 6TH PIRATE <i>stands up</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>nervously</i>). Oh please don't trouble, I'm +getting out at the next station—I mean I—</p> +<p>6TH PIRATE (<i>thunderously</i>). Sit down!</p> +<p>(<i>She sits down tremblingly and he stands by her with his +pistol</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF. Thank you. (<i>To</i> 1ST PIRATE) Cecil, have you your +pencil and notebook with you?</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>producing them</i>). Ay, ay, Captain.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Then we will cross-examine the prisoner. (<i>To</i> +GOVERNESS) Name?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Pinniger.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Pincher.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Christian names, if any?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Letitia.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Letisher—how would you spell +it, Captain?</p> +<p>CHIEF. Spell it like a sneeze. Age?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Twenty-three.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). Habits—untruthful. +Appearance—against her. Got that?</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. Yes, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). And what are you for?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I teach. Oliver and Jill, you know.</p> +<p>CHIEF. And what do you teach them?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh, everything. Arithmetic, French, Geography, +History, Dancing——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>holding up his hand</i>). A moment! I would take +counsel with Percy. (<i>To</i> 2ND PIRATE) Percy, what shall we ask +her in Arithmetic? (<i>The</i> 2ND PIRATE <i>whispers to him</i>.) +Excellent. (<i>To her</i>) If you really are a teacher as you say, +answer me this question. The brigantine <i>Cocktail</i> is in +longitude 40° 39' latitude 22° 50', sailing closehauled on +the port tack at 8 knots in a 15-knot nor'-nor' westerly +breeze—how soon before she sights the Azores?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I—I—I'm afraid I——You +see—I——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). Arithmetic rotten.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Arithmetic rotten.</p> +<p>CHIEF (to 3RD PIRATE). Basil, ask her a question in French.</p> +<p>3RD PIRATE. What would the mate of a French frigate say if he +wanted to say in French, "Avast there, ye lubbering swab" to a +friend like?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh, but I hardly—I——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). French futile.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). French futile.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 4TH PIRATE). I don't suppose it's much use, +Francis. But try her in Geography.</p> +<p>4TH PIRATE. Well now, lady. If you was wanting a nice creek to +lay up cosy in, atween Dago Point and the Tortofitas, where would +you run to?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. It-run to? But that isn't—of course +I——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). Geography ghastly.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Geography ghastly.</p> +<p>CHIEF (to 5TH PIRATE). Give her a last chance, Mervyn. See if +she knows any history.</p> +<p>5TH PIRATE. I suppose you couldn't tell me what year it was when +old John Cann took the <i>Saucy Codfish</i> over Black Tooth Reef +and laid her alongside the Spaniard in the harbour there, and up +comes the Don in his nightcap. "Shiver my timbers," he says in +Spanish, "but there's only one man in the whole of the Spanish +Main," he says, "and that's John Cann," he says, "who +could——"</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> GOVERNESS <i>looks dumbly at him</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF. She couldn't. History hopeless.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. History hopeless.</p> +<p>CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). What else do you teach?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Music, dancing—er—but I don't +think——</p> +<p>CHIEF. Steward!</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>coming in</i>). Yes, sir, coming, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Concertina.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>going out</i>). Yes, sir, going, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). Can you dance a hornpipe?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. No, I——</p> +<p>CHIEF. Dancing dubious.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Dancing dubious.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>coming in</i>). Concertina, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Give it to the woman. (<i>He takes it to her</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I'm afraid I——(<i>She produces one +ghastly noise and drops the concertina in alarm</i>.)</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). What shall I say, sir? Music mouldy +or music measly?</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>standing up</i>). Gentlemen, I think you will agree +with me that the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly +incapable of teaching anybody anything. Twenty-five years, man and +boy, I have sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible +exception of a dumb and half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in +'64, I have never met any one so profoundly lacking in intellect. I +propose, therefore, that for the space of twenty-four hours the +woman Pinniger should be incarcerated in the smuggler's cave, in +the company of a black beetle of friendly temperament.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Mercy! Mercy!</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. I should like to second that.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Those in favour—ay! (<i>They all say "Ay."</i>)</p> +<p>Contrary—No! (<i>The</i> GOVERNESS <i>says "No."</i>) The +motion is carried.</p> +<p>(<i>One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave. The</i> +GOVERNESS <i>rushes to the</i> CHIEF <i>and throws herself at his +feet</i>. OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL <i>appear in the nick of +time</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. A maiden in distress! I will rescue her. (<i>She looks +up and</i> OLIVER <i>recognises her</i>) Oh! Carry on, +Commodore.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> GOVERNESS <i>is lowered into the cave and the</i> +<i>door is shut</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to his men</i>). Go, find that black beetle, and +having found it, introduce it circumspectly by the back door.</p> +<p>PIRATES. Ay, ay, sir. [<i>They go out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER. All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to +rescue somebody.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>excitedly</i>). Oo, rescue me, Oliver.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>solemnly</i>). Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks, +and Pest of the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one. +Wilt fight me for the wench? (<i>He puts an arm round</i> +JILL.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. I will.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Swords?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Pistols.</p> +<p>CHIEF. At twenty paces?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Across a handkerchief.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Done! (<i>Feeling in his pockets</i>) Have you got a +handkerchief? I think I must have left mine on the +dressing-table.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>bringing out his and putting it hastily back +again</i>). Mine's rather—Jill, haven't you got one?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>feeling</i>). I know I had one, but I——</p> +<p>CHIEF. This is an ill business. Five-and-thirty duels have I +fought—and never before been delayed for lack of a +handkerchief.</p> +<p>JILL. Ah, here it is. (<i>She produces a very small one and lays +it on the ground. They stand one each side of it, pistols +ready</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. Jill, you must give the word. JILL. Are you ready?</p> +<p>(<i>The sound of a gong is heard</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF. Listen! (<i>The gong is heard again</i>) The Spanish +Fleet is engaged!</p> +<p>JILL. <i>I</i> thought it was our tea gong.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Ah, perhaps you're right.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I say, we oughtn't to miss tea. (<i>Holding out his hand +to her</i>) Come on, Jill.</p> +<p>CHIEF. But you'll come back? We shall always be waiting here for +you whenever you want us.</p> +<p>JILL. Yes, we'll come back, won't we, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oo, rather.</p> +<p>(<i>The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and +Dusky Maidens, come on. They sing as they wave good-bye to the +children who are making their way to the boat</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>from the boat</i>). Good-bye, good-bye.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Good-bye, you chaps.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>politely</i>). And thank you all for a very pleasant +afternoon.</p> +<p>[<i>They are all singing as the boat pushes off. Night comes on +with tropical suddenness. The singing dies slowly down</i>.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3><font size="+1">ACT III.</font>—FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE +HUBBARD FAMILY</h3> +<p> </p> +<p>SCENE I.—<i>The drawing-room of the</i> HUBBARDS <i>before +Fame and Prosperity came to them. It is simply furnished with a +deal table and two cane chairs</i>.</p> +<p>MR. <i>and</i> MRS. HUBBARD, <i>in faultless evening dress, are +at home</i>, MR. HUBBARD <i>reading a magazine</i>, MRS. HUBBARD +<i>with her hands in her lap. She sighs</i>.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>impetuously throwing down his magazine</i>). +Dearest, you sighed?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>quickly</i>). No, no, Henry. In a luxurious and +well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. True, dear. Not only is it artistically furnished, +as you say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all +things—(<i>he lifts up the magazine</i>)—a library.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful +for.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. We have indeed. But I am selfish. Would you care to +read? (<i>He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry.</p> +<p>(<i>They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs +again</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves +you.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>thoughtfully</i>). Isabel?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she +comes after Harold?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>counting on his fingers</i>). A, B, C, D, E, F, +G, H, I—dear me, have we got nine already?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>imploringly</i>). Darling, say you don't think +it's too many.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it +isn't as if they were real children.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>indignantly</i>). Henry! How can you say they +are not real?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they're only the children we thought +we'd like to have if Father Christmas gave us any.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here +in the house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis, +pretty Elsie with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired +Frank—</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>firmly</i>). Darling one, Frank has curly brown +hair. It was an understood thing that you should choose the girls, +and <i>I</i> should choose the boys. When we decided to +take—A, B, C, D, E, F—a sixth child, it was my turn for +a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly brown hair and a fondness +for animals.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you're right, dear. Of course it is a +little confusing when you never see your children.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will +give us some.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our +stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a +diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order +would be something.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the +chimney has not been swept for some years may have something to do +with it. Or he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot +help feeling that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this +way he would be very much annoyed.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I +am standing up in—I mean sitting down in.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of +us in the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening +dress. We are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately +cuts us off in this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go +on reading or would you like to walk up and down the room? +Fortunately these simple pleasures are left to us.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I've finished this page.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>tearing out one</i>). Have another, my love. +(<i>They read for a little while, until interrupted by a knock at +the door</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Some one at the door! Who could it be?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>getting up</i>). Just make the room look a +little more homey, dear, in case it's any one important.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes out, leaving her to alter the position of the chairs +slightly</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Well?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>coming in</i>). A letter. (<i>He opens +it</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Quick!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>whistling with surprise</i>). Father Christmas! +An invitation to Court! (<i>Reading</i>) "Father Christmas at Home, +25th December. Jollifications, 11.59 P.M." My love, he has found us +at last! (<i>They embrace each other</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry, how gratifying!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Yes. (<i>Sadly, after a pause</i>) But we can't +go.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>sadly</i>). No, I have no clothes.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Nor I.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. How can I possibly go without a diamond necklace? +None of the Montmorency-Smythe women has ever been to Court without +a diamond necklace.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. The Hubbards are a proud race. No male Hubbard +would dream of appearing at Court without a gentleman's gold Albert +watch-chain. . . . Besides, there is another thing. There will be +many footmen at Father Christmas's Court, who will doubtless +require coppers pressed into their palms. My honour would be +seriously affected, were I compelled to whisper to them that I had +no coppers.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. It is very unfortunate. Father Christmas may have +hundreds of presents waiting for us.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. True. But how would it be to hang up our stockings +again this evening—now that we know he knows we are here? I +would suggest tied on to the door-knocker, to save him the trouble +of coming down the chimney.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>excitedly</i>). Henry, I wonder! But of course +we will.</p> +<p>(<i>They begin to take off—the one a sock, the other a +stocking</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. I almost wish now that my last suit had been a +knickerbocker one. However, we must do what we can with a sock.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>holding up her stocking and looking at it a +little anxiously</i>). I hope Father Christmas won't give me a +bicycle. A stocking never sets so well after it has had a bicycle +in it.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>taking it from her</i>). Now, dear, I will go +down and put them in position. Let us hope that fortune will be +kind to us.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Let us hope so, darling. And quickly. For +(<i>picking up her page of the magazine</i>) it is a trifle cold. +[<i>He goes out and she is left reading</i>.</p> +<p>SCENE II.—<i>Outside the house the snow lies deep. The +stocking and sock are tied on to the door-knocker. There is a light +in the window</i>.</p> +<p><i>A party of carol-singers, with lanterns, come by and halt in +the snow outside the house</i>.</p> +<p>PETER ABLEWAYS. Friends, are we all assembled?</p> +<p>JONAS HUMPHREY. Ay, ay, Peter Ableways, assembled and met +together in a congregation, for the purpose of lifting up our +voices in joyous thanksgiving, videlicet the singing of a carol or +other wintry melody.</p> +<p>JENNIFER LING. Keep your breath for your song, Master Humphrey. +That last "Alleluia" of yours was a poor windy thing, lacking +grievously in substance.</p> +<p>JONAS (<i>sadly</i>). It is so. I never made much of an +Alleluia. It is not in my nature somehow. 'Tis a vain boastful +thing an Alleluia.</p> +<p>MARTHA PORRITT. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet +are cold.</p> +<p>JONAS. What matter the feet, Martha Porritt, if the heart be +warm with loving-kindness and seasonable emotions?</p> +<p>MARTHA. Well, nothing of me will be warm soon.</p> +<p>JENNIFER. Ay, let's begin, Peter Ableways, while we carry the +tune in our heads. It is ill searching for the notes in the middle +of the carol, as some singers do.</p> +<p>PETER. Well spoken, Mistress Jennifer. Now listen all, while I +unfold the nature of the entertainment. <i>Item</i>—A carol +or birth song to draw the attention of all folk to the company here +assembled and the occasion celebrated. <i>Item</i>—Applause +and the clapping of hands. <i>Item</i>—A carol or song of +thanksgiving. <i>Item</i>—A collection.</p> +<p>JONAS. An entertainment well devised, Master Ableways, sobeit +the words of the second song remain with me after I am delivered of +the first.</p> +<p>MARTHA. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are +cold.</p> +<p>PETER. Are we all ready, friends? I will say +one—two—three—and at "three" I pray you all to +give it off in a hearty manner from the chest. +One—two—</p> +<p>JONAS. Hold, hold, Master Ableways! Does it begin—No, +that's the other one. (JENNIFER <i>whispers the first line to +him</i>) Ay, ay—I have it now—and bursting to get out +of me. Proceed, Peter Ableways.</p> +<p>PETER. One—two—three—(<i>They carol</i>.)</p> +<p>PETER. Well sung, all.</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. The applause followed, good Master Peter, as ordained. +Moreover, I have the tune of the second song ready within me. +Likewise a la-la-la or two to replace such words as I have +forgotten.</p> +<p>MARTHA. Don't forget the collection, Master Ableways.</p> +<p>PETER. Ay, the collection. (<i>He takes off his hat and places +it on the ground</i>.)</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. Nay, not so fast, Master Peter. It would be ill if the +good folk thought that our success this night were to be estimated +by an empty hat. Place some of our money in it, Master Ableways. +Where money is, money will come.</p> +<p>JENNIFER. Ay, it makes a pleasing clink.</p> +<p>PETER. True, Mistress Jennifer. Master Humphrey speaks true. +(<i>He pours some coppers from his pockets into his hat</i>.)</p> +<p>MARTHA. Are we to go on, Master Ableways? My feet are cold.</p> +<p>PETER (<i>shaking the hat</i>). So, a warming noise.</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. To it again, gentles.</p> +<p>PETER. Are all ready? One—two—three! (<i>They +carol</i>.)</p> +<p>PETER. Well sung, all.</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. Have you the hat, Master Peter?</p> +<p>PETER (<i>picking it up</i>). Ay, friend, all is ready.</p> +<p>(<i>The door opens and</i> MR. HUBBARD <i>appears at the +entrance</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Good evening, friends.</p> +<p>PETER. Good evening, sir. (<i>He holds out the hat</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>looking at it</i>). What is this? (PETER +<i>shakes it</i>) Aha! Money!</p> +<p>PETER. Remember the carol singers, sir.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>helping himself</i>). My dear friends, I will +always remember you. This is most generous. I shall never forget +your kindness. This is most unexpected. But not the less welcome, +not the less—I think there's a ha'penny down there that I +missed—thank you. As I was saying, unexpected but welcome. I +thank you heartily. Good evening, friends.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes in and shuts the door</i>.</p> +<p>PETER (<i>who has been too surprised to do anything but keep his +mouth open</i>). Well! . . . Well! . . . Well, friends, let us to +the next house. We have got all that we can get here.</p> +<p>[<i>They trail off silently</i>.</p> +<p>MARTHA (<i>as they go off</i>). Master Ableways!</p> +<p>PETER. Ay, lass!</p> +<p>MARTHA. My feet aren't so cold now.</p> +<p>(<i>But this is to be an exciting night. As soon as they are +gone, a Burglar and a Burglaress steal into view</i>)</p> +<p>BILL. Wotcher get, Liz? (<i>She holds up a gold watch and chain. +He nods and holds up a diamond necklace</i>) 'Ow's that?</p> +<p>LIZ (<i>starting suddenly</i>). H'st!</p> +<p>BILL (<i>in a whisper</i>). What is it?</p> +<p>LIZ. Copper!</p> +<p>BILL (<i>desperately</i>). 'Ere, quick, get rid of these. 'Ide +'em in the snow, or——</p> +<p>LIZ. Bill! (<i>He turns round</i>) Look! (<i>She points to the +stocking and sock hanging up</i>) We can come back for 'em as soon +as 'e's gone.</p> +<p>(BILL <i>looks at them, and back at her, and grins. He drops the +necklace into one and the watch into the other. As the</i> +POLICEMAN <i>approaches they strike up, "While shepherds watched +their flock by night," with an air of great enthusiasm</i>.)</p> +<p>POLICEMAN. Now then, move along there.</p> +<p>(<i>They move along. The</i> POLICEMAN <i>flashes his light on +the door to see that all is well. The stocking and sock are +revealed. He beams sentimentally at them</i>.)</p> +<p>SCENE III.—<i>We are inside the house again</i>. MRS. +HUBBARD <i>is still reading a page of the magazine. In dashes</i> +MR. HUBBARD <i>with the sock and stocking</i>.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. My darling, what do you think? Father Christmas has +sent you a little present. (<i>He hands her the stocking</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Has he sent you one too?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>holding up his sock</i>). Observe!</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. How sweet of him! I wonder what mine is. What is +yours, darling?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. I haven't looked yet, my love. Perhaps just a few +nuts or something of that sort, with a card attached saying, "To +wish you the old, old wish." We must try not to be disappointed, +whatever it is, darling.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, Henry. After all, it is the kindly +thought which really matters.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Certainly. All the same, I hope—Will you look +in yours, dear, first, or shall I?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I think I should like to, darling. (<i>Feeling +it</i>) It feels so exciting. (<i>She brings out a diamond +necklace</i>) Henry!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. My love! (<i>They embrace</i>) Now you will be able +to go to Court. You must say that your husband is unfortunately in +bed with a bad cold. You can tell me all about it when you come +home. I shall be able to amuse myself with—(<i>He is feeling +in his sock while talking, and now brings out the watch and +chain</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! My love!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. A gentleman's gold hunter and Albert watch-chain. +My darling!</p> +<p>(<i>They put down their presents on the table and embrace each +other again</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Let's put them on at once, Henry, and see how they +suit us.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Allow me, my love. (<i>He fastens her +necklace</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>happily</i>). Now I feel really dressed again! +Oh, I wish we had a looking-glass.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>opening his gold watch</i>). Try in here, my +darling.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>surveying herself</i>). How perfectly sweet! . +. . Now let me put your watch-chain on for you, dear. (<i>She +arranges it for him</i>—HENRY <i>very proud</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Does it suit me, darling?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. You look fascinating, Henry!</p> +<p>(<i>They strut about the room with an air</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>taking out his watch and-looking at it +ostentatiously</i>). Well, well, we ought to be starting. My watch +makes it 11.58. (<i>He holds it to her ear</i>) Hasn't it got a +sweet tick?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Sweet! But starting where, Henry? Do you mean we +can really—But you haven't any money.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Money? (<i>Taking out a handful</i>) Heaps of +it.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Father Christmas?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Undoubtedly, my love. Brought round to the front +door just now by some of his messengers. By the way, +dear—(<i>indicating the sock and stocking</i>)—hadn't +we better put these on before we start?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Of course. How silly of me!</p> +<p>(<i>They sit down and put them on</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Really this is a very handsome watch-chain.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. It becomes you admirably, Henry.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Thank you, dear. There's just one little point. +Father Christmas is sometimes rather shy about acknowledging the +presents he gives. He hates being thanked. If, therefore, he makes +any comment on your magnificent necklace or my handsome +watch-chain, we must say that they have been in the family for some +years.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, dear. (<i>They get up</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Well, now we're ready.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, don't you think we might bring the +children?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Of course, dear! How forgetful of me! . . . +Children—'shun! (<i>Listen! Their heels click as they come to +attention</i>) Number! (<i>Their voices—alternate boy and +girl, one to nine—are heard</i>) Right <i>turn</i>!</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, I almost seem to hear them!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Are you ready, my love?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, Henry.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Quick march!</p> +<p>(<i>The children are heard tramping off. Very proudly</i> MR. +<i>and</i> MRS. HUBBARD <i>bring up the rear</i>.)</p> +<p>SCENE IV.—<i>The Court of</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS. <i>Shall +we describe it? No. But there is everything there which any +reasonable person could want, from ices to catapults. And the +decorations, done in candy so that you can break off a piece +whenever you are hungry, are superb</i>.</p> +<p>1ST USHER (<i>from the back</i>). Father Christmas!</p> +<p>SEVERAL USHERS (<i>from the front</i>). Father Christmas! (<i>He +comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS (<i>genially</i>). Good evening, everybody.</p> +<p><i>I ought to have said that there are already some hundreds of +people there, though how some of them got invitations—but, +after all, that is not our business. Wishing to put them quite at +their ease,</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS, <i>who has a very creditable +baritone, gives them a song. After the applause which follows it, +he retires to the throne at the back, and awaits his more important +guests. The</i> USHERS <i>take up their places, one at the +entrance, one close to the throne</i>.</p> +<p>1ST USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard! (<i>They come +in</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>pressing twopence into his palm</i>). Thank you, +my man, thank you.</p> +<p>2ND USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>handing out another twopence</i>). Not at all, +my man, not at all.</p> +<p>(MRS. HUBBARD <i>curtsies and</i> MR. HUBBARD <i>bows to</i> +FATHER CHRISTMAS.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. I am delighted to welcome you to my Court. How +are you both?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Very well, thank you, sir. My wife has a slight +cold in one foot, owing to—</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>hastily</i>). A touch of gout, sir, inherited +from my ancestors, the Montmorency-Smythes.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. Dear me, it won't prevent you dancing, I +hope?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Oh no, sir.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. That's right. We shall have a few more friends +coming in soon. You have been giving each other presents already, I +see. I congratulate you, madam, on your husband's taste.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>touching her necklace</i>). Oh no, this is a +very old heirloom of the Montmorency-Smythe family.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. An ancestress of Mrs. Hubbard's—a +lady-in-waiting at the Tottenham Court—at the Tudor +Court—was fortunate enough to catch the eye +of—er—</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Elizabeth.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Queen Elizabeth, and—er—</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. I see. You are lucky, madam, to have such +beautiful jewels. (<i>Turning to</i> MR. HUBBARD) And this +delightful gold Albert watch-chain—</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Presented to an ancestor of mine, Sir Humphrey de +Hubbard, at the battle of—er—</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Agincourt.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. As you say, dear, Agincourt. By King Richard +the—I should say William the—well, by the King.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How very interesting.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Yes. My ancestor clove a scurvy knave from the +chaps to the chine. I don't quite know how you do that, but I +gather that he inflicted some sort of a scratch upon his adversary, +and the King rewarded him with this handsome watch-chain.</p> +<p>USHERS (<i>announcing</i>). Mr. Robinson Crusoe! (<i>He comes +in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>bowing</i>). I'm a little late, I'm afraid, sir. My +raft was delayed by adverse gales.</p> +<p>(FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>introduces him to the</i> HUBBARDS, <i>who +inform him that the weather is very seasonable</i>.)</p> +<p>USHERS. Miss Riding Hood! (<i>She comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>curtseying</i>). I hope I am in time, sir. I had +to look in on my grandmother on the way here.</p> +<p>(FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>makes the necessary introductions</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> CRUSOE). Do come and see me, Mr. Crusoe. +Any Friday. I should like your advice about my parrot. He's +moulting in all the wrong places.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> RED RIDING HOOD). I don't know if you're +interested in wolves at all, Miss Hood. I heard a very good story +about one the other day. (<i>He begins to tell it, but she has +hurried away before he can remember whether it was Thursday or +Friday</i>.)</p> +<p>USHERS. Baron Bluebeard! (<i>He comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>bowing</i>). I trust you have not been waiting for +me, sir. I had a slight argument with my wife before starting, +which delayed me somewhat.</p> +<p>(FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>forgives him</i>.)</p> +<p>USHERS. Princess Goldilocks!</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>curtseying</i>). I brought the youngest bear with +me—do you mind? (<i>She introduces the youngest bear to</i> +FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>and the other guests</i>) Say, how do you do, +darling? (<i>To an</i> USHER) Will you give him a little porridge, +please, and if you have got a nice bed where he could rest a little +afterwards—he gets tired so quickly.</p> +<p>USHER. Certainly, your Royal Highness.</p> +<p>(<i>Music begins</i>.)</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>to</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS). Are we going to dance? +How lovely!</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS (<i>to the</i> HUBBARDS). You will dance, won't +you?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I think not just at first, thank you.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>to</i> CRUSOE). Come along!</p> +<p>CRUSOE. I am a little out of practice—er—but if you +don't mind—er—(<i>He comes</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>to</i> RIDING HOOD). May I have the pleasure?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> RIDING HOOD). Be careful, dear; he has a +very bad reputation.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>to</i> BLUEBEARD). You don't eat people, do +you?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>pained by this injustice</i>). Never!</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Oh then, I don't mind. But I do hate being +eaten.</p> +<p><i>Now we can't possibly describe the whole dance to you, for in +every corner of the big ballroom couples were revolving and +sliding, and making small talk with each other. So we will just +take two specimen conversations</i>.</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>nervous, poor man</i>). Princess Goldilocks, may I +speak to you on a matter of some importance to me?</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. I wish you would.</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>looking across at</i> BLUEBEARD <i>and</i> RED RIDING +HOOD, <i>who are revolving close by</i>). Alone.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>to</i> BLUEBEARD). Do you mind? You can have your +turn afterwards.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>to</i> RIDING HOOD). Shall we adjourn to the +Buffet?</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Oh, do let's. [<i>They adjourn</i>.</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>bravely</i>). Princess, I am a lonely man.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>encouragingly</i>). Yes, Robinson?</p> +<p>CRUSOE. I am not much of a one for society, and I don't quite +know how to put these things, but—er—if you would like +to share my island, I—I should so love to have you there.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. Oh, Robbie!</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>warming to it</i>). I have a very comfortable house, +and a man-servant, and an excellent view from the south windows, +and several thousands of acres of good rough-shooting, +and—oh, do say you'll come!</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. May I bring my bears with me?</p> +<p>CRUSOE. Of course! I ought to have said that. I have a great +fondness for animals.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. How sweet of you! But perhaps I ought to warn you +that we all like porridge. Have you——</p> +<p>CRUSOE. I have a hundred acres of oats.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. Then, Robinson, I am yours. (<i>They embrace</i>) +There! Now tell me—did you make all your clothes +yourself?</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>proudly</i>). All of them.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>going off with him</i>). How wonderful of you! +Really you hardly seem to want a wife.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out. Now it is the other couple's turn</i>.</p> +<p><i>Enter, then</i>, BLUEBEARD <i>and</i> RIDING HOOD</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. Perhaps I ought to tell you at once, Miss Riding +Hood, that I have been married before.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Yes?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. My last wife unfortunately died just before I started +out here this evening.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>calmly</i>). Did you kill her?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>taken aback</i>). I—I—I—</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Are you quite a nice man, Bluebeard?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. W-what do you mean? I am a very <i>rich</i> man. If +you will marry me, you will live in a wonderful castle, full of +everything that you want.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. That will be rather jolly.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>dramatically</i>) But there is one room into which +you must never go. (<i>Holding up a key</i>) Here is the key of it. +(<i>He offers it to her</i>.)</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>indifferently</i>) But if I'm never to go into +it, I shan't want the key.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>upset</i>). You—you <i>must</i> have the +key.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Why?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. The—the others all had it.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>coldly</i>). Bluebeard, you aren't going to talk +about your <i>other</i> wives all the time, are you?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. N—no.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Then don't be silly. And take this key, and go and +tidy up that ridiculous room of yours, and when it's nice and +clean, and when you've shaved off that absurd beard, perhaps I'll +marry you.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>furiously drawing his sword</i>). Madam!</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Don't do it here. You'll want some hot water.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>trying to put his sword back</i>). This is too +much, this is—</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. You're putting it in the wrong way round.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>stiffly</i>). Thank you. (<i>He manages to get it +in</i>.)</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Well, do you want to marry me?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. Yes!</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Sure?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>admiringly</i>). More than ever. You're the first +woman I've met who hasn't been afraid of me.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>surprised</i>). Are you very alarming? Wolves +frighten me sometimes, but not just silly men. . . . (<i>Giving him +her hand</i>) All right then. But you'll do what I said?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. Beloved one, I will do anything for you.</p> +<p>(CRUSOE <i>and</i> GOLDILOCKS <i>come back. Probably it will +occur to the four of them to sing a song indicative of the happy +family life awaiting them. On the other hand they may prefer to +dance. . . .</i>.)</p> +<p><i>But enough of this. Let us get on to the great event of the +evening. Ladies and gentlemen, are you all assembled? Then silence, +please, for</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great +pleasure to see you here at my Court this evening; and in +particular my friends Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, of whom I have been too +long neglectful. However, I hope to make up for it to-night. (<i>To +an</i> USHER) Disclose the Christmas Tree!</p> +<p><i>The Christmas Tree is disclosed, and—what do you think? +Children disguised as crackers are hanging from every branch! Well, +I never!</i></p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS (<i>quite calmly</i>). Distribute the +presents!</p> +<p>(<i>An</i> USHER <i>takes down the children one by one and +places them in a row, reading from the labels on them</i>. "MRS. +HUBBARD, MR. HUBBARD" <i>alternately</i>.)</p> +<p>USHER (<i>handing list to</i> MR. HUBBARD). Here is the nominal +roll, sir.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>looking at it in amazement</i>). What's this? +(MRS. HUBBARD <i>looks over his shoulder</i>) Ada, Bertram, +Caroline—My darling one!</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Our children at last! Oh, are they +all—<i>all</i> there?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. We'll soon see, dear. Ada!</p> +<p>ADA (<i>springing to attention</i>). Father! (<i>She stands at +ease</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Bertram! . . . (<i>And so on up to</i> ELSIE) . . . +Frank!</p> +<p>FRANK. Father!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. There you are, darling, I told you he had curly +brown hair. . . . Gwendoline! (<i>And so on</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS). Oh thank you so much. +It is sweet of you.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS). We are slightly +overcome. Do you mind if we just dance it off. (FATHER CHRISTMAS +<i>nods genially</i>.) Come on, children!</p> +<p>(<i>He holds out his hands, and he and his wife and the children +dance round in a ring singing, "Here we go round the Christmas +Tree, all on a Christmas evening</i>. . . .")</p> +<p><i>And then—But at this moment</i> JAMES <i>and</i> +ROSEMARY <i>and the</i> HUBBARD <i>children stopped thinking, so of +course the play came to an end. And if there were one or two bits +in it which the children didn't quite understand, that was</i> +JAMES'S <i>fault. He never ought to have been thinking at all, +really</i>.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_4"><!-- RULE4 4 --></a> +<h2>MR. PIM PASSES BY</h2> +<center>A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +<div align="center">GEORGE MARDEN, J.P.<br> +OLIVIA (his wife).<br> +DINAH (his niece).<br> +LADY MARDEN (his aunt).<br> +BRIAN STRANGE<br> +CARRAWAY PIM.<br> +ANNE.</div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<br> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">The first performance of +this play in London took place at the New Theatre on January 5, +1920, with the following cast:<br> +<br> +George Marden—BEN WEBSTER.<br> +Olivia—IRENE VANBRUGH.<br> +Dinah—GEORGETTE COHAN.<br> +Lady Marden—ETHEL GRIFFIES.<br> +Brian Strange—LESLIE HOWARD.<br> +Carraway Pim—DION BOUCICAULT.<br> +Anne—ETHEL WELLESLEY.</font></div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>MR. PIM PASSES BY</h2> +<center> +<h2>ACT I</h2> +<h3> </h3> +</center> +<p><i>The morning-room at Marden House (Buckinghamshire) decided +more than a hundred years ago that it was all right, and has not +bothered about itself since. Visitors to the house have called the +result such different adjectives as "mellow" "old-fashioned," +"charming"—even "baronial" and "antique"; but nobody ever +said it was "exciting." Sometimes</i> OLIVIA <i>wants it to be more +exciting, and last week she let herself go over some new curtains. +At present they are folded up and waiting for her; she still has +the rings to put on. It is obvious that the curtains alone will +overdo the excitement; they will have to be harmonised with a new +carpet and cushions</i>. OLIVIA <i>has her eye on just the things, +but one has to go carefully with</i> GEORGE. <i>What was good +enough for his great-great-grandfather is good enough for him. +However, we can trust</i> OLIVIA <i>to see him through it, although +it may take time</i>.</p> +<p><i>There are two ways of coming into the room; by the open +windows leading from the terrace or by the door. On this pleasant +July morning</i> MR. PIM <i>chooses the latter way—or +rather</i> ANNE <i>chooses it for him; and old</i> MR. PIM, +<i>wistful, kindly, gentle, little</i> MR. PIM, <i>living in some +world of his own whither we cannot follow, ambles after +her</i>.</p> +<p>ANNE. I'll tell Mr. Marden you're here, sir. Mr. Pim, isn't +it?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>coming back to this world</i>). Yes—er—Mr. +Carraway Pim. He doesn't know me, you understand, but if he could +just see me for a moment—er—(<i>He fumbles in his +pockets</i>) I gave you that letter?</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, sir, I'll give it to him.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>bringing out a letter which is not the one he was +looking for, but which reminds him of something else he has +forgotten</i>). Dear me!</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, sir?</p> +<p>PIM. I ought to have sent a telegram, but I can do it on my way +back. You have a telegraph office in the village?</p> +<p>ANNE. Oh yes, sir. If you turn to the left when you get outside +the gates, it isn't more than a hundred yards down the hill.</p> +<p>PIM. Thank you, thank you. Very stupid of me to have +forgotten.</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(MR. PIM <i>wanders about the room humming to himself, and +looking vaguely at the pictures. He has his back to the door as</i> +DINAH <i>comes in. She is nineteen, very pretty, very happy, and +full of boyish high spirits and conversation</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. Hullo!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>turning round</i>). Ah, good morning, Mrs. Marden. You +must forgive my—er—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh I say, I'm not Mrs. Marden. I'm Dinah.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>with a bow</i>). Then I will say, Good morning, Miss +Diana.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>reproachfully</i>). Now, look here, if you and I are +going to be friends you mustn't do that. Dinah, <i>not</i> Diana. +Do remember it, there's a good man, because I get so tired of +correcting people. Have you come to stay with us?</p> +<p>PIM. Well no, Miss—er—Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>nodding</i>). That's right. I can see I shan't have to +speak to <i>you</i> again. Now tell me <i>your</i> name, and I bet +you I get it right first time. And do sit down.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>sitting down</i>). Thank you. My name +is—er—Pim, Carraway Pim—</p> +<p>DINAH. Pim, that's easy.</p> +<p>PIM. And I have a letter of introduction to your +father—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh no; now you're going wrong again, Mr. Pim. George +isn't my father; he's my uncle. <i>Uncle</i> George—he +doesn't like me calling him George. Olivia doesn't mind—I +mean she doesn't mind being called Olivia, but George is rather +touchy. You see, he's been my guardian since I was about two, and +then about five years ago he married a widow called Mrs. +Telworthy—that's Olivia—so she became my Aunt Olivia, +only she lets me drop the Aunt. Got that?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>a little alarmed</i>). I—I think so, Miss +Marden.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>admiringly</i>). I say, you <i>are</i> quick, Mr. Pim. +Well, if you take my advice, when you've finished your business +with George, you will hang about a bit and see if you can't see +Olivia. She's simply devastating. I don't wonder George fell in +love with her.</p> +<p>PIM. It's only the merest matter of business—just a few +minutes with your uncle—I'm afraid I shall hardly—</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, you must please yourself, Mr. Pim. I'm just giving +you a friendly word of advice. Naturally, I was awfully glad to get +such a magnificent aunt, because, of course, marriage <i>is</i> +rather a toss up, isn't it, and George might have gone off with +anybody. It's different on the stage, where guardians always marry +their wards, but George couldn't marry <i>me</i> because I'm his +niece. Mind you, I don't say that I should have had him, because +between ourselves he's a little bit old-fashioned.</p> +<p>PIM. So he married—er—Mrs. Marden instead.</p> +<p>DINAH. Mrs. Telworthy—don't say you've forgotten already, +just when you were getting so good at names. Mrs. Telworthy. You +see, Olivia married the Telworthy man and went to Australia with +him, and he drank himself to death in the bush, or wherever you +drink yourself to death out there, and Olivia came home to England, +and met my uncle, and he fell in love with her and proposed to her, +and he came into my room that night—I was about +fourteen—and turned on the light and said, "Dinah, how would +you like to have a beautiful aunt of your very own?" And I said: +"Congratulations, George." That was the first time I called him +George. Of course, I'd seen it coming for <i>weeks</i>. Telworthy, +isn't it a funny name?</p> +<p>PIM. Very singular. From Australia, you say?</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, I always say that he's probably still alive, and +will turn up here one morning and annoy George, because that's what +first husbands always do in books, but I'm afraid there's not much +chance.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>shocked</i>). Miss Marden!</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, of course, I don't really <i>want</i> it to happen, +but it <i>would</i> be rather exciting, wouldn't it? However, +things like that never seem to occur down here, somehow. There was +a hay-rick burnt last year about a mile away, but that isn't quite +the same thing, is it?</p> +<p>PIM. No, I should say that that was certainly different.</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course, something very, very wonderful did happen last +night, but I'm not sure if I know you well enough—— +(<i>She looks at him hesitatingly</i>.)</p> +<p>PIM (<i>uncomfortably</i>). Really, Miss Marden, I am only +a—a passer-by, here to-day and gone to-morrow. You really +mustn't——</p> +<p>DINAH. And yet there's something about you, Mr. Pim, which +inspires confidence. The fact is—(<i>in a stage +whisper</i>)—I got engaged last night!</p> +<p>PIM. Dear me, let me congratulate you.</p> +<p>DINAH. I expect that's why George is keeping you such a long +time. Brian, my young man, the well-known painter—only nobody +has ever heard of him—he's smoking a pipe with George in the +library and asking for his niece's hand. Isn't it exciting? You're +really rather lucky, Mr. Pim—I mean being told so soon. Even +Olivia doesn't know yet.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>getting up</i>). Yes, yes. I congratulate you, Miss +Marden. Perhaps it would be better——</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Marden is out at the moment, sir—— Oh, I +didn't see you, Miss Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. It's all right, Anne. <i>I'm</i> looking after Mr. +Pim.</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>excitedly</i>). That's me. They can't discuss me in +the library without breaking down, so they're walking up and down +outside, and slashing at the thistles in order to conceal their +emotion. <i>You</i> know. I expect Brian——</p> +<p>PIM (<i>looking at his watch</i>). Yes, I think, Miss Marden, I +had better go now and return a little later. I have a telegram +which I want to send, and perhaps by the time I came +back——</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, but how disappointing of you, when we were getting on +together so nicely. And it was just going to be your turn to tell +me all about <i>your</i>self.</p> +<p>PIM. I have really nothing to tell, Miss Marden. I have a letter +of introduction to Mr. Marden, who in turn will give me, I hope, a +letter to a certain distinguished man whom it is necessary for me +to meet. That is all. (<i>Holding out his hand</i>) And now, Miss +Marden——</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, I'll start you on your way to the post office. I want +to know if you're married, and all that sort of thing. You've got +heaps to tell me, Mr. Pim. Have you got your hat? That's right. +Then we'll—hullo, here's Brian.</p> +<p>(BRIAN STRANGE <i>comes in at the windows. He is what</i> GEORGE +<i>calls a damned futuristic painter-chap, aged twenty-four. To +look at, he is a very pleasant boy, rather untidily +dressed</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>nodding</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>seizing him</i>). Brian, this is Mr. Pim. Mr. Carraway +Pim. He's been telling me all about himself. It's so interesting. +He's just going to send a telegram, and then he's coming back +again. Mr. Pim, this is Brian—<i>you</i> know.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>smiling and shaking hands</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>pleadingly</i>). You <i>won't</i> mind going to the +post office by yourself, will you, because, you see, Brian and +I—(<i>she looks lovingly at</i> BRIAN).</p> +<p>PIM (<i>because they are so young</i>). Miss Dinah and +Mr.—er—Brian, I have only come into your lives for a +moment, and it is probable that I shall now pass out of them for +ever, but you will allow an old man——</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, not old!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>chuckling happily</i>). Well, a middle-aged man—to +wish you both every happiness in the years that you have before +you. Good-bye, good-bye.</p> +<p>[<i>He disappears gently through the windows</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian, he'll get lost if he goes that way.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>going to the windows and calling after him</i>). Round +to the left, sir. . . . That's right. (<i>He comes back into the +room</i>) Rum old bird. Who is he?</p> +<p>DINAH. Darling, you haven't kissed me yet.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>taking her in his arms</i>). I oughtn't to, but then +one never ought to do the nice things.</p> +<p>DINAH. Why oughtn't you?</p> +<p>(<i>They sit on the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, we said we'd be good until we'd told your uncle and +aunt all about it. You see, being a guest in their +house——</p> +<p>DINAH. But, darling child, what <i>have</i> you been doing all +this morning <i>except</i> telling George?</p> +<p>BRIAN. <i>Trying</i> to tell George.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>nodding</i>). Yes, of course, there's a +difference.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I think he guessed there was something up, and he took me +down to see the pigs—he said he had to see the pigs at +once—I don't know why; an appointment perhaps. And we talked +about pigs all the way, and I couldn't say, "Talking about pigs, I +want to marry your niece——"</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>with mock indignation</i>). Of course you +couldn't.</p> +<p>BRIAN. No. Well, you see how it was. And then when we'd finished +talking about pigs, we started talking <i>to</i> the +pigs——</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>eagerly</i>). Oh, <i>how</i> is Arnold?</p> +<p>BRIAN. The little black-and-white one? He's very jolly, I +believe, but naturally I wasn't thinking about him much. I was +wondering how to begin. And then Lumsden came up, and wanted to +talk pig-food, and the atmosphere grew less and less romantic, +and—and I gradually drifted away.</p> +<p>DINAH. Poor darling. Well, we shall have to approach him through +Olivia.</p> +<p>BRIAN. But I always wanted to tell her first; she's so much +easier. Only you wouldn't let me.</p> +<p>DINAH. That's <i>your</i> fault, Brian. You would tell Olivia +that she ought to have orange-and-black curtains.</p> +<p>BRIAN. But she <i>wants</i> orange-and-black curtains.</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, but George says he's not going to have any +futuristic nonsense in an honest English country house, which has +been good enough for his father and his grandfather and his +great-grandfather, and—and all the rest of them. So there's a +sort of strained feeling between Olivia and George just now, and if +Olivia were to—sort of recommend you, well, it wouldn't do +you much good.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>looking at her</i>). I see. Of course I know what +<i>you</i> want, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. What do I want?</p> +<p>BRIAN. You want a secret engagement, and notes left under +door-mats, and meetings by the withered thorn, when all the +household is asleep. <i>I</i> know you.</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered +thorns.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, I'm not going to have it.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>childishly</i>). Oh, George! Look at us being +husbandy!</p> +<p>BRIAN. You babe! I adore you. (<i>He kisses her and holds her +away from him and looks at her</i>) You know, you're rather +throwing yourself away on me. Do you mind?</p> +<p>DINAH. Not a bit.</p> +<p>BRIAN. We shall never be rich, but we shall have lots of fun, +and meet interesting people, and feel that we're doing something +worth doing, and not getting paid nearly enough for it, and we can +curse the Academy together and the British Public, and—oh, +it's an exciting life.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>seeing it</i>). I shall love it.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'll make you love it. You shan't be sorry, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. You shan't be sorry either, Brian.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>looking at her lovingly</i>). Oh, I know I shan't. . . +. What will Olivia think about it? Will she be surprised?</p> +<p>DINAH. She's never surprised. She always seems to have thought +of things about a week before they happen. George just begins to +get hold of them about a week <i>after</i> they've happened. +(<i>Considering him</i>) After all, there's no reason why George +<i>shouldn't</i> like you, darling.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'm not his sort, you know.</p> +<p>DINAH. You're more Olivia's sort. Well, we'll tell Olivia this +morning.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>coming in</i>). And what are you going to tell Olivia +this morning? (<i>She looks at them with a smile</i>) Oh, well, I +think I can guess.</p> +<p><i>Shall we describe</i> OLIVIA? <i>But you will know all about +her before the day is over</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>jumping up</i>). Olivia, darling!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>following</i>). Say you understand, Mrs. Marden.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mrs. Marden, I am afraid, is a very dense person, Brian, +but I think if you asked Olivia if she understood——</p> +<p>BRIAN. Bless you, Olivia. I knew you'd be on our side.</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course she would.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't know if it's usual to kiss an aunt-in-law, +Brian, but Dinah is such a very special sort of niece +that—(<i>she inclines her cheek and</i> BRIAN <i>kisses +it</i>).</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, you <i>are</i> in luck to-day, Brian.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>going over to her chair by the work-table and getting +to business with the curtains</i>) And how many people have been +told the good news?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Nobody yet.</p> +<p>DINAH. Except Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Oh, does <i>he</i>—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Who's Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, he just happened—I say, are those <i>the</i> +curtains? Then you're going to have them after all?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with an air of surprise</i>). After all what? But I +decided on them long ago. (<i>To</i> BRIAN) You haven't told George +yet?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I began to, you know, but I never got any farther than +"Er—there's just—er—"</p> +<p>DINAH. George <i>would</i> talk about pigs all the time.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I suppose you want me to help you.</p> +<p>DINAH. Do, darling.</p> +<p>BRIAN. It would be awfully decent of you. Of course, I'm not +quite his sort really—</p> +<p>DINAH. You're <i>my</i> sort.</p> +<p>BRIAN. But I don't think he objects to me, and—</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>comes in, a typical, narrow-minded, honest country +gentleman of forty odd</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>at the windows</i>). What's all this about a Mr. Pim? +(<i>He kicks some of the mud off his boots</i>) Who is he? Where is +he? I had most important business with Lumsden, and the girl comes +down and cackles about a Mr. Pim, or Ping, or something. Where did +I put his card? (<i>Bringing it out</i>) Carraway Pim. Never heard +of him in my life.</p> +<p>DINAH. He said he had a letter of introduction, Uncle +George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, <i>you</i> saw him, did you? Yes, that reminds me, +there <i>was</i> a letter—(<i>he brings it out and reads +it</i>).</p> +<p>DINAH. He had to send a telegram. He's coming back.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Pass me those scissors, Brian.</p> +<p>BRIAN. These? (<i>He picks them up and comes close to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Thank you. (<i>She indicates</i> GEORGE'S <i>back. +"Now?" says</i> BRIAN <i>with his eyebrows. She nods</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>reading</i>). Ah well, a friend of Brymer's. Glad to +oblige him. Yes, I know the man he wants. Coming back, you say, +Dinah? Then I'll be going back. Send him down to the farm, Olivia, +when he comes. (<i>To</i> BRIAN) Hallo, what happened to +<i>you</i>?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Don't go, George, there's something we want to talk +about.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Hallo, what's this?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). Shall I——?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>stepping out</i>). I've been wanting to tell you all +this morning, sir, only I didn't seem to have an opportunity of +getting it out.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, what is it?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I want to marry Dinah, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You want to marry Dinah? God bless my soul!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>rushing to him and putting her cheek against his +coat</i>). Oh, do say you like the idea, Uncle George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Like the idea! Have you heard of this nonsense, +Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. They've just this moment told me, George. I think they +would be happy together.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> BRIAN). And what do you propose to be happy +together <i>on</i>?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, of course, it doesn't amount to much at present, +but we shan't starve.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian got fifty pounds for a picture last March!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>a little upset by this</i>). Oh! (<i>Recovering +gamely</i>) And how many pictures have you sold since?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, none, but—</p> +<p>GEORGE. None! And I don't wonder. Who the devil is going to buy +pictures with triangular clouds and square sheep? And they call +that Art nowadays! Good God, man, (<i>waving him to the +windows</i>) go outside and <i>look</i> at the clouds!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. If he draws round clouds in future, George, will you let +him marry Dinah?</p> +<p>GEORGE. What—what? Yes, of course, you <i>would</i> be on +his side—all this Futuristic nonsense. I'm just taking these +clouds as an example. I suppose I can see as well as any man in the +county, and I say that clouds <i>aren't</i> triangular.</p> +<p>BRIAN. After all, sir, at my age one is naturally experimenting, +and trying to find one's (<i>with a laugh</i>)—well, it +sounds priggish, but one's medium of expression. I shall find out +what I want to do directly, but I think I shall always be able to +earn enough to live on. Well, I have for the last three years.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see, and now you want to experiment with a wife, and +you propose to start experimenting with <i>my</i> niece?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>with a shrug</i>). Well, of course, if you—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You could help the experiment, darling, by giving Dinah +a good allowance until she's twenty-one.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Help the experiment! I don't <i>want</i> to help the +experiment.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>apologetically</i>). Oh, I thought you did.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You will talk as if I was made of money. What with taxes +always going up and rents always going down, it's as much as we can +do to rub along as we are, without making allowances to everybody +who thinks she wants to get married. (<i>To</i> BRIAN) And that's +thanks to you, my friend.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>surprised</i>) To me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You never told me, darling. What's Brian been doing?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>indignantly</i>). He hasn't been doing anything.</p> +<p>GEORGE. He's one of your Socialists who go turning the country +upside down.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But even Socialists must get married sometimes.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't see any necessity.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But you'd have nobody to damn after dinner, darling, if +they all died out.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Really, sir, I don't see what my politics and my art have +got to do with it. I'm perfectly ready not to talk about either +when I'm in your house, and as Dinah doesn't seem to object to +them—</p> +<p>DINAH. I should think she doesn't.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, you can get round the women, I daresay.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, it's Dinah I want to marry and live with. So what +it really comes to is that you don't think I can support a +wife.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, if you're going to do it by selling pictures, I +don't think you can.</p> +<p>BRIAN. All right, tell me how much you want me to earn in a +year, and I'll earn it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hedging</i>). It isn't merely a question of money. I +just mention that as one thing—one of the important things. +In addition to that, I think you are both too young to marry. I +don't think you know your own minds, and I am not at all persuaded +that, with what I venture to call your outrageous tastes, you and +my niece will live happily together. Just because she thinks she +loves you, Dinah may persuade herself now that she agrees with all +you say and do, but she has been properly brought up in an honest +English country household, and—er—she—well, in +short, I cannot at all approve of any engagement between you. +(<i>Getting up</i>) Olivia, if this Mr.—er—Pim comes, I +shall be down at the farm. You might send him along to me.</p> +<p>(<i>He walks towards the windows</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>indignantly</i>). Is there any reason why I shouldn't +marry a girl who has been properly brought up?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I think you know my views, Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. George, wait a moment, dear. We can't quite leave it +like this.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I have said all I want to say on the subject.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, darling, but I haven't begun to say all that +<i>I</i> want to say on the subject.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, if you have anything to say, Olivia, I will +listen to it; but I don't know that this is quite the time, or that +you have chosen—(<i>looking darkly at the +curtains</i>)—quite the occupation likely +to—er—endear your views to me.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>mutinously</i>). I may as well tell you, Uncle George, +that <i>I</i> have got a good deal to say, too.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I can guess what you are going to say, Dinah, and I +think you had better keep it for the moment.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>meekly</i>). Yes, Aunt Olivia.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Brian, you might take her outside for a walk. I expect +you have plenty to talk about.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Now mind, Strange, no love-making. I put you on your +honour about that.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'll do my best to avoid it, sir.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>cheekily</i>). May I take his arm if we go up a +hill?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm sure you'll know how to behave—both of +you.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Come on, then, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. Righto.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>as they go</i>). And if you do see any clouds, +Strange, take a good look at them. (<i>He chuckles to himself</i>) +Triangular clouds—I never heard of such nonsense. (<i>He goes +back to his chair at the writing-table</i>) Futuristic rubbish. . . +. Well, Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE. What are you doing?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Making curtains, George. Won't they be rather sweet? Oh, +but I forgot—you don't like them.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't like them, and what is more, I don't mean to +have them in my house. As I told you yesterday, this is the house +of a simple country gentleman, and I don't want any of these +new-fangled ideas in it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Is marrying for love a new-fangled idea?</p> +<p>GEORGE. We'll come to that directly. None of you women can keep +to the point. What I am saying now is that the house of my fathers +and forefathers is good enough for me.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do you know, George, I can hear one of your ancestors +saying that to his wife in their smelly old cave, when the +new-fangled idea of building houses was first suggested. "The Cave +of my Fathers is—"</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's ridiculous. Naturally we must have progress. But +that's just the point. (<i>Indicating the curtains</i>) I don't +call this sort of thing progress. +It's—ah—retrogression.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, anyhow, it's pretty.</p> +<p>GEORGE. There I disagree with you. And I must say once more that +I will not have them hanging in my house.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Very well, George. (<i>But she goes on working</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. That being so, I don't see the necessity of going on +with them.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I must do something with them now I've got the +material. I thought perhaps I could sell them when they're +finished—as we're so poor.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What do you mean—so poor?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you said just now that you couldn't give Dinah an +allowance because rents had gone down.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). Confound it, Olivia! Keep to the point! +We'll talk about Dinah's affairs directly. We're discussing our own +affairs at the moment.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But what is there to discuss?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Those ridiculous things.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But we've finished that. You've said you wouldn't have +them hanging in your house, and I've said, "Very well, George." Now +we can go on to Dinah and Brian.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>shouting</i>). But put these beastly things away.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>rising and gathering up the curtains</i>). Very well, +George. (<i>She puts them away, slowly, gracefully. There is an +uncomfortable silence. Evidently somebody ought to +apologise</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>realising that he is the one</i>). Er—look +here, Olivia, old girl, you've been a jolly good wife to me, and we +don't often have rows, and if I've been rude to you about +this—lost my temper a bit perhaps, what?—I'll say I'm +sorry. May I have a kiss?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>holding up her face</i>). George, darling! (<i>He +kisses her</i>.) Do you love me?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You know I do, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. As much as Brian loves Dinah?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). I've said all I want to say about that. +(<i>He goes away from her</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, but there must be lots you want to say—and +perhaps don't like to. Do tell me, darling.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What it comes to is this. I consider that Dinah is too +young to choose a husband for herself, and that Strange isn't the +husband I should choose for her.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You were calling him Brian yesterday.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yesterday I regarded him as a boy, now he wants me to +look upon him as a man.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. He's twenty-four.</p> +<p>GEORGE. And Dinah's nineteen. Ridiculous!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. If he'd been a Conservative, and thought that clouds +were round, I suppose he'd have seemed older, somehow.</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's a different point altogether. That has nothing to +do with his age.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). Oh, I thought it had.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What I am objecting to is these ridiculously early +marriages before either party knows its own mind, much less the +mind of the other party. Such marriages invariably lead to +unhappiness.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course, <i>my</i> first marriage wasn't a happy +one.</p> +<p>GEORGE. As you know, Olivia, I dislike speaking about your first +marriage at all, and I had no intention of bringing it up now, but +since you mention it—well, that is a case in point.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking back at it</i>). When I was eighteen, I was +in love. Or perhaps I only thought I was, and I don't know if I +should have been happy or not if I had married him. But my father +made me marry a man called Jacob Telworthy; and when things were +too hot for him in England—"too hot for him"—I think +that was the expression we used in those days—then we went to +Australia, and I left him there, and the only happy moment I had in +all my married life was on the morning when I saw in the papers +that he was dead.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>very uncomfortable</i>). Yes, yes, my dear, I know. +You must have had a terrible time. I can hardly bear to think about +it. My only hope is that I have made up to you for it in some +degree. But I don't see what bearing it has upon Dinah's case.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, none, except that <i>my</i> father <i>liked</i> +Jacob's political opinions and his views on art. I expect that that +was why he chose him for me.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You seem to think that I wish to choose a husband for +Dinah. I don't at all. Let her choose whom she likes as long as he +can support her and there's a chance of their being happy together. +Now, with regard to this fellow—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You mean Brian?</p> +<p>GEORGE. He's got no money, and he's been brought up in quite a +different way from Dinah. Dinah may be prepared to believe +that—er—all cows are blue, and +that—er—waves are square, but she won't go on believing +it for ever.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Neither will Brian.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, that's what I keep telling him, only he won't see +it. Just as I keep telling you about those ridiculous curtains. It +seems to me that I am the only person in the house with any +eyesight left.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Perhaps you are, darling; but you must let us find out +our own mistakes for ourselves. At any rate, Brian is a gentleman; +he loves Dinah, Dinah loves him; he's earning enough to support +himself, and you are earning enough to support Dinah. I think it's +worth risking, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). I can only say the whole question +demands much more anxious thought than you seem to have given it. +You say that he is a gentleman. He knows how to behave, I admit; +but if his morals are as topsy-turvy as his tastes +and—er—politics, as I've no doubt they are, +then—er—In short, I do <i>not</i> approve of Brian +Strange as a husband for my niece and ward.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking at him thoughtfully</i>). You <i>are</i> a +curious mixture, George. You were so very unconventional when you +married me, and you're so very conventional when Brian wants to +marry Dinah. . . . George Marden to marry the widow of a +convict!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Convict! What do you mean?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy, convict—I forget his +number—surely I told you all this, dear, when we got +engaged?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Never!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I told you how he carelessly put the wrong signature to +a cheque for a thousand pounds in England; how he made a little +mistake about two or three companies he'd promoted in Australia; +and how—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, but you never told me he was +<i>convicted</i>!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What difference does it make?</p> +<p>GEORGE. My dear Olivia, if you can't see that—a +convict!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. So, you see, we needn't be too particular about our +niece, need we?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I think we had better leave your first husband out of +the conversation altogether. I never wished to refer to him; I +never wish to hear about him again. I certainly had not realised +that he was actually—er—<i>convicted</i> for +his—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mistakes.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, we needn't go into that. As for this other matter, +I don't for a moment take it seriously. Dinah is an exceptionally +pretty girl, and young Strange is a good-looking boy. If they are +attracted to each other, it is a mere outward attraction which I am +convinced will not lead to any lasting happiness. That must be +regarded as my last word in the matter, Olivia. If this +Mr.—er—what was his name, comes, I shall be down at the +farm.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out by the door</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>Left alone</i>, OLIVIA <i>brings out her curtains again, and +gets calmly to work upon them</i>.)</p> +<p>(DINAH <i>and</i> BRIAN <i>come in by the windows</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. Finished?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh no, I've got all these rings to put on.</p> +<p>DINAH. I meant talking to George.</p> +<p>BRIAN. We walked about outside—</p> +<p>DINAH. Until we heard him <i>not</i> talking to you any +more—</p> +<p>BRIAN. And we didn't kiss each other once.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian was very George-like. He wouldn't even let me +tickle the back of his neck. (<i>She goes up suddenly to</i> OLIVIA +<i>and kneels by her and kisses her</i>) Darling, being George-like +is a very nice thing to be—I mean a nice thing for other +people to be—I mean—oh, you know what I mean. But say +that he's going to be decent about it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course he is, Dinah.</p> +<p>BRIAN. You mean he'll let me come here as—as—</p> +<p>DINAH. As my young man?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, I think so.</p> +<p>DINAH. Olivia, you're a wonder. Have you really talked him +round?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I haven't said anything yet. But I daresay I shall think +of something.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>disappointedly</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>making the best of it</i>). After all, Dinah, I'm +going back to London to-morrow—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You can be good for one more day, Dinah, and then when +Brian isn't here, we'll see what we can do.</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, but I didn't want him to go back to-morrow.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>sternly</i>). Must. Hard work before me. Earn +thousands a year. Paint the Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey, +life-size, including chains of office; paint slice of haddock on +plate. Copy Landseer for old gentleman in Bayswater. Design +antimacassar for middle-aged sofa in Streatham. Earn a living for +you, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>giggling</i>). Oh, Brian, you're heavenly. What fun we +shall have when we're married.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>stiffly</i>). Sir Brian Strange, R.A., if you please, +Miss Marden. Sir Brian Strange, R.A., writes: "Your Sanogene has +proved a most excellent tonic. After completing the third acre of +my Academy picture 'The Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey' I was +completely exhausted, but one bottle of Sanogene revived me, and I +finished the remaining seven acres at a single sitting."</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking about her</i>). Brian, find my scissors for +me.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Scissors. (<i>Looking for them</i>) Sir Brian Strange, +R.A., looks for scissors. (<i>Finding them</i>) Aha! Once more we +must record an unqualified success for the eminent Academician. +Your scissors.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Thank you so much.</p> +<p>DINAH. Come on, Brian, let's go out. I feel open-airy.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Don't be late for lunch, there's good people. Lady +Marden is coming.</p> +<p>DINAH. Aunt Juli-ah! Help! (<i>She faints in</i> BRIAN'S +<i>arms</i>) That means a clean pinafore. Brian, you'll jolly well +have to brush your hair.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>feeling it</i>). I suppose there's no time now to go +up to London and get it cut?</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> ANNE, <i>followed by</i> PIM.</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>delighted</i>). Hullo, Mr. Pim! Here we are again! You +can't get rid of us so easily, you see.</p> +<p>PIM. I—er—dear Miss Marden—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How do you do, Mr. Pim? I can't get up, but do come and +sit down. My husband will be here in a minute. Anne, send somebody +down to the farm—</p> +<p>ANNE. I think I heard the Master in the library, madam.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, will you tell him then?</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, madam.</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You'll stay to lunch, of course, Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, do!</p> +<p>PIM. It's very kind of you, Mrs. Marden, but—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, you simply must, Mr. Pim. You haven't told us half +enough about yourself yet. I want to hear all about your early +life.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah!</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, we are almost, I might say, old friends, Mrs. +Marden.</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course we are. He knows Brian, too. There's more in +Mr. Pim than you think. You <i>will</i> stay to lunch, won't +you?</p> +<p>PIM. It's very kind of you to ask me, Mrs. Marden, but I am +lunching with the Trevors.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, well, you must come to lunch another day.</p> +<p>DINAH. The reason why we like Mr. Pim so much is that he was the +first person to congratulate us. We feel that he is going to have a +great influence on our lives.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). I, so to speak, stumbled on the +engagement this morning and—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I see. Children, you must go and tidy yourselves up. Run +along.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Sir Brian and Lady Strange never run; they walk. +(<i>Offering his arm</i>) Madam!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>taking it</i>). Au revoir, Mr. Pim. +(<i>Dramatically</i>) +We—shall—meet—<i>again</i>!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>chuckling</i>). Good morning, Miss Dinah.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Good morning.</p> +<p>[<i>He and</i> DINAH <i>go out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You must forgive them, Mr. Pim. They're such children. +And naturally they're rather excited just now.</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, not at all, Mrs. Marden.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course you won't say anything about their engagement. +We only heard about it five minutes ago, and nothing has been +settled yet.</p> +<p>PIM. Of course, of course!</p> +<p><i>[Enter</i> GEORGE.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Ah, Mr. Pim, we meet at last. Sorry to have kept you +waiting before.</p> +<p>PIM. The apology should come from me, Mr. Marden for +having—er—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Not at all. Very glad to meet you now. Any friend of +Brymer's. You want a letter to this man Fanshawe?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Shall I be in your way at all?</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, no, no, please don't.</p> +<p>GEORGE. It's only just a question of a letter. (<i>Going to his +desk</i>) Fanshawe will put you in the way of seeing all that you +want to see. He's a very old friend of mine. (<i>Taking a sheet of +notepaper</i>) You'll stay to lunch, of course?</p> +<p>PIM. I'm afraid I am lunching with the Trevors—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, well, they'll look after you all right. Good chap, +Trevor.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). You see, Mrs. Marden, I have only +recently arrived from Australia after travelling about the world +for some years, and I'm rather out of touch with +my—er—fellow-workers in London.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh yes. You've been in Australia, Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>disliking Australia</i>). I shan't be a moment, Mr. +Pim. (<i>He frowns at</i> OLIVIA.)</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, that's all right, thank you. (<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Oh yes, +I have been in Australia more than once in the last few years.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Really? I used to live at Sydney many years ago. Do you +know Sydney at all?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>detesting Sydney</i>). H'r'm! Perhaps I'd better +mention that you are a friend of the Trevors?</p> +<p>PIM. Thank you, thank you. (<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Indeed yes, I +spent several months in Sydney.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How curious. I wonder if we have any friends in common +there.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hastily</i>). Extremely unlikely, I should think. +Sydney is a very big place.</p> +<p>PIM. True, but the world is a very small place, Mr. Marden. I +had a remarkable instance of that, coming over on the boat this +last time.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Ah! (<i>Feeling that the conversation is now safe, he +resumes his letter</i>.)</p> +<p>PIM. Yes. There was a man I used to employ in Sydney some years +ago, a bad fellow, I'm afraid, Mrs. Marden, who had been in prison +for some kind of fraudulent company-promoting and had taken to +drink and—and so on.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, yes, I understand.</p> +<p>PIM. Drinking himself to death I should have said. I gave him at +the most another year to live. Yet to my amazement the first person +I saw as I stepped on board the boat that brought me to England +last week was this fellow. There was no mistaking him. I spoke to +him, in fact; we recognised each other.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Really?</p> +<p>PIM. He was travelling steerage; we didn't meet again on board, +and as it happened at Marseilles, this poor +fellow—er—now what <i>was</i> his name? A very unusual +one. Began with a—a T, I think.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with suppressed feeling</i>). Yes, Mr. Pim, yes? +(<i>She puts out a hand</i> to GEORGE.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>in an undertone</i>). Nonsense, dear!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>triumphantly</i>). I've got it! Telworthy!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Telworthy!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Good God!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>a little surprised at the success of his story</i>). An +unusual name, is it not? Not a name you could forget when once you +had heard it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with feeling</i>). No, it is not a name you could +forget when once you had heard it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hastily coming over to</i> PIM). Quite so, Mr. Pim, a +most remarkable name, a most odd story altogether. Well, well, +here's your letter, and if you're sure you won't stay to +lunch—</p> +<p>PIM. I'm afraid not, thank you. You see, I—</p> +<p>GEORGE. The Trevors, yes. I'll just see you on your +way—(<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Er—my dear—</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>holding out her hand, but not looking at him</i>). +Good-bye, Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>PIM. Good-bye, good-bye!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>leading the way through the windows</i>). This way, +this way. Quicker for you.</p> +<p>PIM. Thank you, thank you.</p> +<p>[GEORGE <i>hurries</i> MR. PIM <i>out</i>.</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>sits there and looks into the past. Now and then she +shudders</i>.)</p> +<p>[GEORGE <i>comes back</i>.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Good God! Telworthy! Is it possible? (<i>Before</i> +OLIVIA <i>can answer</i>, LADY MARDEN <i>is announced. They pull +themselves together and greet her</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2><b>ACT II</b></h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>Lunch is over and coffee has been served on the terrace. +Conversation drags on, to the satisfaction of</i> LADY MARDEN, +<i>but of nobody else</i>. GEORGE <i>and</i> OLIVIA <i>want to be +alone; so do</i> BRIAN <i>and</i> DINAH. <i>At last</i> BRIAN +<i>murmurs something about a cigarette-case; and, catching</i> +DINAH'S <i>eye, comes into the house. He leans against the sofa and +waits for</i> DINAH.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>loudly as she comes in</i>). Have you found it?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Found what?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>in her ordinary voice</i>). That was just for +<i>their</i> benefit. I said I'd help you find it. It <i>is</i> +your cigarette-case we're looking for, isn't it?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>taking it out</i>). Yes. Have one?</p> +<p>DINAH. No, thank you, darling. Aunt Juli-ah still thinks it's +unladylike. . . . Have you ever seen her beagling?</p> +<p>BRIAN. No. Is that very ladylike?</p> +<p>DINAH. Very. . . . I say, what has happened, do you think?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Everything. I love you, and you love me.</p> +<p>DINAH. Silly! I meant between George and Olivia. Didn't you +notice them at lunch?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I noticed that you seemed to be doing most of the +talking. But then I've noticed that before sometimes. Do you think +Olivia and your uncle have quarrelled because of <i>us</i>?</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course not. George may <i>think</i> he has quarrelled, +but I'm quite sure Olivia hasn't. No, I believe Mr. Pim's at the +bottom of it. He's brought some terribly sad news about George's +investments. The old home will have to be sold up.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Good. Then your uncle won't mind your marrying me.</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, darling, but you must be more dramatic about it than +that. "George," you must say, with tears in your eyes, "I cannot +pay off the whole of the mortgage for you. I have only two and +ninepence; but at least let me take your niece off your hands." +Then George will thump you on the back and say gruffly, "You're a +good fellow, Brian, a damn good fellow," and he'll blow his nose +very loudly, and say, "Confound this cigar, it won't draw +properly." (<i>She gives us a rough impression of</i> GEORGE +<i>doing it</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN. Dinah, you're a heavenly idiot. And you've simply got to +marry me, uncles or no uncles.</p> +<p>DINAH. It will have to be "uncles," I'm afraid, because, you +see, I'm his ward, and I can get sent to Chancery or Coventry or +somewhere beastly, if I marry without his consent. Haven't +<i>you</i> got anybody who objects to your marrying <i>me</i>?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Nobody, thank Heaven.</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, that's rather disappointing of you. I saw myself +fascinating your aged father at the same time that you were +fascinating George. I should have done it much better than you. As +a George-fascinator you aren't very successful, sweetheart.</p> +<p>BRIAN. What am I like as a Dinah-fascinator?</p> +<p>DINAH. Plus six, darling.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Then I'll stick to that and leave George to Olivia.</p> +<p>DINAH. I expect she'll manage him all right. I have great faith +in Olivia. But you'll marry me, anyhow, won't you, Brian?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I will.</p> +<p>DINAH. Even if we have to wait till I'm twenty-one?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Even if we have to wait till you're fifty-one.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>holding out her hands to him</i>). Darling!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>uneasily</i>). I say, don't do that.</p> +<p>DINAH. Why not?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, I promised I wouldn't kiss you.</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh! . . . Well, you might just <i>send</i> me a kiss. You +can look the other way as if you didn't know I was here.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Like this?</p> +<p>(<i>He looks the other way, kisses the tips of his fingers, and +flicks it carelessly in her direction</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. That was a lovely one. Now here's one coming for you.</p> +<p>(<i>He catches it gracefully and conveys it to his +mouth</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>with a low bow</i>). Madam, I thank you.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>curtseying</i>). Your servant, Mr. Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>from outside</i>). Dinah!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>jumping up</i>). Hullo!</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>comes in through the windows, followed by</i> GEORGE +<i>and</i> LADY MARDEN, <i>the latter a vigorous young woman of +sixty odd, who always looks as if she were beagling</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Aunt Julia wants to see the pigs, dear. I wish you'd +take her down. I'm rather tired, and your uncle has some business +to attend to.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I've always said that you don't take enough +exercise, Olivia. Look at me—sixty-five and proud of it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, Aunt Julia, you're wonderful.</p> +<p>DINAH. How old would Olivia be if she took exercise?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Don't stand about asking silly questions, Dinah. Your +aunt hasn't much time.</p> +<p>BRIAN. May I come, too, Lady Marden?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Well, a little exercise wouldn't do <i>you</i> any +harm, Mr. Strange. You're an artist, ain't you?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, I try to paint.</p> +<p>DINAH. He sold a picture last March for—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, never mind that now.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Unhealthy life. Well, come along.</p> +<p>[<i>She strides out, followed by</i> DINAH <i>and</i> BRIAN.</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>sits down at his desk with his head in his hand, and +stabs the blotting-paper with a pen</i>. OLIVIA <i>takes the +curtains with her to the sofa and begins to work on them</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>looking up and seeing them</i>). Really, Olivia, +we've got something more important, more vital to us than curtains, +to discuss, now that we <i>are</i> alone at last.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I wasn't going to discuss them, dear.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I'm always glad to see Aunt Julia in my house, but I +wish she hadn't chosen this day of all days to come to lunch.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It wasn't Aunt Julia's fault. It was really Mr. Pim who +chose the wrong day.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>fiercely</i>). Good Heavens, is it true?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. About Jacob Telworthy?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You told me he was dead. You always said that he was +dead. You—you—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I always thought that he was dead. He was as dead +as anybody could be. All the papers said he was dead.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>scornfully</i>). The papers!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>as if this would settle it for</i> GEORGE). The +<i>Times</i> said he was dead. There was a paragraph about him. +Apparently even his death was fraudulent.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, I'm not blaming you, Olivia, but what are we +going to do, that's the question, what are we going to do? My God, +it's horrible! You've never been married to me at all! You don't +seem to understand.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It is a little difficult to realise. You see, it doesn't +seem to have made any difference to our happiness.</p> +<p>GEORGE. No, that's what's so terrible. I mean—well, of +course, we were quite innocent in the matter. But, at the same +time, nothing can get over the fact that we—we had no right +to—to be happy.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Would you rather we had been miserable?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You're Telworthy's wife, that's what you don't seem to +understand. You're Telworthy's wife. You—er—forgive me, +Olivia, but it's the horrible truth—you committed bigamy when +you married me. (<i>In horror</i>) Bigamy!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It is an ugly word, isn't it?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, but don't you understand—(<i>He jumps up and +comes over to her</i>) Look here, Olivia, old girl, the whole thing +is nonsense, eh? It isn't your husband, it's some other Telworthy +that this fellow met. That's right, isn't it? Some other shady +swindler who turned up on the boat, eh? This sort of thing doesn't +happen to people like <i>us</i>—committing bigamy and all +that. Some other fellow.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shaking her head</i>). I knew all the shady swindlers +in Sydney, George. . . . They came to dinner. . . . There were no +others called Telworthy.</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>goes back despondently to his seat</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, what are we going to do?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You sent Mr. Pim away so quickly. He might have told us +things. Telworthy's plans. Where he is now. You hurried him away so +quickly.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I've sent a note round to ask him to come back. My one +idea at the moment was to get him out of the house—to hush +things up.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You can't hush up two husbands.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>in despair</i>). You can't. Everybody will know. +Everybody!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. The children, Aunt Julia, they may as well know now as +later. Mr. Pim must, of course.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I do not propose to discuss my private affairs with Mr. +Pim——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But he's mixed himself up in them rather, hasn't he, and +if you're going to ask him questions——</p> +<p>GEORGE. I only propose to ask him one question. I shall ask him +if he is absolutely certain of the man's name. I can do that quite +easily without letting him know the reason for my inquiry.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You couldn't make a mistake about a name like Telworthy. +But he might tell us something about Telworthy's plans. Perhaps +he's going back to Australia at once. Perhaps he thinks I'm dead, +too. Perhaps— oh, there are so many things I want to +know.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, dear. It would be interesting to—that +is, one naturally wants to know these things, but of course it +doesn't make any real difference.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). No difference?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, that is to say, you're as much his wife if he's in +Australia as you are if he's in England.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I am not his wife at all.</p> +<p>GEORGE. But, Olivia, surely you understand the +position——</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shaking her head</i>). Jacob Telworthy may be alive, +but I am not his wife. I ceased to be his wife when I became +yours.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You never <i>were</i> my wife. That is the terrible part +of it. Our union—you make me say it, Olivia—has been +unhallowed by the Church. Unhallowed even by the Law. Legally, we +have been living in—living in—well, the point is, how +does the Law stand? I imagine that Telworthy could get a—a +divorce. . . . Oh, it seems impossible that things like this can be +happening to <i>us</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>Joyfully</i>). A divorce?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I—I imagine so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But then we could <i>really</i> get married, and we +shouldn't be living in—living in—whatever we were +living in before.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I can't understand you, Olivia. You talk about it so +calmly, as if there was nothing blameworthy in being divorced, as +if there was nothing unusual in my marrying a divorced woman, as if +there was nothing wrong in our having lived together for years +without having been married.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What seems wrong to me is that I lived for five years +with a bad man whom I hated. What seems right to me is that I lived +for five years with a good man whom I love.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, my dear, I know. But right and wrong don't +settle themselves as easily as that. We've been living together +when you were Telworthy's wife. That's <i>wrong</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do you mean wicked?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, no doubt the Court would consider that we acted in +perfect innocence—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What Court?</p> +<p>GEORGE. These things have to be done legally, of course. I +believe the proper method is a nullity suit, declaring our marriage +null and—er—void. It would, so to speak, wipe out these +years of—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Wickedness?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of irregular union, and—er—then—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Then I could go back to Jacob. . . . Do you really mean +that, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>uneasily</i>). Well, dear, you see—that's how +things are—one can't get away from—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What you feel is that Telworthy has the greater claim? +You are prepared to—make way for him?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Both the Church and the Law would say that I had no +claim at all, I'm afraid. I—I suppose I haven't.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I see. (<i>She looks at him curiously</i>) Thank you for +making it so clear, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, whether or not you go back +to—er—Telworthy is another matter altogether. That +would naturally be for you to decide.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>cheerfully</i>). For me and Jacko to decide.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Er—Jacko?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I used to call my first husband—I mean my only +husband—Jacko. I didn't like the name of Jacob, and Jacko +seemed to suit him somehow. . . . He had very long arms. Dear +Jacko.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). You don't seem to realise that this is +not a joke, Olivia.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>a trifle hysterically</i>). It may not be a joke, but +it <i>is</i> funny, isn't it?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I must say I don't see anything funny in a tragedy that +has wrecked two lives.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Two? Oh, but Jacko's life isn't wrecked. It has just +been miraculously restored to him. And a wife, too. There's nothing +tragic for Jacko in it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). I was referring to <i>our</i> two +lives—yours and mine.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yours, George? Your life isn't wrecked. The Court will +absolve you of all blame; your friends will sympathise with you, +and tell you that I was a designing woman who deliberately took you +in; your Aunt Julia——</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>overwrought</i>). Stop it! What do you mean? Have you +no heart? Do you think I <i>want</i> to lose you, Olivia? Do you +think I <i>want</i> my home broken up like this? Haven't you been +happy with me these last five years?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Very happy.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well then, how can you talk like that?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>pathetically</i>). But you want to send me away.</p> +<p>GEORGE. There you go again. I don't <i>want</i> to. I have +hardly had time to realise just what it will mean to me when you +go. The fact is I simply daren't realise it. I daren't think about +it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>earnestly</i>). Try thinking about it, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. And you talk as if I <i>wanted</i> to send you away!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Try thinking about it, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You don't seem to understand that I'm not <i>sending</i> +you away. You simply aren't mine to keep.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Whose am I?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Your husband's. Telworthy's.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>gently</i>). If I belong to anybody but myself, I +think I belong to you.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Not in the eyes of the Law. Not in the eyes of the +Church. Not even in the eyes of—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. The County?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). I was about to say "Heaven."</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>unimpressed</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>GEORGE. That this should happen to <i>us</i>! (<i>He gets up and +walks about the room, wondering when he will wake up from this +impossible dream,</i> OLIVIA <i>works in silence. Then she stands +up and shakes out her curtains</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking at them</i>). I do hope Jacko will like +these.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What! You—— (<i>Going up to her</i>) Olivia, +Olivia, have you no heart?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ought you to talk like that to another man's wife?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Confound it, is this just a joke to you?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You must forgive me, George; I am a little +over-excited—at the thought of returning to Jacob, I +suppose.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Do you <i>want</i> to return to him?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. One wants to do what is right. In the eyes +of—er—Heaven.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Seeing what sort of man he is, I have no doubt that you +could get a separation, supposing that he +didn't—er—divorce you. I don't know <i>what</i> is +best. I must consult my solicitor. The whole position has been +sprung on us, and—(<i>miserably</i>) I don't know, I don't +know. I can't take it all in.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Wouldn't you like to consult your Aunt Julia too? She +could tell you what the County—I mean what Heaven really +thought about it.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes. Aunt Julia has plenty of common sense. You're +quite right, Olivia. This isn't a thing we can keep from the +family.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do I still call her <i>Aunt</i> Julia?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>looking up from his pacings</i>). What? What? (ANNE +<i>comes in</i>.) Well, what is it?</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim says he will come down at once, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, thank you, thank you.</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. George, Mr. Pim has got to know.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't see the necessity.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Not even for me? When a woman suddenly hears that her +long-lost husband is restored to her, don't you think she wants to +ask questions? Where is he living, and how is he looking, +and——</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coldly</i>). Of course, if you are interested in +these things—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How can I help being? Don't be so silly, George. We +<i>must</i> know what Jacko—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). I wish you wouldn't call him by that +ridiculous name.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. My husband—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>wincing</i>). Yes, well—your husband?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, we must know his plans—where we can +communicate with him, and so on.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I have no wish to communicate with him.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm afraid you'll have to, dear.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't see the necessity.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you'll want to—to apologise to him for +living with his wife for so long. And as I belong to him, he ought +to be told where he can—call for me.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>after a struggle</i>). You put it in a very peculiar +way, but I see your-point. (<i>With a shudder</i>) Oh, the horrible +publicity of it all!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>going up to him and comforting him</i>). Poor George. +Dear, don't think I don't sympathise with you. I understand so +exactly what you are feeling. The publicity! It's terrible.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>miserably</i>). I want to do what's right, Olivia. +You believe that?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course I do. It's only that we don't quite agree as +to what is right and what is wrong.</p> +<p>GEORGE. It isn't a question of agreeing. Right is right, and +wrong is wrong, all the world over.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with a sad little smile</i>). But more particularly +in Buckinghamshire, I think.</p> +<p>GEORGE. If I only considered myself, I should say: "Let us pack +this man Telworthy back to Australia. He would make no claim. He +would accept money to go away and say nothing about it." If I +consulted simply my own happiness, Olivia, that is what I should +say. But when I consult—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). Mine?</p> +<p>GEORGE. My conscience——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Then I can't do it. It's wrong. (<i>He is at the window +as he says this</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>making her first and last appeal</i>). George, aren't +I worth a little——</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>turning round</i>). H'sh! Dinah! (<i>Loudly for</i> +DINAH'S <i>benefit</i>) Well, then I'll write to him and—Ah, +Dinah, where's Aunt Julia?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>coming in</i>). We've seen the pigs, and now she's +discussing the Art of Landseer with Brian. I just came to +ask——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah, dear, bring Aunt Julia here. And Brian too. We +have things we want to talk about with you all.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>outraged</i>). Olivia!</p> +<p>DINAH. Righto. What fun!</p> +<p>[<i>Exit</i> DINAH.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Olivia, you don't seriously suggest that we should +discuss these things with a child like Dinah and a young man like +Strange, a mere acquaintance.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah will have to know. I'm very fond of her, George. +You can't send me away without telling Dinah. And Brian is my +friend. You have your solicitor and your aunt and your conscience +to consult—mayn't I even have Brian?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>forgetting</i>). I should have thought that your +<i>husband</i>——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, but we don't know where Jacko is.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I was not referring to—er—Telworthy.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well then?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, naturally I—you mustn't—Oh, this is +horrible!</p> +<p>(<i>He comes back to his desk as the others come in</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>getting up</i>). George and I have had some rather +bad news, Aunt Julia. We wanted your advice. Where will you +sit?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Thank you, Olivia. I can sit down by myself. +(<i>She does so, near</i> GEORGE. DINAH <i>sits on the sofa +with</i> OLIVIA, <i>and</i> BRIAN <i>half leans against the back of +it. There is a hush of expectation. . . .</i>) What is it? Money, I +suppose. Nobody's safe nowadays.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>signalling for help</i>). Olivia—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. We've just heard that my first husband is still +alive.</p> +<p>DINAH. Telworthy!</p> +<p>BRIAN. Good Lord!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. George!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>excitedly</i>). And only this morning I was saying +that nothing ever happened in this house! (<i>Remorsefully to</i> +OLIVIA) Darling, I don't mean that. Darling one!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. What does this mean, George? I leave you for ten +minutes—barely ten minutes—to go and look at the pigs, +and when I come back you tell me that Olivia is a bigamist.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>indignantly</i>). I say—</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>restraining him</i>). H'sh!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). If this is a row, I'm on your +side.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Well, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I'm afraid it's true, Aunt Julia. We heard the news just +before lunch—just before you came. We've only this moment had +an opportunity of talking about it, of wondering what to do.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. What was his +name—Tel—something—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. So he's alive still?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Apparently. There seems to be no doubt about it.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). Didn't you <i>see</i> him die? I +should always want to <i>see</i> my husband die before I married +again. Not that I approve of second marriages, anyhow. I told you +so at the time, George.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. <i>And</i> me, Aunt Julia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Did I? Well, I generally say what I think.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I ought to tell you, Aunt Julia, that no blame attaches +to Olivia over this. Of that I am perfectly satisfied. It's +nobody's fault, except——</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Except Telworthy's. <i>He</i> seems to have been +rather careless. Well, what are you going to do about it?</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's just it. It's a terrible situation. There's bound +to be so much publicity. Not only all this, but—but +Telworthy's past and—and everything.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I should have said that it was Telworthy's present +which was the trouble. Had he a past as well?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. He was a fraudulent company promoter. He went to prison +a good deal.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. George, you never told me this!</p> +<p>GEORGE. I—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't see <i>why</i> he should want to talk about +it.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>indignantly</i>). What's it got to do with Olivia, +anyhow? It's not <i>her</i> fault.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>sarcastically</i>). Oh no, I daresay it's +mine.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>to</i> GEORGE). YOU wanted to ask Aunt Julia what was +the right thing to do.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>bursting out</i>). Good Heavens, what <i>is</i> there +to do except the one and only thing? (<i>They all look at him and +he becomes embarrassed</i>) I'm sorry. You don't want <i>me</i> +to—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. <i>I</i> do, Brian.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Well, go on, Mr. Strange. What would <i>you</i> do +in George's position?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Do? Say to the woman I loved, "You're <i>mine</i>, and +let this other damned fellow come and take you from me if he can!" +And he couldn't—how could he?—not if the woman chose +<i>me</i>.</p> +<p>(LADY MARDEN <i>gazes at</i> BRIAN <i>in amazement</i>, GEORGE +<i>in anger</i>, OLIVIA <i>presses his hand gratefully. He has said +what she has been waiting—oh, so eagerly—for</i> GEORGE +<i>to say</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>adoringly</i>). Oh, Brian! (<i>In a whisper</i>) It +<i>is</i> me, isn't it, and not Olivia?</p> +<p>BRIAN. You baby, of course!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I'm afraid, Mr. Strange, your morals are as +peculiar as your views on Art. If you had led a more healthy +life—</p> +<p>BRIAN. This is not a question of morals or of art, it's a +question of love.</p> +<p>DINAH. Hear, hear!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>to</i> GEORGE). Isn't it that girl's bedtime +yet?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>to</i> DINAH). We'll let her sit up a little longer +if she's good.</p> +<p>DINAH. I will be good, Olivia, only I thought anybody, however +important a debate was, was allowed to say "Hear, hear!"</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coldly</i>) I really think we could discuss this +better if Mr. Strange took Dinah out for a walk. Strange, if +you—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Tell them what you have settled first, George.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Settled? What is there to be settled? It settles +itself.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>sadly</i>). That's just it.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. The marriage must be annulled—is that the +word, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I presume so.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. One's solicitor will know all about that of +course.</p> +<p>BRIAN. And when the marriage has been annulled, what then?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Presumably Olivia will return to her husband.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>bitterly</i>). And <i>that's</i> morality! As +expounded by Bishop Landseer!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>angered</i>). I don't know what you mean by Bishop +Landseer. Morality is acting in accordance with the Laws of the +Land and the Laws of the Church. I am quite prepared to believe +that <i>your</i> creed embraces neither marriage nor monogamy, but +my creed is different.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>fiercely</i>). My creed includes both marriage +<i>and</i> monogamy, and monogamy means sticking to the woman you +love, as long as she wants you.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>calmly</i>). You suggest that George and Olivia +should go on living together, although they have never been legally +married, and wait for this Telworthy man to divorce her, and +then—bless the man, what do you think the County would +say?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>scornfully</i>). Does it matter?</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, if you really want to know, the men would say, +"Gad, she's a fine woman; I don't wonder he sticks to her," and the +women would say, "I can't <i>think</i> what he sees in her to stick +to her like that," and they'd both say, "After all, he may be a +damn fool, but you can't deny he's a sportsman." That's what the +County would say.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>indignantly</i>) Was it for this sort of thing, +Olivia, that you insisted on having Dinah and Mr. Strange in here? +To insult me in my own house?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I can't think what young people are coming to +nowadays.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think, dear, you and Brian had better go.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>getting up</i>). We will go. But I'm just going to say +one thing, Uncle George. Brian and I <i>are</i> going to marry each +other, and when we are married we'll stick to each other, +<i>however</i> many of our dead husbands and wives turn up!</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out indignantly, followed by</i> BRIAN.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Upon my word, this is a pleasant discussion.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think the discussion is over, George. It is only a +question of where I shall go, while you are bringing +your—what sort of suit did you call it?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>to</i> GEORGE). Nullity suit. I suppose that +<i>is</i> the best thing?</p> +<p>GEORGE. It's horrible. The awful publicity. That it should be +happening to <i>us</i>, that's what I can't get over.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I don't remember anything of the sort in the Marden +Family before, ever.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>absently</i>). Lady Fanny.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>recollecting</i>). Yes, of course; but that was +two hundred years ago. The standards were different then. Besides, +it wasn't quite the same, anyhow.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>absently</i>). No, it wasn't quite the same.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. No. We shall all feel it. Terribly.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>his apology</i>). If there were any other way! +Olivia, what <i>can</i> I do? It <i>is</i> the only way, isn't it? +All that that fellow said—of course, it sounds very +well—but as things are. . . . <i>Is</i> there anything in +marriage, or isn't there? You believe that there is, don't you? You +aren't one of these Socialists. Well, then, <i>can</i> we go on +living together when you're another man's wife? It isn't only what +people will say, but it <i>is</i> wrong, isn't it? . . . And +supposing he doesn't divorce you, are we to go on living together, +unmarried, for <i>ever</i>? Olivia, you seem to think that I'm just +thinking of the publicity—what people will say. I'm not. I'm +not. That comes in any way. But I want to do what's right, what's +best. I don't mean what's best for <i>us</i>, what makes us +happiest, I mean what's really best, what's rightest. What anybody +else would do in my place. <i>I</i> don't know. It's so unfair. +You're not my wife at all, but I want to do what's right. . . . Oh, +Olivia, Olivia, you do understand, don't you?</p> +<p>(<i>They have both forgotten</i> LADY MARDEN. OLIVIA <i>has +never taken her eyes off him as he makes his last attempt to +convince himself</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>almost tenderly</i>). So very very well, George. Oh, +I understand just what you are feeling. And oh, I do so wish that +you could—(<i>with a little sigh</i>)—but then it +wouldn't be George, not the George I married—(<i>with a +rueful little laugh</i>)—or didn't quite marry.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I must say, I think you are both talking a little +wildly.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>repeating it, oh, so tenderly</i>). Or +didn't—quite—marry. (<i>She looks at him with all her +heart in her eyes. She is giving him his last chance to say "Damn +Telworthy; you're mine!" He struggles desperately with himself. . . +. Will he?—will he? . . . But we shall never know, for at +that moment</i> ANNE <i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim is here, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>emerging from the struggle with an effort</i>). Pim? +Pim? Oh, ah, yes, of course. Mr. Pim. (<i>Looking up</i>) Where +have you put him?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I want to see Mr. Pim, too, George.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Who on earth is Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Show him in here, Anne.</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, madam. [<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It was Mr. Pim who told us about my husband. He came +across with him in the boat, and recognised him as the Telworthy he +knew in Australia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Oh! Shall I be in the way?</p> +<p>GEORGE. No, no. It doesn't matter, does it, Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Please stay.</p> +<p>ANNE <i>enters followed by</i> MR. PIM.</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>pulling himself together</i>). Ah, Mr. Pim! Very good +of you to have come. The fact is—er—(<i>It is too much +for him; he looks despairingly at</i> OLIVIA.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. We're so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Pim. By the way, do +you know Lady Marden? (MR. PIM <i>and</i> LADY MARDEN <i>bow to +each other</i>.) Do come and sit down, won't you? (<i>She makes +room for him on the sofa next to her</i>) The fact is, Mr. Pim, you +gave us rather a surprise this morning, and before we had time to +realise what it all meant, you had gone.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. A surprise, Mrs. Marden? Dear me, not an unpleasant +one, I hope?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, rather a—surprising one.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Olivia, allow me a moment. Mr. Pim, you mentioned a man +called Telworthy this morning. My wife used to—that is to +say, I used to—that is, there are reasons—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think we had better be perfectly frank, George.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I am sixty-five years of age, Mr. Pim, and I can +say that I've never had a moment's uneasiness by telling the +truth.</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>after a desperate effort to keep up with the +conversation</i>). Oh! . . . I—er—I'm afraid I am +rather at sea. Have I—er—left anything unsaid in +presenting my credentials to you this morning? This Telworthy whom +you mention—I seem to remember the name—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, you told us this morning of a man whom you had +met on the boat, a man who had come down in the world, whom you had +known in Sydney. A man called Telworthy.</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>relieved</i>). Ah yes, yes, of course. I did say +Telworthy, didn't I? Most curious coincidence, Lady Marden. Poor +man, poor man! Let me see, it must have been ten years +ago—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. You're quite sure that his name +was Telworthy?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Telworthy—Telworthy—didn't I say Telworthy? +Yes, that was it—Telworthy. Poor fellow!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Pim. I +feel quite sure that I can trust you. This man Telworthy whom you +met is my husband.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Your husband? (<i>He looks in mild surprise at</i> +GEORGE.) But—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. My first husband. His death was announced six years ago. +I had left him some years before that, but there seems no doubt +from your story that he's still alive. His record—the country +he comes from—above all, the very unusual +name—Telworthy.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Telworthy—yes—certainly a most peculiar +name. I remember saying so. Your first husband? Dear me! Dear +me!</p> +<p>GEORGE. You understand, Mr. Pim, that all this is in absolute +confidence.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Of course, of course.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, since he is my husband, we naturally want to know +something about him. Where is he now, for instance?</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>surprised</i>). Where is he now? But surely I told +you? I told you what happened at Marseilles?</p> +<p>GEORGE. At Marseilles?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Yes, yes, poor fellow, it was most unfortunate. +(<i>Quite happy again</i>) You must understand, Lady Marden, that +although I had met the poor fellow before in Australia, I was never +in any way intimate—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>thumping the desk</i>). Where is he <i>now</i>, +that's what we want to know?</p> +<p>(MR. PIM <i>turns to him with a start</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Please, Mr. Pim!</p> +<p>PIM. Where is he now? But—but didn't I tell you of the +curious fatality at Marseilles—poor fellow—the +fish-bone?</p> +<p>ALL. Fish-bone?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Yes, yes, a herring, I understand.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>understanding first</i>). Do you mean he's dead?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Dead—of course—didn't I—?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>laughing hysterically</i>). Oh, Mr. Pim, +you—oh, what a husband to have—oh, I—(<i>But that +is all she can say for the moment</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Pull yourself together, Olivia. This is so +unhealthy for you. (<i>To</i> PIM) So he really <i>is</i> dead this +time?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly. A fishbone lodged in his +throat.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>trying to realise it</i>). Dead!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>struggling with her laughter</i>). I think you must +excuse me, Mr. Pim—I can never thank you enough—a +herring—there's something about a herring—morality +depends on such little things—George, you—(<i>Shaking +her head at him in a weak state of laughter, she hurries out of the +room</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Dear me! Dear me!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Now, let us have this quite clear, Mr. Pim. You say that +the man, Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Telworthy, yes—didn't I say Telworthy? This man I +was telling you about—</p> +<p>GEORGE. He's dead?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Yes, yes, he died at Marseilles.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. A dispensation of Providence, George. One can look +at it in no other light.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Dead! (<i>Suddenly annoyed</i>) Really, Mr. Pim, I think +you might have told us before.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. But I—I <i>was</i> telling you—I—</p> +<p>GEORGE. If you had only told us the whole story at once, instead +of in two—two instalments like this, you would have saved us +all a good deal of anxiety.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Really, I—</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I am sure Mr. Pim meant well, George, but it seems +a pity he couldn't have said so before. If the man was dead, +<i>why</i> try to hush it up?</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>lost again</i>). Really, Lady Marden, I—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>getting up</i>). Well, well, at any rate, I am much +obliged to you, Mr. Pim, for having come down to us this afternoon. +Dead! <i>De mortuis</i>, and so forth, but the situation would have +been impossible had he lived. Good-bye! (<i>Holding out his +hand</i>) Good-bye!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Good-bye, Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! (GEORGE <i>takes him to the +door</i>.) Of course, if I had—(<i>to himself</i>) +Telworthy—I <i>think</i> that was the name. (<i>He goes out, +still wondering</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with a sigh of thankfulness</i>). Well! This is +wonderful news, Aunt Julia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Most providential! . . . You understand, of course, +that you are not married to Olivia?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>who didn't</i>). Not married?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. If her first husband only died at Marseilles a few +days ago—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Good Heavens!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Not that it matters. You can get married quietly +again. Nobody need know.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>considering it</i>). Yes . . . yes. Then all these +years we have been—er—Yes.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Who's going to know?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, that's true. . . . And in perfect innocence, +too.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I should suggest a Registry Office in London.</p> +<p>GEORGE. A Registry Office, yes.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Better go up to town this afternoon. Can't do it +too quickly.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes. We can stay at an hotel—</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>surprised</i>). George!</p> +<p>GEORGE. What?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. <i>You</i> will stay at your club.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh—ah—yes, of course, Aunt Julia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Better take your solicitor with you to be on the +safe side. . . . To the Registry Office, I mean.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>getting up</i>). Well, I must be getting along, +George. Say good-bye to Olivia for me. And those children. Of +course, you won't allow this absurd love-business between them to +come to anything?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Most certainly not. Good-bye, Aunt Julia!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>indicating the windows</i>). I'll go <i>this</i> +way. (<i>As she goes</i>) And get Olivia out more, George. I don't +like these hysterics. You want to be firm with her.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>firmly</i>) Yes, yes! Good-bye!</p> +<p>(<i>He waves to her and then goes back to his seat</i>.)</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>comes in, and stands in the middle of the room +looking at him. He comes to her eagerly</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>holding out his hands</i>). Olivia! Olivia! (<i>But +it is not so easy as that</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>drawing herself up proudly</i>). Mrs. Telworthy!</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT III</h2> +<p> </p> +<p>OLIVIA <i>is standing where we left her at the end of the last +act</i>.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>taken aback</i>). Olivia, I—I don't +understand.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>leaving melodrama with a little laugh and coming down +to him</i>). Poor George! Did I frighten you rather?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You're so strange to-day. I don't understand you. You're +not like the Olivia I know.</p> +<p>(<i>They sit down on the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Perhaps you don't know me very well after all.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>affectionately</i>). Oh, that's nonsense, old girl. +You're just my Olivia.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. And yet it seemed as though I wasn't going to be your +Olivia half an hour ago.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with a shudder</i>). Don't talk about it. It doesn't +bear thinking about. Well, thank Heaven that's over. Now we can get +married again quietly and nobody will be any the wiser.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Married again?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, dear. As you—er—(<i>he laughs +uneasily</i>) said just now, you are Mrs. Telworthy. Just for the +moment. But we can soon put that right. My idea was to go up this +evening and—er—make arrangements, and if you come up +to-morrow morning, if we can manage it by then, we could get +quietly married at a Registry Office, and—er—nobody any +the wiser.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, I see. You want me to marry you at a Registry +Office to-morrow?</p> +<p>GEORGE. If we can arrange it by then. I don't know how long +these things take, but I should imagine there would be no +difficulty.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh no, that part ought to be quite easy. +But—(<i>She hesitates</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. But what?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, if you want to marry me to-morrow, George, +oughtn't you to propose to me first?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>amazed</i>). Propose?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. It is usual, isn't it, to propose to a person +before you marry her, and—and we want to do the usual thing, +don't we?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>upset</i>). But you—but we . . .</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You see, dear, you're George Marden, and I'm Olivia +Telworthy, and you—you're attracted by me, and think I would +make you a good wife, and you want to marry me. Well, naturally you +propose to me first, and—tell me how much you are attracted +by me, and what a good wife you think I shall make, and how badly +you want to marry me.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>falling into the humour of it, as he thinks</i>). The +baby! Did she want to be proposed to all over again?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, she did rather.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>rather fancying himself as an actor</i>). She shall +then. (<i>He adopts what he considers to be an appropriate +attitude</i>) Mrs. Telworthy, I have long admired you in silence, +and the time has now come to put my admiration into words. +Er—(<i>But apparently he finds a difficulty</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>hopefully</i>). Into words.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with the idea of helping</i>). Oh, Mr. Marden!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Er—may I call you Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>taking her hand</i>). Olivia—I—(<i>He +hesitates</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't want to interrupt, but oughtn't you to be on +your knees? It is—usual, I believe. If one of the servants +came in, you could say you were looking for my scissors.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Really, Olivia, you must allow me to manage my own +proposal in my own way.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>meekly</i>). I'm sorry. Do go on.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, er—confound it, Olivia, I love you. Will you +marry me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Thank you, George, I will think it over.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>laughing</i>). Silly girl! Well then, to-morrow +morning. No wedding-cake, I'm afraid, Olivia. (<i>He laughs +again</i>) But we'll go and have a good lunch somewhere.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I will think it over, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>good-humouredly</i>). Well, give us a kiss while +you're thinking.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm afraid you mustn't kiss me until we are actually +engaged.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>laughing uneasily</i>). Oh, we needn't take it as +seriously as all that.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But a woman must take a proposal seriously.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>alarmed at last</i>). What do you mean?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I mean that the whole question, as I heard somebody say +once, demands much more anxious thought than either of us has given +it. These hasty marriages—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Hasty!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you've only just proposed to me, and you want to +marry me to-morrow.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Now you're talking perfect nonsense, Olivia. You know +quite well that our case is utterly different from—from any +other.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. All the same, one has to ask oneself questions. With a +young girl like—well, with a young girl, love may well seem +to be all that matters. But with a woman of my age, it is +different. I have to ask myself if you can afford to support a +wife.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coldly</i>). Fortunately that is a question that you +can very easily answer for yourself.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, but I have been hearing rather bad reports lately. +What with taxes always going up, and rents always going down, some +of our landowners are getting into rather straitened circumstances. +At least, so I'm told.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't know what you're talking about.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). Oh, isn't it true? I heard of a case +only this morning—a landowner who always seemed to be very +comfortably off, but who couldn't afford an allowance for his only +niece when she wanted to get married. It made me think that one +oughtn't to judge by appearances.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You know perfectly well that I can afford to support a +wife as my wife <i>should</i> be supported.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm so glad, dear. Then your income—you aren't +getting anxious at all?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). You know perfectly well what my income +is. I see no reason for anxiety in the future.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ah, well, then we needn't think about that any more. +Well, then, there is another thing to be considered.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I can't make out what you're up to. Don't you want to +get married; to—er—legalise this extraordinary +situation in which we are placed?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I want to be sure that I am going to be happy, George. I +can't just jump at the very first offer I have had since my husband +died, without considering the whole question very carefully.</p> +<p>GEORGE. So I'm under consideration, eh?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Every suitor is.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>sarcastically, as he thinks</i>). Well, go on.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, then, there's your niece. You have a niece who +lives with you. Of course Dinah is a delightful girl, but one +doesn't like marrying into a household in which there is another +grown-up woman. But perhaps she will be getting married herself +soon?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see no prospect of it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think it would make it much easier if she did.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Is this a threat, Olivia? Are you telling me that if I +do not allow young Strange to marry Dinah, you will not marry +me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. A threat? Oh no, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Then what does it mean?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm just wondering if you love me as much as Brian loves +Dinah. You <i>do</i> love me?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>from his heart</i>). You know I do, old girl. (<i>He +comes to her</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You're not just attracted by my pretty face? . . . +<i>Is</i> it a pretty face?</p> +<p>GEORGE. It's an adorable one. (<i>He tries to kiss it, but she +turns away</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How can I be sure that it is not <i>only</i> my face +which makes you think that you care for me? Love which rests upon a +mere outward attraction cannot lead to any lasting +happiness—as one of our thinkers has observed.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What's come over you, Olivia? I don't understand what +you're driving at. Why should you doubt my love?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ah!—Why?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You can't pretend that we haven't been happy together. +I've—I've been a good pal to you, eh? We—we suit each +other, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do we?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course we do.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I wonder. When two people of our age think of getting +married, one wants to be very sure that there is real community of +ideas between them. Whether it is a comparatively trivial matter, +like the right colour for a curtain, or some very much more serious +question of conduct which arises, one wants to feel that there is +some chance of agreement between husband and wife.</p> +<p>GEORGE. We—we love each other, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. We do now, yes. But what shall we be like in five years' +time? Supposing that after we have been married five years, we +found ourselves estranged from each other upon such questions as +Dinah's future, or the decorations of the drawing-room, or even the +advice to give to a friend who had innocently contracted a bigamous +marriage? How bitterly we should regret then our hasty plunge into +a matrimony which was no true partnership, whether of tastes, or of +ideas, or even of consciences! (<i>With a sigh</i>) Ah me!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>nastily</i>). Unfortunately for your argument, +Olivia, I can answer you out of your own mouth. You seem to have +forgotten what you said this morning in the case +of—er—young Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>reproachfully</i>). Is it quite fair, George, to drag +up what was said this morning?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You've brought it on yourself.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I? . . . Well, and what did I say this morning?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You said that it was quite enough that Strange was a +gentleman and in love with Dinah for me to let them marry each +other.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh! . . . <i>Is</i> that enough, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>triumphantly</i>). You said so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>meekly</i>). Well, if you think so, too, I—I +don't mind risking it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>kindly</i>). Aha, my dear! You see!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Then you do think it's enough?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I—er—Yes, yes, I—I think so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>going to him</i>). My darling one! Then we can have a +double wedding. How jolly!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>astounded</i>). A double one!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. You and me, Brian and Dinah.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>firmly</i>). Now look here, Olivia, understand once +and for all, I am not to be blackmailed into giving my consent to +Dinah's engagement. Neither blackmailed nor tricked. Our marriage +has nothing whatever to do with Dinah's.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. No, dear. I quite understand. They may take place about +the same time, but they have nothing to do with each other.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see no prospect of Dinah's marriage taking place for +many years.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. No, dear, that was what I said.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>not understanding for the moment</i>). You said. . .? +I see. Now, Olivia, let us have this perfectly clear. You +apparently insist on treating my—er—proposal as +serious.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). Wasn't it serious? Were you trifling +with me?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You know quite well what I mean. You treat it as an +ordinary proposal from a man to a woman who have never been more +than acquaintances before. Very well then. Will you tell me what +you propose to do, if you decide to—ah—refuse me? You +do not suggest that we should go on living +together—unmarried?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shocked</i>). Of course not, George! What would the +County—I mean Heaven—I mean the Law—I mean, of +<i>course</i> not! Besides, it's so unnecessary. If I decide to +accept you, of <i>course</i> I shall marry you.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Quite so. And if you—ah—decide to refuse me? +What will you do?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Nothing.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Meaning by that?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Just that, George. I shall stay here—just as +before. I like this house. It wants a little re-decorating perhaps, +but I do like it, George . . . Yes, I shall be quite happy +here.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see. You will continue to live down here—in +spite of what you said just now about the immorality of it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). But there's nothing immoral in a +widow living alone in a big country house, with perhaps the niece +of a friend of hers staying with her, just to keep her company.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>sarcastic</i>). And what shall <i>I</i> be doing, +when you've so very kindly taken possession of my house for me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't know, George. Travelling, I expect. You could +come down sometimes with a chaperone. I suppose there would be +nothing wrong in that.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>indignant</i>). Thank you! And what if I refuse to be +turned out of my house?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Then, seeing that we can't <i>both</i> be in it, it +looks as though you'd have to turn <i>me</i> out. (<i>Casually</i>) +I suppose there are legal ways of doing these things. You'd have to +consult your solicitor again.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>amazed</i>). Legal ways?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you couldn't <i>throw</i> me out, could you? You'd +have to get an injunction against me—or prosecute me for +trespass—or something. It would make an awfully unusual case, +wouldn't it? The papers would be full of it.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You must be mad!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>dreamily</i>). Widow of well-known ex-convict takes +possession of J.P.'s house. Popular country gentleman denied +entrance to his own home. Doomed to travel.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>angrily</i>). I've had enough of this. Do you mean +all this nonsense?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I do mean, George, that I am in no hurry to go up to +London and get married. I love the country just now, and (<i>with a +sigh</i>) after this morning, I'm—rather tired of +husbands.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>in a rage</i>). I've never heard so much—damned +nonsense in my life. I will leave you to come to your senses. +(<i>He goes out indignantly</i>.)</p> +<p>(OLIVIA, <i>who has forgiven him already, throws a loving kiss +after him, and then turns triumphantly to her dear curtains. She +takes them, smiling, to the sofa, and has just got to work again, +when</i> MR. PIM <i>appears at the open windows</i>.)</p> +<p>PIM (<i>in a whisper</i>). Er, may I come in, Mrs. Marden?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>turning round in surprise</i>). Mr. Pim!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>anxiously</i>). Mr. Marden is—er—not +here?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>getting up</i>). Do you want to see him? I will tell +him.</p> +<p>PIM. No, no, no! Not for the world! (<i>He comes in and looks +anxiously at the door</i>) There is no immediate danger of his +returning, Mrs. Marden?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). No, I don't think so. What is it? +You—</p> +<p>PIM. I took the liberty of returning by the window in the hope +of—er—coming upon you alone, Mrs. Marden.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>still rather nervous</i>). I—er—Mr. Marden +will be very angry with me. Quite rightly. I blame myself entirely. +I do not know how I can have been so stupid.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What is it, Mr. Pim? Has my husband come to life +again?</p> +<p>PIM. Mrs. Marden, I throw myself on your mercy entirely. The +fact is—his name was Polwittle.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>at a loss</i>). Whose? My husband's?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes. The name came back to me suddenly, just as I +reached the gate. Polwittle, poor fellow.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But, Mr. Pim, my husband's name was Telworthy.</p> +<p>PIM. No, no, Polwittle.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But, really I ought to. . .</p> +<p>PIM (<i>firmly</i>). Polwittle. It came back to me suddenly just +as I reached the gate. For the moment, I had thoughts of conveying +the news by letter. I was naturally disinclined to return in +person, and—Polwittle. (<i>Proudly</i>) If you remember, I +always said it was a curious name.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But who <i>is</i> Polwittle?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>in surprise at her stupidity</i>). The man I have been +telling you about, who met with the sad fatality at Marseilles. +Henry Polwittle—or was it Ernest? No, Henry, I think. Poor +fellow.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>indignantly</i>). But you said his name was +Telworthy! How <i>could</i> you?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, I blame myself entirely.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But how could you <i>think</i> of a name like Telworthy, +if it wasn't Telworthy?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>eagerly</i>). Ah, that is the really interesting thing +about the whole matter.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, all your visits here to-day have been +interesting.</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, but you see, on my first appearance here this morning, +I was received by—er—Miss Diana.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah.</p> +<p>PIM. Miss Dinah, yes. She was in—er—rather a +communicative mood, and she happened to mention, by way of passing +the time, that before your marriage to Mr. Marden you had been a +Mrs.—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Telworthy.</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, Telworthy, of course. She mentioned also +Australia. By some process of the brain—which strikes me as +decidedly curious—when I was trying to recollect the name of +the poor fellow on the boat, whom you remember I had also met in +Australia, the fact that this other name was also stored in my +memory, a name equally peculiar—this fact I say. . .</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>seeing that the sentence is rapidly going to +pieces</i>). Yes, I understand.</p> +<p>PIM. I blame myself, I blame myself entirely.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't do that, Mr. Pim. It was really Dinah's +fault for inflicting all our family history on you.</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, but a charming young woman. I assure you I was very +much interested in all that she told me. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well, +Mrs.—er—Marden, I can only hope that you will forgive +me for the needless distress I have caused you to-day.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't worry about that—please.</p> +<p>PIM. And you will tell your husband—you will break the +news to him?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling to herself</i>). I will—break the news +to him.</p> +<p>PIM. You understand how it is that I thought it better to come +to you in the first place?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I am very glad you did.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>holding out his hand</i>). Then I will say good-bye, +and—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. Let us have it quite clear this +time. You never knew my husband, Jacob Telworthy, you never met him +in Australia, you never saw him on the boat, and nothing whatever +happened to him at Marseilles. Is that right?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, that is so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. So that, since he was supposed to have died in Australia +six years ago, he is presumably still dead?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, undoubtedly.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>holding out her hand with a charming smile</i>). Then +good-bye, Mr. Pim, and thank you so much for—for all your +trouble.</p> +<p>PIM. Not at all, Mrs. Marden. I can only assure you I—</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>from the window</i>). Hullo, here's Mr. Pim! (<i>She +comes in, followed by</i> BRIAN.)</p> +<p>PIM (<i>anxiously looking at the door in case</i> MR. MARDEN +<i>should come in</i>). Yes, yes, I—er—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, Mr. Pim, you mustn't run away without even saying how +do you do! Such old friends as we are. Why, it is ages since I saw +you! Are you staying to tea?</p> +<p>PIM. I'm afraid I—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mr. Pim has to hurry away, Dinah. You mustn't keep +him.</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, but you'll come back again?</p> +<p>PIM. I fear that I am only a passer-by, +Miss—er—Dinah.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You can walk with him to the gate, dear.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>gratefully to</i> OLIVIA). Thank you. (<i>He edges +towards the window</i>) If you would be so kind, Miss +Dinah—</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'll catch you up.</p> +<p>DINAH. Come along then, Mr. Pim. (<i>As they go out</i>) I want +to hear all about your <i>first</i> wife. You haven't really told +me anything yet.</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>resumes her work, and</i> BRIAN <i>sits on the back +of the sofa looking at her</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>awkwardly</i>). I just wanted to say, if you don't +think it cheek, that I'm—I'm on your side, if I may be, and +if I can help you at all I should be very proud of being allowed +to.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking up at him</i>). Brian, you dear. That's sweet +of you . . . But it's quite all right now, you know.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Oh, I'm so glad.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, that's what Mr. Pim came back to say. He'd made a +mistake about the name. (<i>Smiling</i>) George is the only husband +I have.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>surprised</i>). What? You mean that the whole +thing—that Pim—(<i>With conviction</i>) Silly ass!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>kindly</i>). Oh, well, he didn't mean to be. +(<i>After a pause</i>) Brian, do you know anything about the +Law?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'm afraid not. I hate the Law. Why?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>casually</i>). Oh, I just—I was +wondering—thinking about all the shocks we've been through +to-day. Second marriages, and all that.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Oh! It's a rotten business.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I suppose there's nothing wrong in getting married to +the <i>same</i> person twice?</p> +<p>BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh?</p> +<p>BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice, +don't they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in +church.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it's +rather a nice idea. They ought to do it in England more.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can +work it. (<i>Anxiously</i>) D'you think there's any chance, +Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling</i>). Every chance, dear.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>jumping up</i>). I say, do you really? Have you +squared him? I mean, has he—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later +on.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Bless you. Righto.</p> +<p>(<i>As he goes out by the windows,</i> GEORGE <i>comes in at the +door</i>. GEORGE <i>stands looking after him, and then turns to</i> +OLIVIA, <i>who is absorbed in her curtains. He walks up and down +the room, fidgeting with things, waiting for her to speak. As she +says nothing, he begins to talk himself, but in an obviously +unconcerned way. There is a pause after each answer of hers, before +he gets out his next remark</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>casually</i>). Good-looking fellow, Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>equally casually</i>). Brian—yes, isn't he? And +such a nice boy. . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? +Hey?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's +any doubt about it. . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about +painting.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in +this new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint +like—like Rubens or—or Reynolds?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find +his directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh yes!</p> +<p>GEORGE. H'm! . . . Good-looking fellow. (<i>There is rather a +longer silence this time</i>, GEORGE <i>continues to hope that he +is appearing casual and unconcerned. He stands looking at</i> +OLIVIA'S <i>work for a moment</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Nearly finished 'em?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>looking round</i>). Scissors?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Where are you going to put 'em?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>as if really wondering</i>). I don't quite know. . . +. I <i>had</i> thought of this room, but—I'm not quite +sure.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>walking over to the present curtains</i>). H'm. They +<i>are</i> a bit faded.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shaking out hers, and looking at them +critically</i>). Sometimes I think I love them, and sometimes I'm +not quite sure.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Best way is to hang 'em up and see how you like 'em +then. Always take 'em down again.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. That's rather a good idea, George!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Best way.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. . . . I think we might do that. . . . The only +thing is—(<i>she hesitates</i>).</p> +<p>GEORGE. What?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, the carpet and the chairs, and the cushions and +things—</p> +<p>GEORGE. What about 'em?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, if we had new curtains—</p> +<p>GEORGE. You'd want a new carpet, eh?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>doubtfully</i>). Y—yes. Well, new chair-covers +anyhow.</p> +<p>GEORGE. H'm. . . . Well, why not?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, but—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with an awkward laugh</i>). We're not so hard up as +all that, you know.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. No, I suppose not. (<i>Thoughtfully</i>) I suppose it +would mean that I should have to go up to London for them. That's +rather a nuisance.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>extremely casual</i>). Oh, I don't know. We might go +up together one day.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, of course if we <i>were</i> up—for anything +else—we could just look about us, and see if we could find +what we want.</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's what I meant.</p> +<p>(<i>There is another silence</i>. GEORGE <i>is wondering whether +to come to closer quarters with the great question</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, by the way, George—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). I told Brian, and I expect he'll +tell Dinah, that Mr. Pim had made a mistake about the name.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>astonished</i>). You told Brian that Mr. +Pim—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes—I told him that the whole thing was a mistake. +It seemed the simplest way.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Olivia! Then you mean that Brian and Dinah think +that—that we have been married all the time?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes . . . They both think so now.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coming close to her</i>). Olivia, does that mean that +you <i>are</i> thinking of marrying me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. At your old Registry Office?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>eagerly</i>). Yes!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. To-morrow?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do you want me to <i>very</i> much?</p> +<p>GEORGE. My darling, you know I do!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>a little apprehensive</i>). We should have to do it +very quietly.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, darling. Nobody need know at all. We don't +<i>want</i> anybody to know. And now that you've put Brian and +Dinah off the scent, by telling them that Mr. Pim made a +mistake—(<i>He breaks off, and says admiringly</i>) That was +very clever of you, Olivia. I should never have thought of +that.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). No, darling. . . You don't think it +was wrong, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>his verdict</i>). An innocent deception . . . +perfectly harmless.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, dear, that was what I thought about—about +what I was doing.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Then you will come to-morrow? (<i>She nods</i>.) And if +we happen to see the carpet, or anything that you want—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, what fun!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>beaming</i>). And a wedding lunch at the Carlton, +what? (<i>She nods eagerly</i>.) And—and a bit of a honeymoon +in Paris?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, George!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hungrily</i>). Give us a kiss, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>lovingly</i>). George!</p> +<p>(<i>She holds up her cheek to him. He kisses it, and then +suddenly takes her in his arms</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Don't ever leave me, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>affectionately</i>). Don't ever send me away, old +boy.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>fervently</i>). I won't. . . . (<i>Awkwardly</i>) +I—I don't think I would have, you know. I—I—</p> +<p>(DINAH <i>and</i> BRIAN <i>appear at the windows, having +seen</i> MR. PIM <i>safely off</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>surprised</i>). Oo, I say!</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>hastily moves away</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Hallo!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>going up impetuously to him</i>). Give <i>me</i> one, +too, George; Brian won't mind.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Really, Dinah, you are the limit.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>formally, but enjoying it</i>). Do you mind, Mr. +Strange?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>a little uncomfortably</i>). Oh, I say, sir—</p> +<p>GEORGE. We'll risk it, Dinah. (<i>He kisses her</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>triumphantly to</i> BRIAN). Did you notice that one? +That wasn't just an ordinary affectionate kiss. It was a special +bless—you—my—children one. (<i>To</i> GEORGE) +Wasn't it?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You do talk nonsense, darling.</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, I'm so happy, now that Mr. Pim has relented about +your first husband—</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>catches</i> OLIVIA'S <i>eye and smiles; she smiles +back; but they are different smiles</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>the actor</i>). Yes, yes, stupid fellow Pim, +what?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Absolute idiot.</p> +<p>DINAH.—And now that George has relented about <i>my</i> +first husband.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You get on much too quickly, young woman. (<i>To</i> +BRIAN) So you want to marry my Dinah, eh?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>with a smile</i>). Well, I do rather, sir.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>hastily</i>). Not at once, of course, George. We want +to be engaged for a long time first, and write letters to each +other, and tell each other how much we love each other, and sit +next to each other when we go out to dinner.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). Well, <i>that</i> sounds fairly +harmless, I think.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling</i>). I think so. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> BRIAN). Then you'd better have a talk with +me—er—Brian.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Thank you very much, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, come along then. (<i>Looking at his watch</i>) I +am going up to town after tea, so we'd better—</p> +<p>DINAH. I say! Are you going to London?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with the smile of the conspirator</i>). A little +business. Never you mind, young lady.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>calmly</i>). All right. Only, bring me back something +nice.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> BRIAN). Shall we walk down and look at the +pigs?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Righto!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Don't go far, dear. I may want you in a moment.</p> +<p>GEORGE. All right, darling, we'll be on the terrace.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian and George always try to discuss me in front of the +pigs. So tactless of them. Are you going to London, too, +darling?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. To-morrow morning.</p> +<p>DINAH. What are you going to do in London?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, shopping, and—one or two little things.</p> +<p>DINAH. With George?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. . . .</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, wasn't it lovely about Pim?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Lovely?</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes; he told me all about it. Making such a hash of +things, I mean.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). Did he make a hash of things?</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, I mean keeping on coming like that. And if you look +at it all round—well, for all he had to say, he needn't +really have come at all.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling to herself</i>). I shouldn't quite say that, +Dinah. (<i>She stands up and shakes out the curtains</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, aren't they jolly?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>demurely</i>). I'm so glad everybody likes them. Tell +George I'm ready, will you?</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, is <i>he</i> going to hang them up for you?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I thought he could reach best.</p> +<p>DINAH. Righto! What fun! (<i>At the windows</i>) George! George! +(<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Brian is just telling George about the five +shillings he's got in the Post Office. . . . George!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>from the terrace</i>). Coming!</p> +<p>(<i>He hurries in, the model husband</i>, BRIAN +<i>follows</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, George, just hang these up for me, will you?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, darling. I'll get the steps from the +library.</p> +<p>[<i>He hurries out</i>.</p> +<p>(BRIAN <i>takes out his sketching block. It is obvious that his +five shillings has turned the scale. He bows to</i> DINAH. <i>He +kisses</i> OLIVIA'S <i>hand with an air. He motions to</i> DINAH +<i>to be seated</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>impressed</i>). What is it?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>beginning to draw</i>). Portrait of Lady Strange.</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>hurries in with the steps, and gets to work. There is +a great deal of curtain, and for the moment he becomes slightly +involved in it. However, by draping it over his head and shoulders, +he manages to get successfully up the steps. There we may leave +him.</i></p> +<p><i>But we have not quite finished with</i> MR. PIM. <i>It is a +matter of honour with him now that he should get his little story +quite accurate before passing out of the</i> MARDENS' <i>life for +ever. So he comes back for the last time; for the last time we see +his head at the window. He whispers to</i> OLIVIA.)</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Mrs. Marden! I've just remembered. His name was +<i>Ernest</i> Polwittle—<i>not</i> Henry.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes off happily. A curious family the</i> MARDENS. +<i>Perhaps somebody else would have committed bigamy if he had not +remembered in time that it was Ernest. . . . Ernest. . . . Yes. . . +. Now he can go back with an easy conscience to the +Trevors</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="BOLD_3"><!-- BOLD 3 --></a> +<h2><b>THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE</b></h2> +<center>A COMEDY IN ONE ACT</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">KATE CAMBERLEY.<br> +<br> +CYRIL NORWOOD (her lover).<br> +<br> +DENNIS CAMBERLEY (her husband).<br></font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<br> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">This play was first produced +by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the Coliseum on September 8, 1919, with +the following cast:</font><br> +<br> +<font face="Times">Dennis Camberley—GODFREY TEARLE.<br> +Kate Camberley—MARY MALONE.<br> +Cyril Norwood—EWAN BROOK.</font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>It is an evening of 1919 in</i> KATE'S <i>drawing-room. She +is expecting him, and the Curtain goes up as he is +announced</i>.</p> +<p>MAID. Mr. Cyril Norwood.</p> +<p>(<i>He comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>for the</i> MAID'S <i>benefit, but you may be sure +she knows</i>). Ah, good evening, Mrs. Camberley!</p> +<p>KATE. Good evening!</p> +<p>(<i>They shake hands</i>. NORWOOD <i>is sleek and prosperous, in +a morning coat with a white slip to his waistcoat. He is +good-looking in rather an obvious way with rather an obvious +moustache. Most women like him—at least, so he will tell +you</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>as soon as they are alone</i>). My darling!</p> +<p>KATE. Cyril!</p> +<p>(<i>He takes her hands and kisses them. He would kiss her face, +but she is not quite ready for this</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You let me yesterday. Why mayn't I kiss you to-day?</p> +<p>KATE. Not just yet, dear. I want to talk to you. Come and sit +down.</p> +<p>(<i>They sit on the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You aren't sorry for what you said yesterday?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking at him thoughtfully, and then shaking her +head</i>). No.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Then what's happened?</p> +<p>KATE. I've just had a letter from Dennis.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>anxiously</i>). Dennis—your husband?</p> +<p>KATE. Yes.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Where does he write from?</p> +<p>KATE. India.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Oh, well!</p> +<p>KATE. He says I may expect him home almost as soon as I get the +letter.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Good Heavens!</p> +<p>KATE. Yes. . . .</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>always hopeful</i>). Perhaps he didn't catch the +boat that he expected to. Wouldn't he have cabled from somewhere on +the way?</p> +<p>KATE. You can't depend on cables nowadays. <i>I</i> don't +know—What are we to do, Cyril?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You know what I always wanted you to do. (<i>He takes +her hands</i>) Come away with me.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>doubtfully</i>). And let Dennis come home and +find—an empty house?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>eagerly</i>). You are nothing to him, and he is +nothing to you. A war-wedding!—after you'd been engaged to +each other for a week! And forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent +out to India—and you haven't seen him since.</p> +<p>KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. The world may say that you're his wife and he's your +husband, but—what do you know of him? He won't even be the +boy you married. He'll be a stranger whom you'll hardly recognise. +And you aren't the girl <i>he</i> married. You're a woman now, and +you're just beginning to learn what love is. Come with +<i>me</i>.</p> +<p>KATE. It's true, it's true. But he <i>has</i> been fighting for +us. And to come home again after those four years of exile, and +find—</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Exile—that's making much too much of it. He's +come through the war safely, and he's probably had what he'd call a +topping good time. Like enough he's been in love half-a-dozen times +himself since—on leave in India and that sort of thing. +India! Well, you should read Kipling.</p> +<p>KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don't know him. But I +feel that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight +about it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing +what you say, he would understand—and perhaps be glad of +it.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>uneasily</i>). Really, darling, it's hardly a thing +you can talk over calmly with a husband, even if he—We don't +want any unpleasantness, and—er—(<i>Taking her hands +again</i>) Besides, I want you, Kate. It may be weeks before he +comes back. We can't go on like this . . . Kate!</p> +<p>KATE. Do you love me so very much?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. My darling!</p> +<p>KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week—in case +he comes. I don't want to seem to be afraid of him.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>eagerly</i>). And then?</p> +<p>KATE. Then I'll come with you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>taking her in his arms</i>). My darling! . . . +There! And now what are you going to do? Ask me to stay to dinner +or what?</p> +<p>KATE. Certainly not, sir. I'm going <i>out</i> to dinner +to-night.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>jealously</i>). Who with?</p> +<p>KATE. You.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>eagerly</i>). At our little restaurant? (<i>She +nods</i>) Good girl! Then go and put on a hat, while I ring 'em up +and see if they've got a table.</p> +<p>KATE. What fun! I won't be a moment. (<i>She goes to the +door</i>) Cyril, you will <i>always</i> love me?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Of course I will, darling. (<i>She nods at him and goes +out. He is very well pleased with himself when he is left alone. He +goes to the telephone with a smile</i>) Gerrard 11,001. Yes . . . I +want a table for two. To-night . . . Mr. Cyril Norwood . . . Oh, in +about half an hour . . . Yes, for two. Is that all right? . . . +Thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He puts the receiver back and turns round to see</i> DENNIS +CAMBERLEY, <i>who has just come in</i>. DENNIS <i>is certainly a +man now; very easily and pleasantly master of himself and of +anybody else who gets in his way</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>surprised</i>). Hallo!</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>nodding pleasantly</i>). Hallo!</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>wondering who he is</i>). +You—er——?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You know my name?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Oh yes, I've heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril +Norwood.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>stiffly</i>). I don't think I've had the pleasure +of—er——</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>winningly</i>). Oh, but I'm sure you must have heard +a good deal about <i>me</i>.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Good God, you don't mean——</p> +<p>DENNIS. I do, indeed. (<i>With a bow</i>) Dennis Camberley, the +missing husband. (<i>Pleadingly</i>) You <i>have</i> heard about +me, <i>haven't</i> you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I—er—Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So +you're back?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. +Norwood, and sometimes—they do. . . . Even after four years. +. . . But you <i>did</i> talk about me sometimes?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. How did you know my name?</p> +<p>DENNIS. A little bird told me about you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>turning away in anger</i>). Pooh!</p> +<p>DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the +backs of crocodiles, searching for—well, let us say, +breakfast. He said to me one morning: "Talking of parasites," he +said, "do you know Mr. Cyril Norwood?" he said, "because I could +tell you an interesting story about him," he said, "if you care +to—"</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>wheeling round furiously</i>). Look here, sir, we'd +better have it out quite plainly. I don't want any veiled insults +and sneers from you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has +arisen, but we must look facts in the face. You may be Mrs. +Camberley's husband, but she has not seen you for four years, +and—well, she and I love each other. There you have it. What +are you going to do?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>anxiously</i>). You don't feel that I have neglected +her, Mr. Norwood? You see, I couldn't come home for week-ends very +well, and—</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What are you going to do?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>pleasantly</i>). Well, what do you suggest?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>taken aback</i>). Really, sir, I—er—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You see, I feel so out of it all. I've been leading such +a nasty, uncivilised life for the last four years, I really hardly +know what is—what is being done. Now <i>you</i> have been +mixing in Society . . . making munitions . . .</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>stiffly</i>). I have been engaged on important work +for the Government of a confidential nature—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You, as I was saying, have been mixing in Society, +engaged on important work for the Government of a confidential +nature——</p> +<p>NORWOOD. It was my great regret that I had no opportunity of +enlisting——</p> +<p>DENNIS. With no opportunity, as I was about to say, of +enlisting, but with many opportunities, fortunately, of making love +to my wife.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Now look here, Mr. Camberley, I've already told +you——</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>soothing him</i>). But, my dear Mr. Norwood, I'm only +doing what you said. I'm looking facts in the face. +(<i>Surprised</i>) You aren't ashamed of having made love to my +wife, are you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>impatiently</i>). What are you going to do? That's +all that matters between you and me. What are you going to do?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Well, that was what I was going to ask you. You're so +much more in the swim than I am. (<i>Earnestly</i>) What <i>is</i> +being done in Society just now? You must have heard a good deal of +gossip about it. All your friends, who were also engaged on +important work of a confidential nature, with no opportunity of +enlisting—don't they tell you their own experiences? What +<i>have</i> the husbands been doing lately when they came back from +the front?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>advancing on him angrily</i>). Now, once and for +all, sir——</p> +<p>(KATE <i>comes in, with a hat in each hand, calling to</i> +NORWOOD <i>as she comes</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. Oh, Cyril—which of these two hats—(<i>she sees +her husband</i>)—Dennis!</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>looking at her steadfastly</i>). How are <i>you</i>, +Kate?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>stammering</i>). You've—you've come back? (<i>She +puts the hats down</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. I've come back. As I was telling Mr. Norwood.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking from one to the other</i>). You—?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>smiling</i>). Oh, we're quite old friends.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>going to her</i>). I've told him, Kate.</p> +<p>(<i>He takes her hands, and tries to look defiantly at</i> +DENNIS, <i>though he is not feeling like that at all</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking anxiously at</i> DENNIS). What are you going to +do?</p> +<p>(<i>She can hardly make him out. He is different from the +husband who left her four years ago</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. Well, that's what Cyril keeps asking me. (<i>To</i> +NORWOOD) You don't mind my calling you Cyril?—such an old +friend of my wife's—</p> +<p>KATE (<i>unable to make him out</i>). Dennis! (<i>She is +frightened</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>soothingly</i>). It's all right, dear.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Do let's sit down and talk it over in a friendly +way.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>going to him</i>). Dennis, can you ever forgive me? We +never ought to have got married—we knew each other so +little—you had to go away so soon—I—I was going +to write and tell you—oh, I wish—</p> +<p>DENNIS. That's all right, Kate. (<i>He will not let her come too +close to him. He steps back and looks at her from head to feet</i>) +You've altered.</p> +<p>KATE. That's just it, Dennis. I'm not the girl who—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You've grown four years younger and four years +prettier.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>dropping her eyes</i>). Have I?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Yes. . . . You do your hair a new way.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>surprised</i>). Do you like it?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I love it.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>coughing</i>). Yes, well, perhaps we'd +better—</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>with a start</i>). I beg your pardon, Cyril. I was +forgetting you for the moment. Well, now do sit down, (NORWOOD +<i>and</i> KATE <i>sit down together on the sofa, but</i> DENNIS +<i>remains standing</i>) That's right.</p> +<p>KATE. Well?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>to</i> KATE). You want to marry him, eh?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. We have already told you the circumstances, Mr. +Camberley. I need hardly say how regrettable it is +that—er—but at the same time +these—er—things will happen, and since +it—er—has happened—</p> +<p>KATE. I feel I hardly know you, Dennis. Did I love you when I +married you? I don't know. It was so sudden. We had no time to find +out anything about each other. And now you come back—a +stranger—</p> +<p>DENNIS ((<i>jerking his head at</i> NORWOOD). And he's not a +stranger, eh?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>dropping her eyes</i>). N-no.</p> +<p>DENNIS. You feel you know all about <i>him</i>?</p> +<p>KATE. I—we—(<i>She is unhappy</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. We have discovered that we love each other. (<i>Taking +her hands</i>) My darling one, this is distressing for you. Let +<i>me</i>—</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>sharply</i>). It wouldn't be distressing for her, if +you didn't keep messing her about. Why the devil can't you sit on a +chair by yourself?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>indignantly</i>). Really!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>freeing herself from him, and moving to the extreme end +of the sofa</i>). What are you going to do, Dennis?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>looking at them thoughtfully, his chin on his +hand</i>). I don't know. . . . It's difficult. I don't want to do +anything melodramatic. I mean (<i>to</i> KATE) it wouldn't really +help matters if I did shoot him, would it?</p> +<p>(KATE <i>looks at him without saying anything, trying to +understand this new man who has come into her life</i>. NORWOOD +<i>swallows, and tries very hard to say something</i>)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I—I—</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>turning to him). You</i> don't think so, do you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I—I—</p> +<p>DENNIS. No, I'm quite sure you're right. It wouldn't really +help. It is difficult, isn't it? You see (<i>to</i> KATE) +<i>you</i> love <i>him</i>—(<i>he waits a moment for her to +say it if she will, but she only looks at him</i>)—and +<i>he</i> says <i>he</i> loves <i>you</i>, but at the same time I +<i>am</i> your husband. . . . (<i>He walks up and down +thoughtfully, and then says suddenly to</i> NORWOOD) I'll tell you +what—I'll fight you for her.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>trying to be firm</i>). I think we'd better leave +this eighteenth-century nonsense out of it.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>pleasantly</i>). They fight in the twentieth century, +too, Mr. Norwood. Perhaps you hadn't heard what we've been doing +these last four years? Oh, quite a lot of it. . . . Well?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You don't wish me to believe that you're serious?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Perfectly. Swords, pistols, fists, +catch-as-catch-can—what would you like?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I do not propose to indulge in an undignified scuffle +for the—er—lady of my heart.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>cheerfully</i>). Nothing doing in scuffles, eh? All +right, then, I'll toss you for her.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Now you're merely being vulgar. (<i>To</i> KATE) My +dear—</p> +<p>(<i>She motions him back with her hand, but does not take her +eyes off</i> DENNIS.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. Really, Mr. Norwood, you're a little hard to please. If +you don't like my suggestions, perhaps you will make one of your +own.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. This is obviously a matter in which it is for +the—er—lady to choose.</p> +<p>DENNIS. You think Mrs. Camberley should choose between us?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Certainly.</p> +<p>DENNIS. What do you say, Kate?</p> +<p>KATE. You are very generous, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>after a pause</i>). Very well, you shall choose.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>complacently</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>DENNIS. Wait a moment, Mr. Norwood. (<i>To</i> KATE) When did +you first meet him?</p> +<p>KATE. A year ago.</p> +<p>DENNIS. And he's been making love to you for a year? (KATE +<i>bends her head</i>) He's been making love to you for a year?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I think, sir, that the sooner the lady makes her +choice, and brings this distressing scene to a close—After +all, is it fair to her to—?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Are you fair to <i>me</i>? You've been making love to +her for a year. <i>I</i> made love to her for a +fort-night—four years ago. And now you want her to choose +between us. Is <i>that</i> fair?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You hardly expect us to wait a year before she is +allowed to make up her mind?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I waited four years for her out there. . . . However, I +won't ask you to wait a year. I'll ask you to wait for five +minutes.</p> +<p>KATE. What is it you want us to do, Dennis?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I want you to listen to both of us, for five minutes +each; that's all. After all, we're your suitors,<br> +aren't we? You're going to choose between us. Very well, then, you +must hear what we have to say. Mr.<br> +Norwood shall have five minutes alone with you in which to present +his case; five minutes in which to<br> +tell you how beautiful you are. . .and how rich he is . . . and how +happy you'll be together. And I shall<br> +have <i>my</i> five minutes.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>sneering</i>). Five minutes in which to tell her +lies about <i>me</i>, eh?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Damn it, you've had a whole year in which to tell her +lies about yourself; you oughtn't to grudge me five minutes. +(<i>To</i> KATE) Well?</p> +<p>KATE. I agree, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Good. (<i>He spins a coin, puts it on the back of his +hand, and says to</i> NORWOOD) Call!</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What on <i>earth</i>—</p> +<p>DENNIS. Choice of innings.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I never heard of anything so—Tails.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>uncovering it</i>). Heads. You shall have first +knock.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>bewildered</i>). What do you—I +don't—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You have five minutes in which to lay your case before +Mrs. Camberley. (<i>He looks at his watch</i>) Five +minutes—and then I shall come back. . . . Is there a fire in +the dining-room, Kate?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>smiling in spite of herself</i>). A gas-fire; it isn't +lit.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Then I shall light it. (<i>To</i> NORWOOD) That will +make the room nice and warm for you by the time you've finished. +(<i>He goes to the door and says again</i>) Five minutes.</p> +<p>(<i>There is an awkward silence after he is gone</i>. KATE +<i>waits for</i> NORWOOD <i>to say something, but</i> NORWOOD +<i>doesn't know in the least what is expected of him</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>looking anxiously at the door</i>). What's the +fellow's game, eh?</p> +<p>KATE. Game?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Yes. What's he up to?</p> +<p>KATE. Is he up to anything?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I don't like it. Why the devil did he choose to-day to +come back? If he'd waited another week, we'd have been safely away +together. What's his game, I wonder?</p> +<p>(<i>He walks up and down, worrying it out</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. I don't think he's playing a game. He's just giving me my +chance.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What chance?</p> +<p>KATE. A chance to decide between you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think +about it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming +away with me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he +up to?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>sitting down and talking to herself</i>). You're quite +right about my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage +in those early days of the war—knowing nothing about each +other. And then they come back, and even the little one thought one +did know is different. . . . I suppose he feels the same about +me.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>to himself</i>). Damn him!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>after a pause</i>). Well, Cyril?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>looking sharply round at her</i>). Well?</p> +<p>KATE. We haven't got very long.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>looking at his watch</i>). He really means to come +back—in five minutes?</p> +<p>KATE. You heard him say so.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>going up to her and speaking eagerly</i>). What's +the matter with slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can +slip out quietly. He won't hear us. He'll come back and find us +gone—well, what can he do? Probably he'll hang about for a +bit and then go to his club. We'll have a bit of dinner; ring up +your maid; get her to meet you with some things, and go off by the +night mail. Scotland—anywhere you like. Let the whole +business simmer down a bit. We don't want any melodramatic +eighteenth-century nonsense.</p> +<p>KATE. Go out now, and not wait for him to have <i>his</i> five +minutes?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>impatiently</i>). What does he <i>want</i> with five +minutes? What's the <i>good</i> of it to him? Just to take a +pathetic farewell of you, and pretend that you've ruined his life, +when all the time he's chuckling in his sleeve at having got rid of +you so easily. <i>I</i> know these young fellows. Some Major's wife +in India is what <i>he's</i> got his eye on. . . . Or else he'll +try fooling around with the hands-up business. You don't want to be +mixed up with any scandal of <i>that</i> sort. No, the best thing +we can do—I'm speaking for <i>your</i> sake, Kate—is to +slip off quietly, while we've got the chance. We can <i>write</i> +and explain all that we want to explain.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking wonderingly at him—another man whom she +doesn't know</i>). Is that playing quite fair to Dennis?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Good Lord, this isn't a game! Camberley may think so +with his tossing-up and all the rest of it, but you and I aren't +children. Everything's fair in a case like this. Put your hat +on—quickly—(<i>he gets it for her</i>)—here you +are—</p> +<p>KATE (<i>standing up</i>). I'm not sure, Cyril.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What d'you mean?</p> +<p>KATE. He expects me to wait for him.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. If it comes to that, he expected you to wait for him +four years ago.</p> +<p>KATE. Yes. . . . (<i>Quietly</i>) Thank you for reminding +me.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Kate, don't be stupid. What's happened to you? Of +course, I know it's been beastly upsetting for you, all +this—but then, why do you want to go on with it? Why do you +want <i>more</i> upsetting scenes?</p> +<p>You've got a chance now of getting out of it all, +and—(<i>He looks at his watch</i>) Good Lord!</p> +<p>KATE. Is the five minutes over?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Quick, quick! (<i>He puts his fingers to his lips</i>) +Quietly. (<i>He walks on tiptoe to the door</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. Cyril!</p> +<p>NORWOOD. H'sh!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>sitting down again</i>). It's no good, Cyril, I must +wait for him.</p> +<p>(<i>The door opens, and</i> NORWOOD <i>starts back quickly +as</i> DENNIS <i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>looking at his watch</i>). Innings declared closed. +(<i>To</i> NORWOOD) The dining-room is nicely warmed now, and I've +left you an evening paper.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>going to</i> KATE). Look here, Mr. Camberley, Kate +and I—</p> +<p>DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley, no doubt, will tell me.</p> +<p>(<i>He holds the door open and waits politely for</i> NORWOOD +<i>to go</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I don't know what your game is—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You've never been in Mesopotamia, Mr. Norwood?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Never.</p> +<p>DENNIS. It's a very trying place for the temper. . . . I'm +waiting for you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>irresolute</i>). Well, I—— (<i>He comes +sulkily to the door</i>) Well, I shall come back for Kate in five +minutes.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley and I will be ready for you. You know +your way?</p> +<p>[NORWOOD <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(DENNIS <i>shuts the door. He comes into the room and stands +looking at</i> KATE.)</p> +<p>KATE (<i>uncomfortably</i>). Well?</p> +<p>DENNIS. No, don't move. I just want to look at you. . . . I've +seen you like that for four years. Don't move. . . . I've been in +some dreary places, but you've been with me most of the time. Just +let's have a last look.</p> +<p>KATE. A last look?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Yes.</p> +<p>KATE. You're saying good-bye to me?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I don't know whether it's to you, Kate. To the girl who +has been with me these last four years. Was that you?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>dropping her eyes</i>). I don't know, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS. I wish to God I wasn't your husband.</p> +<p>KATE. What would you do if you weren't my husband?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Make love to you.</p> +<p>KATE. Can't you do that now?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Being your husband rather handicaps me, you know. I +never really stood a chance against the other fellow.</p> +<p>KATE. I was to choose between you, you said. You think that I +have already made up my mind?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>smiling</i>). I think so.</p> +<p>KATE. And chosen him?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>shaking his head</i>). Oh, no!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>surprised</i>). You think I have chosen <i>you</i>?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>nodding</i>). M'm.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>indignantly</i>). Really, Dennis! Considering that I +had practically arranged to run away with him twenty minutes ago! +You must think me very fickle.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Not fickle. Imaginative.</p> +<p>KATE. What do you mean? And why are you so certain that I am +going to choose you? And why in that case did you talk about taking +a last look at me? And what—?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Of course, we've only got five minutes, but I think that +if you asked your questions one at a time——</p> +<p>KATE (<i>smiling</i>). Well, you needn't <i>answer</i> them all +together.</p> +<p>DENNIS. All right then, one at a time. Why am I certain that you +will choose me? Because for the first time in your life you have +just been alone with Mr. Cyril Norwood. That's what I meant by +saying you were imaginative. The Norwood you've been thinking +yourself in love with doesn't exist. I'm certain that you've seen +him for the first time in these last few minutes. Why, the +Archangel Gabriel would have made a hash of a five minutes like +that; it would have been impossible for him to have said the right +thing to you. Norwood? Good Lord, he didn't stand a chance. You +were judging him all the time, weren't you?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>thoughtfully</i>). You're very clever, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>cheerfully</i>). Four years' study of the Turkish +character.</p> +<p>KATE. But how do you know I'm not judging <i>you</i> all the +time?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Of course you are. But there's all the difference in the +world between judging a stranger like me, and judging the man you +thought you were in love with.</p> +<p>KATE. You <i>are</i> a stranger to me.</p> +<p>DENNIS. I know. That's why I said good-bye to the girl who had +been with me these last four years, the girl I had married. Well, +I've said good-bye to her. You're not my wife any longer, Kate; but +if you don't mind pretending that I'm not your husband, and just +give me a chance of making love to you—well, that's all I +want.</p> +<p>KATE. You're very generous, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS. No, I'm not. I'm very much in love; and for a man very +much in love I'm being rather less of a silly ass than usual. Why +should you love me? You fell in love with my uniform at the +beginning of the war. I was ordered out, and you fell in love with +the departing hero. After that? Well, I had four +years—alone—in which to think about <i>you</i>, and you +had four years—with other men—in which to forget +<i>me</i>. Is it any wonder that—?</p> +<p>(NORWOOD <i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>roughly</i>). Well?</p> +<p>DENNIS. You arrive just in time, Mr. Norwood. I was talking too +much. (<i>To</i> KATE) Mrs. Camberley, we are both at your +disposal. Will you choose between us, which one is to have the +happiness of—serving you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>holding out his hand to her, and speaking in the +voice of the proprietor</i>). Kate!</p> +<p>(KATE <i>goes slowly up to him with her hand held out</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE (<i>shaking</i> NORWOOD'S <i>hand</i>). Good-bye, Mr. +Norwood.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>astounded</i>). Kate! (<i>To</i> DENNIS) You +devil!</p> +<p>DENNIS. And only a moment ago I was comparing you to the +Archangel Gabriel.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>sneeringly to</i> KATE). So you're going to be a +loving wife to him after all?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>tapping him kindly on the shoulder</i>). You'll +remember what I said about Mesopotamia?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>pulling himself together hastily</i>). Good-bye, +Mrs. Camberley. I can only hope that you will be happy.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes out with dignity</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>closing the door</i>). Well, there we agree.</p> +<p>(<i>He comes back to her</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. What a stupid little fool I have been. (<i>She holds out +her arms to him</i>) Dennis!</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>retreating in mock alarm</i>). Oh no, you don't! +(<i>He shakes a finger at her</i>) We're not going to rush it +<i>this</i> time.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>reproachfully</i>). Dennis!</p> +<p>DENNIS. I think you should call me Mr. Camberley.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>with a smile</i>). Mr. Camberley.</p> +<p>DENNIS. That's better. Now our courtship begins. (<i>Bowing +low</i>) Madam, will you do me the great honour of dining with me +this evening?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>curtseying</i>). I shall be charmed.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Then let us hasten. The carriage waits.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>holding up the two hats</i>). Which of these two +chapeaux do you prefer, Mr. Camberley?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Might I express a preference for the black one with the +pink roses?</p> +<p>KATE. It is very elegant, is it not? (<i>She puts it +on</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. Vastly becoming, upon my life. . . . I might mention +that I am staying at the club. Is your ladyship doing anything +to-morrow?</p> +<p>KATE. Nothing of any great importance.</p> +<p>(<i>He offers his arm and she takes it</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>as they go to the door</i>). Then perhaps I may be +permitted to call round to-morrow morning about eleven, and make +inquiries as to your ladyship's health.</p> +<p>KATE. It would be very obliging of you, sir.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_1"><!-- RULE4 1 --></a> +<h2>THE ROMANTIC AGE</h2> +<h3>A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">HENRY KNOWLE.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">MARY KNOWLE (his wife).<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">MELISANDE (his daughter).<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">JANE BAGOT (his niece).<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">BOBBY COOTE.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">GERVASE MALLORY.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">ERN.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">GENTLEMAN SUSAN.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">ALICE.<br></font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">This play was first produced +by Mr. Arthur Wontner at the Comedy Theatre on October 18, 1920, +with the following cast:</font><br> +<br> +<font face="Times">Henry Knowle—A. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT.<br> +Mary Knowle—LOTTIE VENNE.<br> +Melisande—BARBARA HOFFE.<br> +Jane—DOROTHY TETLEY.<br> +Bobby—JOHN WILLIAMS.<br> +Gervase Mallory—ARTHUR WONTNER.<br> +Ern—ROY LENNOL.<br> +Gentleman Susan—H.O. NICHOLSON.<br> +Alice—IRENE RATHBONE.<br></font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>THE ROMANTIC AGE</h2> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT I</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>We are looking at the inner hall of</i> MR. HENRY KNOWLE'S +<i>country house, at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors +R. and L.—on the right leading to the drawing-room, on the +left to the entrance hall, the dining-room and the library. At the +back are windows—French windows on the right, then an +interval of wall, then casement windows</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, <i>her daughter</i>, MELISANDE, <i>and her +niece</i>, JANE BAGOT, <i>are waiting for their coffee</i>, MRS. +KNOWLE, <i>short and stoutish, is reclining on the sofa;</i> JANE, +<i>pleasant-looking and rather obviously pretty, is sitting in a +chair near her, glancing at a book;</i> MELISANDE, <i>the +beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows, +gazing into the night</i>.</p> +<p>ALICE, <i>the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands +in front of</i> MRS. KNOWLE, <i>a little embarrassed because</i> +MRS. KNOWLE'S <i>eyes are closed. She waits there until</i> JANE +<i>looks up from her book</i>.</p> +<p>JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>opening her eyes with a start</i>). Coffee. Oh, +yes, coffee. Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr. +Anderson is very firm about that. "No sugar, Mrs. Knowle," he said. +"Oh, Dr. Anderson!" I said.</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>has taken the tray to</i> JANE, <i>who pours out her +own and her aunt's coffee, and takes her cup off the tray</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. Thank you.</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>takes the tray to</i> MRS. KNOWLE.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you.</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>goes over to</i> MELISANDE, <i>who says nothing, but +waves her away</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>as soon as</i> ALICE <i>is gone</i>). Jane!</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, <i>no</i>, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I'm glad of that. It's so bad for the servants. +(<i>She finishes her coffee</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>getting up</i>). Shall I put it down for you?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>puts the two cups down and goes back to her book</i>. +MRS. KNOWLE <i>fidgets a little on her sofa</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (<i>There is no answer</i>) Sandy!</p> +<p>JANE. Melisande!</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>turns round and comes slowly towards her +mother</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn't you hear me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other +things.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the +great poet tells us. "Do noble things, not dream them all day +long." Tennyson, wasn't it? I know I wrote it in your album for you +when you were a little girl. It's so true.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>nodding</i>). Kingsley, that's right.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it's the same thing. I know when <i>my</i> +mother used to call me I used to come running up, saying, "What is +it, Mummy, darling?" And even if it was anything upstairs, like a +handkerchief or a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off +happily, saying to myself, "Do noble things, not dream them all day +long."</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want +doing?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I've forgotten. If only you'd +come at once, dear—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It's a wonderful +night. Midsummer Night.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will +start drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know +where we are. All these changes of the seasons are very +inconsiderate to an invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted, +dear. Can you find me another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it +most important that the small of the back should be well supported +after a meal. (<i>Indicating the place</i>) Just here, dear.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>jumping up with the cushion from her chair</i>). Let +me, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. JANE +<i>arranges it</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. Is that right?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson's +sake.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>goes back to her book and</i> MELISANDE <i>goes back to +her Midsummer Night. There is silence for a little</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy!</p> +<p>JANE. Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coming patiently down to them</i>). Yes, +Mother?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I've just remembered—(MELISANDE +<i>shudders</i>.) What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That +comes of standing by the open window in a treacherous climate like +this. Close the window and come and sit down properly.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It's a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I'm +not cold.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder. +Didn't you see her, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. I'm afraid I wasn't looking, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I didn't shudder because I was cold. I shuddered +because you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder +every time I hear it.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>surprised</i>). What name, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by +such a wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were +going to call me Sandy?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I've told you, that was a +mistake of your father's. I suppose he got it out of some book. I +should certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him +distinctly. I thought he said Millicent—after your Aunt +Milly. And not being very well at the time, and leaving it all to +him, I never really knew about it until it was too late to do +anything. I did say to your father, "Can't we christen her again?" +But there was nothing in the prayer book about it except "riper +years," and nobody seemed to know when riper years began. Besides, +we were all calling you Sandy then. I think Sandy is a very pretty +name, don't you, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, but don't you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary? +I mean really beautiful.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not +for a nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes +me think of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to +whom she has never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest +with her hair coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a +pool. Not at all the thing one wants for one's daughter.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with "Jane," dear. Your +mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child +from floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it +is my duty to do so.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>to her self ecstatically</i>). Melisande!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>to</i> MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about +floating in a pool reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner +to-night. You heard what your father said? You must give cook a +good talking to in the morning. She has been getting very careless +lately. I don't know what's come over her.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. <i>I've</i> come over her. When <i>you</i> were over +her, everything was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you +take an interest in it. I don't. I hate it. How can you expect the +house to be run properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you +ever give it up and make me do it when you know how I hate it?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I'm sure Jane +here doesn't hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a +great help she is.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>warningly</i>). It's no good your saying you like +it, Jane, after what you told me yesterday.</p> +<p>JANE. I don't like it, but it doesn't make me miserable doing +it. But then I'm different. I'm not romantic like Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. One doesn't need to be very romantic not to want to +talk about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of +myself. If I thought about myself I should disregard all the +warnings that Dr. Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on +doing the housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to +think of you. I want to see you married to some nice, steady young +man before I die—my handkerchief, Jane—(JANE <i>gets up +and gives her her handkerchief from the other end of the +sofa</i>)—before I die (<i>she touches her eyes with her +handkerchief</i>), and no nice young man will want to marry you, if +you haven't learnt how to look after his house for him.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>contemptuously</i>). If that's marriage, I shall +never get married.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>shocked</i>). Melisande, darling!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to +make me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live +another hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't +<i>want</i> to live another hundred years. I only want to live +until my dear daughter, Melisande"—I didn't say Sandy to him +because it seemed rather familiar—"I only want to live until +my daughter Melisande is happily married to some nice, steady young +man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson," I said, "and I shall be your +lifelong debtor." He promised to do his best. It was then that he +mentioned about the cushion in the small of the back after meals. +And so don't forget to tell cook about the bread-sauce, will you, +dear?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his +food. I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper +interest in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been +married some years, and told each other everything you did and saw +before you met, there isn't really anything to talk about at meals +except food. And you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. +Nothing breaks up the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, +breakfast doesn't matter, because he has his paper then; and after +you have said, "Is there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has +said, "No," then he doesn't expect anything more. I wonder +sometimes why they go on printing the newspapers. I've been married +twenty years, and there has never been anything in the paper +yet.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage +like that. Wasn't there ever <i>any</i> kind of romance between you +and Father? Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one +magic Midsummer morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald +twinkle in the grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't +there ever one passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with +one long kiss my whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh +dew"? Or did you talk about bread-sauce <i>all</i> the time?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>eagerly</i>). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am +quite sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, +as Sandy suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at +Surbiton. He used to come down from London with his racquet and +play tennis with us. And then he would stay on to supper sometimes, +and then after supper we would go into the garden together—it +was quite dark then, but everything smelt so beautifully, I shall +always remember it—and we talked, oh, I don't know what +about, but I knew somehow that I should marry him one day. I don't +think <i>he</i> knew—he wasn't sure—and then he came to +a subscription dance one evening—I think Mother, your +grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because +she was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me +upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right +pair of shoes on—rather a tight pair—however, I put +them on. And there was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our +last dance together, and he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss +Bagot?" Well, of course, I was only too glad to, and we sat it out +in the hansom, driving all round Surbiton, and what your +grandmother would have said I don't know, but, of course, I never +told her. And when we got home after the dance, I went up to her +room—as soon as I'd got my shoes off—and said, "Mother, +I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "<i>Not</i> Mr. +Knowle—Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, +and wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" +and—Jane, where's my handkerchief? (<i>It has dropped off the +sofa and</i> JANE <i>picks it up</i>) Thank you, dear. (<i>She dabs +her eyes</i>) Well, that's really all, you know, except +that—(<i>she dabs her eyes again</i>)—I'm afraid I'm +feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was +very bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, +dear, why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and +compose myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't +know what I should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (<i>She begins +to get up</i>) And after calling me a Spartan Mother only +yesterday, because I said that if any nice, steady young man came +along and took my own dear little girl away from me, I should bear +the terrible wrench in silence rather than cause either of them a +moment's remorse. (<i>She is up now</i>) There!</p> +<p>JANE. Shall I come with you?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a +little. (<i>She turns back suddenly at the door</i>) Oh! Perhaps +later on, when the men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you +might join me, with your Uncle Henry—if the opportunity +occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of course.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes</i>.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>coming back to the sofa</i>). Poor Aunt Mary! It always +seems so queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have +had their romances too.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and +subscription dances and wearing tight shoes?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well, no, darling, not romance of +course, but you know what I mean.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which +mother has just told us, and compare it with any of the +love-stories of history. Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should +be satisfied now with so little?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt +Mary—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost +everywhere nowadays. There is no romance left.</p> +<p>JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I +do agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is +no—(<i>she searches for the right word</i>)—no +<i>romance</i> left.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one +shudder.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>doing her best</i>). Positively shudder!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He meets Her at—(<i>she shudders</i>)—a +subscription dance, or a tennis party—(<i>she shudders +again</i>) or—at <i>golf</i>. He calls upon her +mother—perhaps in a top hat—perhaps (<i>tragically</i>) +even in a bowler hat.</p> +<p>JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his +income—discovers that he is a nice, steady young +man—and decides that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked +to come again, he is invited to parties; it is understood that he +is falling in love with the daughter. The rest of the family are +encouraged to leave them alone together—if the opportunity +occurs, Jane. (<i>Contemptuously</i>) But, of course, only if it +occurs.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Yes, dear.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>to herself ecstatically</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she +takes to be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and +tells Father. They are engaged. They talk about each other as "my +fiancé." Perhaps they are engaged for months and +months—</p> +<p>JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. For years and years—and wherever they go, +people make silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if +they go into a room where the two of them are. And then they get +married at last, and everybody comes and watches them get married, +and makes more silly jokes, and they go away for what they call a +honeymoon, and they tell everybody—they shout it out in the +newspapers—<i>where</i> they are going for their honeymoon; +and then they come back and start talking about bread-sauce. Oh, +Jane, it's horrible.</p> +<p>JANE. Horrible, darling. (<i>With a French air</i>) But what +would you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>in a low thrilling voice</i>). What would I? Ah, +what would I, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Because you see, Sandy—I mean Melisande—you +see, darling, this <i>is</i> the twentieth century, and—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath +my lattice window.</p> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">All in the blue unclouded +weather</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">Thick-jewelled shone the +saddle leather,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">The helmet and the helmet +feather</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">Burned like one burning +flame together,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">As he rode down to +Camelot.</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">And from his blazoned +baldric slung</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">A mighty silver bugle +hung,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">And as he rode his armour +rung</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">As he rode down to +Camelot.</span><br> +<p>JANE. I know, dear. But of course they <i>don't</i> +nowadays.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, +I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a +gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose—perhaps just +a rose.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awed</i>). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily +hand to him? (<i>She waves one</i>) I mean, wouldn't it be +rather—<i>you</i> know. Rather forward.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Forward!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>upset</i>). Well, I mean—Well, of course, I +suppose it was different in those days.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else +could he wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?</p> +<p>JANE. Well, of course, there <i>is</i> that.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he +comes back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a +rope—for I have been immured in my room—and I let +myself down to him. He places me on the saddle in front of him, and +we ride forth together into the world—together for +always!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>a little uncomfortably</i>). You do get <i>married</i>, +I suppose, darling, or do you—er—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good +priest marries us.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>relieved</i>.) Ah, yes.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince +from Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a +country which is sorely troubled by a dragon.</p> +<p>JANE. By a what, dear?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. A dragon.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, yes, of course.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his +kingdom to anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens +to be passing through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the +dragon devours him.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't <i>the</i> one?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused +no emotion in my heart.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, I'm so glad.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes +upon the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>sympathetically</i>.) Poor fellow</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in +blue and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be +allowed to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the +great hall on my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our +eyes meet. . . . Oh, Jane!</p> +<p>JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, +Melisande. They would have suited you so well.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Will they never come back again?</p> +<p>JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress +in blue and gold nowadays. I mean men.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No. (<i>She sighs</i>) Well, I suppose I shall never +marry.</p> +<p>JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't +have time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I +quite agree with everything you say, and of course it must have +been thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still +here we are, and (<i>with a wave of the hand</i>)—and what I +mean is—here we are.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and +to make the ordinary commonplace marriage?</p> +<p>JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was +the right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman—I don't +say beautiful—pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not +very clever perhaps, but making enough money——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>carelessly</i>). It sounds rather like Bobby.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>confused</i>). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else +particularly. It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I +was just describing the sort of man without thinking of any one +in——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right.</p> +<p>JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to <i>you</i>.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>firmly</i>). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you +solemnly that if you think you are going to leave me and Bobby +alone together this evening—— (<i>Voices are heard +outside</i>.) Well, I warn you.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>in a whisper</i>). Of course not, darling. (<i>With +perfect tact</i>) And, as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the +most——Ah, here you are at last! We wondered what had +happened to you!</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> BOBBY <i>and</i> MR. KNOWLE. JANE <i>has already +described</i> BOBBY <i>for us</i>. MR. KNOWLE <i>is a pleasant, +middle-aged man with a sense of humour, which he cultivates for his +own amusement entirely</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (<i>He goes towards +them</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>laughing</i>). Very.</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>gets up as</i> BOBBY <i>comes, and moves +away</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget +what I said about the bread-sauce, will you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What +you said?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that +you should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between +bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there +is no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy +chicken, such as we had to-night, but that a properly made +bread-sauce is a necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to +be obtained.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, +Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A +little quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer +Night. Why aren't you two out in the garden looking for +fairies?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be +out. D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take <i>you</i> out. If we meet +any of Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking across warningly at her</i>). +Jane——</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande +and I—I promised Sandy—we——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>putting her arm firmly through his</i>). +Nonsense. I'm not going to have my niece taken away from me, when +she is only staying with us for such a short time. Besides I insist +upon being introduced to Titania. I want to complain about the +rings on the tennis-lawn. They must dance somewhere else.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>looking anxiously at</i> MELISANDE). You see, Uncle +Henry, I'm not feeling very——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>resigned</i>) All right, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>brightly</i>). All right, Uncle Henry.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>very brightly</i>). It's all right, Bobby.</p> +<p>JANE. Come along! (<i>They go to the open windows +together</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>as they go</i>). Any message for Oberon, if we +meet him?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>gravely</i>). No, thank you, Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>laughs as they go out together</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>Left alone</i>, MELISANDE <i>takes up a book and goes to the +sofa with it, while</i> BOBBY <i>walks about the room unhappily, +whistling to himself. He keeps looking across at her, and at last +their eyes meet</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>putting down her book</i>). Well, Bobby?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>angrily</i>). Don't call me that; you know how I +hate it.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And +your father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say +anything.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes +a time when it is almost useless to say things to them.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>eagerly</i>). I never mind your saying things to +<i>me</i>, Sandy—I mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, +really I shan't. Of course, I know I'm not worthy of you, and all +that, but—I say, Melisande, isn't there <i>any</i> hope?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that +again.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming to her</i>). I know you did, but I must. I +can't believe that you—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like +that again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that +it shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not +even Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they +propose to a girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of +the country and shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to +do. But I did try and make it easy for <i>you</i>, Bobby. +(<i>Sadly</i>) And now you're beginning all over again.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>awkwardly</i>). I though perhaps you might have +changed your mind. Lots of girls do.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>contemptuously</i>). Lots of girls! Is that how +you think of me?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, your mother said—(<i>He breaks off +hurriedly</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coldly</i>). Have you been discussing me with my +mother?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean +Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, I didn't <i>discuss</i> you with your mother. She +just happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and +that they always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be +downhearted, because—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. That <i>you</i> needn't? You mean you <i>told</i> +her?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, +you went and <i>told</i> her! And then I suppose you went and told +the cook, and <i>she</i> said that her brother's young woman was +just the same, and then you told the butcher, and <i>he</i> said, +"You stick to it, sir. All women are alike. My missis said 'No' to +me the first time." And then you went and told the +gardeners—I suppose you had all the gardeners together in the +potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it—and when you +had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go and +tell the postman," and then—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, what a world!</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>picking up her book</i>). Father and Jane are +outside, Bobby, if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I +suppose they know already. (<i>She pretends to read</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, you know—(<i>He doesn't quite know what to +say. There is an awkward silence. Then he says humbly</i>) I'm +awfully sorry, Melisande. Please forgive me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him gravely</i>). That's nice of you, +Bobby. Please forgive <i>me</i>. I wasn't fair.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your +mother. And it sort of came out with <i>her</i>. She began talking +about you—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. <i>I</i> know.</p> +<p>BOBBY. But I never told anybody else.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should +mind so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't +help falling in love with you, and—well, it <i>is</i> a sort +of a compliment to you, isn't it?—even if it's only me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the +compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so—so +unromantic. (<i>After a pause</i>) Sometimes I think I shall never +marry.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do <i>like</i> me, don't +you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking +Englishman—I don't say beautiful—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I should hope not!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable—not very +clever, perhaps, but making enough money—</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more!</p> +<p>BOBBY. What sort of things?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so—so ordinary!</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did +you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. So—commonplace. So—unromantic.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry +and all that, if that's what you mean by romantic, +but—commonplace! I'm blessed if I see how you make out +that.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings—</p> +<p>BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass!</p> +<p>(BOBBY <i>goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his +clothes</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>looking back at her</i>). Well?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Well!</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give +myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my +prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how +can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like +that!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>looking at it</i>). What's the matter with it? It's +what every other fellow wears.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>contemptuously</i>). What every other fellow +wears! And you think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what +every other fellow talks, and eat what every other—I suppose +<i>you</i> didn't like the bread-sauce this evening?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>guardedly</i>). Well, not as bread-sauce.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding her head</i>). I thought so, I thought +so.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>struck by an idea</i>). I say, you didn't make it, did +you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I thought perhaps—You know, I really don't know +what you <i>do</i> want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is <i>he</i> +going to do the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I +don't.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>shaking her head gently at him</i>). No, I'm sure +you don't, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>still trying, however</i>). I suppose it's because +he's doing the cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. +He sounds a funny sort of chap; I should like to see him.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>jealously</i>). Have you seen him?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Only in my dreams.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>relieved</i>). Oh, well.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily to herself</i>). Perhaps I shall never +see him in this world—and then I shall never marry. But if he +ever comes for me, he will come not like other men; and because he +is so different from everybody else, then I shall know him when he +comes for me. He won't talk about +bread-sauce—billiards—and the money market. He won't +wear a little black suit, with a little black tie—all +sideways. (BOBBY <i>hastily pulls his tie straight</i>.) I don't +know how he will be dressed, but I know this, that when I see him, +that when my eyes have looked into his, when his eyes have looked +into mine—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, steady!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>waking from her dream</i>). Yes? (<i>She gives a +little laugh</i>) Poor Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>appealingly</i>). I say, Sandy! (<i>He goes up to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>(MRS. KNOWLE <i>has seized this moment to come back for her +handkerchief. She sees them together, and begins to walk out on +tiptoe</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>They hear her and turn round suddenly</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>in a whisper</i>). Don't take any notice of me. +I only just came for my handkerchief. (<i>She continues to walk on +tiptoe towards the opposite door</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>getting up</i>). We were just wondering where you +were, Mother. Here's your handkerchief. (<i>She picks it up from +the sofa</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>still in the voice in which you speak to an +invalid</i>). Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you—I +was just going—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to +Bobby, won't you?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>with a happy smile, hoping for the best</i>). +Yes, my darling.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>going to the windows</i>). That's right. (<i>She +stops at the windows and holds out her hands to the +night</i>)—</p> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">The moon shines bright: In +such a night as this</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">When the sweet wind did +gently kiss the trees</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">And they did make no noise, +in such a night</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Troilus methinks mounted +the Troyan walls,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">And sighed his soul towards +the Grecian tents,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Where Cressid lay that +night. In such a night</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Stood Dido with a willow in +her hand,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Upon the wild sea banks, +and waft her love</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">To come again to +Carthage.</span><br> +<p>(<i>She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling +voice</i>) In such a night! Ah!</p> +<p>[<i>She goes to it</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>in a different voice</i>). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. +Coote?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>turning back to her with a start</i>). +Oh—er—yes?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you +Bobby, mayn't I?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>archly</i>). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of +a better name?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>wondering if he ought to call her</i> MARY). +Er—I'm—I'm afraid I don't quite—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Mother.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, but I say—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>giving him her hand</i>). And now come and sit +on the sofa with me, and tell me all about it.</p> +<p>(<i>They go to the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>shaking a finger playfully at him</i>). Not Mrs. +Knowle, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think—I mean Sandy and +I—we aren't—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has +refused you again.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other +day was true. Girls don't know their own minds.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>ruefully</i>). I think Sandy knows hers—about +me, anyhow.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet +said—Shakespeare, or was it the other man?—"Faint heart +never won fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would +never have won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he +came again—like Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a +revolver, and threatened to shoot himself. I was shaking like an +aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I loved him. "Henry," I said, +"I am yours." He took me in his arms—putting down the +revolver first, of course. I have never regretted my surrender, Mr. +Coote. (<i>With a sigh</i>) Ah, me! We women are strange +creatures.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot +myself.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very +warm-hearted. I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you +are taking too gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her +again. I know when I'm not wanted.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and +I—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't +mind. I practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to +you this time.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how +should I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, of course—I mean I haven't really said +anything, have I? Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about +things.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she +gets it from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was +all the result of being christened in that irreligious way—I +quite thought he said Millicent—and reading all those books, +instead of visiting the sick as I used to do. I was quite a little +Red Riding Hood until Henry sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE +<i>and</i> JANE <i>come in by the window, and she turns round +towards them</i>.) Ah, there you both are. I was wondering where +you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all about his +prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get your +feet wet, I hope.</p> +<p>JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been +talking to the fairies—haven't we, Jane?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see +Sandy?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania—and Peters. +He had an appointment, apparently—but not with Titania.</p> +<p>JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the +morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an +unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a +mistake.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about +it as you. He is doing his best to remedy the error.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>getting up</i>). Well, I must be going to bed. I +have been through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know +about.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>cheerfully</i>). What's the matter, my love? +Indigestion?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my +lips are sealed. I shall suffer my cross—my mental +cross—in silence.</p> +<p>JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (<i>To Heaven</i>) My only +daughter has left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece +has offered to help me out of my—to help me. (<i>Holding out +her hand</i>) Good-night, Mr. Coote.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (<i>in a loud whisper</i>) +what Shakespeare said. (<i>She presses his hand and holds it</i>) +Good-night! Good-night! . . . Good-night!</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he +said, "Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I +could say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE <i>looks at +him severely, and then, without saying anything, goes over to him +and holds up her cheek</i>.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>(MRS. KNOWLE <i>goes to the door,</i> BOBBY <i>hurrying in front +to open it for her</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>at the door</i>). I shall <i>not</i> sleep well. +I shall lie awake all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much +distressed. "Dr. Anderson," I shall say, "it is not your fault. I +lay awake all night, thinking of my loved ones." In five minutes, +Jane.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the +library, if anybody wants to think of me—or say good-night to +me—or anything like that.</p> +<p>JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now Uncle Henry. +(<i>She goes up to him</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>kissing her</i>). Good-night, dear.</p> +<p>JANE. Good-night.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss +me—what about you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library +and have a smoke first?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather +tired to-day, somehow.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a +business this is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she +should come back, Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she +will find it in the library—just above the back of the +armchair nearest the door. [<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>gloomily</i>). Yes—about five minutes ago.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>timidly</i>). I'm so sorry, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (<i>After a +pause</i>) Don't let's talk about it.</p> +<p>JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I +<i>had</i> to say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did +you?</p> +<p>BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>gently</i>). I mind very much when my friends are +unhappy.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (<i>He stands up, buttons his coat, and +looks at himself</i>) I say, do <i>you</i> see anything wrong with +it?</p> +<p>JANE. Wrong with what?</p> +<p>BOBBY. My clothes. (<i>He revolves slowly</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she +means half the time.</p> +<p>JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what +you mean. She's so (<i>searching for the right word</i>)—so +<i>romantic</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>eagerly</i>). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of +living up to. I say, have a cigarette, won't you?</p> +<p>JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but +I do feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who +marries her.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes. She's too (<i>getting the right word at +last</i>)—too <i>romantic</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about +doing deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but +when one marries and settles down—you know what I mean?</p> +<p>JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to +Melisande only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I +happen to like the twentieth century. That's all.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I see what you mean.</p> +<p>JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen +on games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else +wears—as long as they fit well, of course—and to talk +about the ordinary things that everybody talks about. Of course, +Melisande would say that that was very stupid and unromantic of +me——</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't think it is at all.</p> +<p>JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do +understand so wonderfully.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>with a laugh</i>). I say, that's rather funny. I was +just thinking the same about you.</p> +<p>JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that +we are really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't +know whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make +friends very easily.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends?</p> +<p>JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly +think of any—not what you call real friends.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each +other all your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I +could never tell even her. (<i>Impressively</i>) I could never show +her my inmost heart.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I +bet there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything.</p> +<p>JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. +That sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be +liked.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit +horrid.</p> +<p>JANE. How nice of you. (<i>She gets up</i>) Well, I must be +going, I suppose.</p> +<p>BOBBY. What's the hurry?</p> +<p>JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes.</p> +<p>BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down +again, won't you?</p> +<p>JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. +(<i>Holding out her hand</i>) Good-night, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>taking it</i>). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light +your candle for you.</p> +<p>JANE. How nice of you!</p> +<p>(<i>She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door +together</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>at the door</i>). Well, if you are, we'd better put the +lights out.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Righto. (<i>He puts them out</i>.) I say, what a night! +(<i>The moonlight streams through the windows on them</i>.) You'll +hardly want a candle.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to +ring. After a little interval</i>, ALICE <i>comes in, turns on the +light, and looks round the hall. She is walking across the hall to +the drawing-room when</i> MR. KNOWLE <i>comes in from behind her, +and she turns round</i>).</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice?</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it?</p> +<p>ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he +wondered if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how +very sorry he was to trouble you——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all—particularly +if Peters is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if +it's not troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And +ask the gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the +door-mat.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is +about to bring in the whiskey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. (<i>She goes out, and returns a moment +later</i>) He says, thank you very much, sir, but he really won't +come in, and he's very sorry indeed to trouble you about the +petrol.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him.</p> +<p>ALICE (<i>hopefully</i>). Yes, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present +Mr. Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much +honoured if he will drink a glass of whiskey with me before +proceeding on his journey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. (<i>She goes out. In a little while she comes +back followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in +a long cloak</i>.) Mr. Gervase Mallory.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see +you. (<i>They shake hands</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for +bothering you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful +nuisance.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty +miles away. Do you know it?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as +far away as that.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a laugh</i>). Well, perhaps only by the way I +came. The fact is I've lost myself rather.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to +have come within five miles of us.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now +that you <i>are</i> here.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you.</p> +<p>ALICE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE <i>puts down the +whiskey</i>.) You've told Peters?</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE <i>goes out</i>.) You'll have +some whiskey, won't you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thanks very much.</p> +<p>(<i>He comes to the table</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make +yourself comfortable?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Er—thanks. I don't think—— (<i>He +smiles to himself and keeps his cloak on</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>busy with the drinks</i>). Say when.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And soda?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks!</p> +<p>(<i>He takes the glass</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>giving himself one</i>). I'm so glad you came, +because I have a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives +me cough-mixture, I insist on somebody else in the house having +cough-mixture too. A glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just +before going to bed—— (<i>He looks up</i>) But do take +your coat off, won't you, and sit down and be comfortable?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Er—thanks very much, but I don't +think—— (<i>With a shrug and a smile</i>) Oh, well! +(<i>He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. He is in +fancy dress—the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold +of</i> MELISANDE'S <i>dream</i>.)</p> +<p>(MR. KNOWLE <i>turns round to him again just as he has put his +cloak down. He looks at</i> GERVASE <i>in amazement</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>pointing to his whiskey glass</i>). But I haven't +even begun it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder +what on earth I'm doing.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth <i>I'd</i> been +doing.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at +Collingham.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in—or take my +cloak off.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>inspecting him</i>). It becomes you +extraordinarily well, if I may say so.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it +when other people are in ordinary clothes.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. +I don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but +(<i>looking at himself</i>) I am sure that I could have found +something more expressive of my emotions than this.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, +Davy."</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a +whiskey and soda.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (<i>Taking out his case</i>) Have a +cigarette, too?</p> +<p>GERVASE. May I have one of my own?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Do.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>feeling for it</i>). If I can find it. They were +very careless about pockets in the old days. I had a special one +put in somewhere, only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, +here it is. (<i>He takes a cigarette from his case, and after +trying to put the case back in his pocket again, places it on the +table</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Match?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thanks. (<i>Picking up his whiskey</i>) Well, here's +luck, and—my most grateful thanks.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>raising his glass</i>). May you slay all your +dragons.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you. (<i>They drink</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw +a map outside in the hall.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was +too much interested in your prints.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>eagerly</i>). You don't say that you are +interested in prints?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Very much—as an entire amateur.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the +art began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I +have something in the library—but of course I mustn't take up +your time now. If you could bear to come over another +day—after all, we are neighbours——</p> +<p>GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it +because you seem to have lost your way so +completely——</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different +in the moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on +afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your +hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in +one afternoon.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That will be ripping. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well, I +suppose I ought to be getting on. (<i>He picks up his +cloak</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the +way.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's.</p> +<p>(<i>They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking +at the casement windows</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (<i>He switches off +the lights, and the moon streams through the windows</i>) Just +look.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a deep sigh</i>). Wonderful!</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The hall is empty for a moment. Then</i> GERVASE +<i>reappears. He has forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and +on his way out again stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking +through the casement windows</i>.)</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and +at the same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. +It is He! The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each +other. . . . Silently he makes obeisance to her; silently she +acknowledges it. . . . Then he is gone</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT II</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The +scene is a glade in a wood a little way above the village of +Hedgling</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE MALLORY, <i>still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak +on, comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He +takes off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns +round, and, seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While +he is looking he hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round +with a start; the whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries +to get to his cloak. It is too late</i>. ERN, <i>a very small boy, +comes through the trees into the glade</i>. GERVASE <i>gives a sigh +of resignation and stands there</i>. ERN <i>stops in the middle of +his tune and gazes at him</i>.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo—er! Oo! (<i>He circles slowly round</i> +GERVASE.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. I quite agree with you.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo! Look!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the +back—take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . +. Been all round? Good!</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very +difficult. Do you mind if I sit down?</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>sitting down on a log</i>). I gather that I have +your consent. I thank you.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo! Look! (<i>He points at</i> GERVASE'S <i>legs</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed +those before?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>sitting down in front of</i> GERVASE). Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a +walk in a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say +"Oo." What does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you +don't walk all round <i>him</i> and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle +George wear when he's reaping? I suppose you don't—By the +way, I wish you'd tell me your name. (ERN <i>gazes at him +dumbly</i>.) Oh, come! They must have told you your name when you +got up this moving.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>smiling sheepishly</i>). Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>bowing</i>). How do you do? I am very glad to meet +you, Mr. Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN <i>grins</i>) Thank +you.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>tapping himself</i>). I'm Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory.</p> +<p>ERN. Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, +you know, because then we never get any farther. Once an +introduction is over, Mr. Hearne, we are—</p> +<p>ERN. Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But +now—Oh, I see what you mean. Ern—short for Ernest?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>nodding</i>). They calls me Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger +I shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest— (<i>getting up</i>) +Just excuse me a moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree +has. It must be a Pomeranian. (<i>He folds his cloak upon it and +sits down again</i>) That's better. Now we can talk comfortably +together. I don't know if there's anything you particularly want to +discuss—nothing?—well, then, I will suggest the subject +of breakfast.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>grinning</i>). 'Ad my breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You've <i>had</i> yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of +course, you're wondering why I haven't had mine.</p> +<p>ERN. Bacon fat. (<i>He makes reminiscent noises</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what +happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a +motor car of your own.</p> +<p>ERN. Don't like moty cars.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree +with you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't +broken down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if +you're married or anything of that sort, but I think even your +rough stern heart would have been moved by that vision of +loveliness which I saw last night. (<i>He is silent for a little, +thinking of her</i>.) Well, then, I lost my way. There I +was—ten miles from anywhere—in the middle of what was +supposed to be a short cut—late at night—Midsummer +Night—what would <i>you</i> have done, Ernest?</p> +<p>ERN. Gone 'ome.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know +where home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen +the Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or +any wise man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of +Her.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . +Have you ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer +Night—I don't mean just for a minute or two, but all through +the night until the dawn came? You aren't really alone, you know. +All round you there are little whisperings going on, little +breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is out hunting; somebody +stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt of yesterday; +somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, and then, +finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little head back +under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies are +out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in +them last night. I heard them whispering.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>coming out of his thoughts with a laugh</i>). Well, +of course, I can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about +thinking that there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and +bull's-eyes. Well, then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up +suddenly and it was morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical +morning—but, of course, <i>you</i> were just settling down to +business then.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo! (<i>He makes more reminiscent noises</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, +breakfast.</p> +<p>ERN. 'Ad my breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old +friend, Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, +has got an estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his +simple meal with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you +didn't do, young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on +a pocket-handkerchief—one of my sister's, +unfortunately—and then I came out to look for breakfast. And +suddenly, whom should I meet but my old friend, Ernest, the same +hearty fellow, the same inveterate talker as when we shot +dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay. (<i>Shaking his +hand</i>) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about it?</p> +<p>ERN. 'Ad my—</p> +<p>GERVASE. S'sh. (<i>He gets up</i>) Now then—to business. +Do you mind looking the other way while I try to find my purse. +(<i>Feeling for it</i>.) Every morning when you get up, you should +say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big boy now and I've got pockets in +my trousers." And you should feel very sorry for the poor people +who lived in fairy books and had no trousers to put pockets in. Ah, +here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very carefully. Where do you +live?</p> +<p>ERN. 'Ome.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, +how far away is your home? (ERN <i>grins and says nothing</i>) A +mile? (ERN <i>continues to grin</i>) Half a mile? (ERN +<i>grins</i>) Six inches?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>pointing</i>). Down there.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this— +(<i>giving him half-a-crown</i>)—</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you—and I want you +to ask your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, +listen very carefully, because we are coming to the important part. +Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk—and +anything else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because +your old friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is +starving by the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket +quickly, I'll give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a +week. (<i>Very earnestly</i>) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and +emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you +got that?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>nodding</i>). Going 'ome. (<i>He looks at the half-crown +again</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But—returning with breakfast. +Starving man—lost in forest—return with +basket—save life. (<i>To himself</i>) I believe I could +explain it better to a Chinaman. (<i>To</i> ERN) Now then, off you +go.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>as he goes off</i>). 'Ad my breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine.</p> +<p>(GERVASE <i>walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as +he goes down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another +stranger in the distance</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (<i>He walks towards the +log</i>) Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (<i>He +puts on his coat</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of</i> SUSAN, +<i>comes in singing. He sees</i> GERVASE <i>sitting on the +log</i>.)</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>with a bow</i>). Good morning, sir.</p> +<p>GERVASE. (<i>looking round</i>). Good morning.</p> +<p>SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not +discommode you.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (<i>Taking off his +hat</i>) Would it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few +minutes?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? +Have you come far this morning?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Three or four miles—a mere nothing on a morning +like this. Besides, what does the great William say?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say?</p> +<p>SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes.</p> +<p>SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you +merry?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>trying hard</i>). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've +got me there. I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he +say?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of +Empires ridiculous.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Emerson, of <i>course</i>. Silly of me.</p> +<p>SUSAN. So you see, sir—I am well, the day is well, all is +well.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great +Percy—(<i>to himself</i>) that's got him.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>at a loss</i>). The—er—great Percy?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit!</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>eagerly</i>). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, +there's a poet, Mr.—er—I don't think I quite caught +your name.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory—to be referred to +by posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Not a poet, too?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally.</p> +<p>SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit—like myself. I am +very glad to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you +to converse with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE <i>bows</i>.) +Generally called Master Susan in these parts, or sometimes +Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling Peddler by profession.</p> +<p>GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure.</p> +<p>SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (<i>He begins to +undo his pack,</i>) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I +may so far venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, +or collar-studs?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling</i>). Well, no, not at this actual moment. +On almost any other day perhaps—but no, not this morning.</p> +<p>SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing—<i>en +passant</i>, as the French say. (<i>He brings out a paper bag from +his pack</i>.) Would the fact of my eating my breakfast in this +pleasant resting place detract at all from your appreciation of the +beautiful day which Heaven has sent us?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Eating your <i>what</i>?</p> +<p>SUSAN. My simple breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking his head</i>). I'm very sorry, but I really +don't think I could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest—I +don't know if you know Ernest?</p> +<p>SUSAN. The great Ernest?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>indicating with his hand</i>). No, the very small +one—Well, <i>he</i> was telling me all about the breakfast +he'd just had, and now <i>you're</i> showing me the breakfast +you're just going to have—no, I can't bear it.</p> +<p>SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do +me the honour of joining me at my simple repast?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>jumping up excitedly</i>). The honour of joining +you!—the <i>honour</i>! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why +they call you Gentleman Susan. (<i>Shaking his head sadly</i>) But +no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I should eat too much. Besides, +Ernest may come back. No, I will wait. It wouldn't be fair.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>unpacking his breakfast</i>). Bacon or cheese?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Cheese—I mean bacon—I mean—I say, you +aren't serious?</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>handing him bread and cheese</i>). I trust you will +find it up to your expectations.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking it</i>). I say, you +really—(<i>Solemnly</i>) Master Susan, with all the passion +and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I say "Thank +you." (<i>He takes a bite</i>) Thank you.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>eating also</i>). Please do not mention it. I am more +than repaid by your company.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to +be your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful +cheese.</p> +<p>SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for +this delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your +boot-laces. Nay, more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your +buttons. Your profession would then be gone.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, +nothing less than half-a-crown will satisfy me.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a sigh</i>). Very well, then. (<i>He begins to +feel in his pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress</i>. +SUSAN <i>opens his eyes at it, and then goes on eating</i>. GERVASE +<i>finds his purse and produces sixpence, which he gives to</i> +SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (<i>He resumes his breakfast</i>.)</p> +<p>SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but +you are not by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Do you mean professionally?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and +sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human +Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I +wondered—</p> +<p>(<i>He glances at</i> GERVASE's <i>legs, which are +uncovered</i>. GERVASE <i>hastily wraps his coat round +them</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . +. . Er—my costume—</p> +<p>SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to +have inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free +world.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>with a bow</i>). I congratulate you on your bathing +costume.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Not at all.</p> +<p>SUSAN. You live near here then?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely.</p> +<p>SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>surprised</i>). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have +lost my way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. +And I never knew!</p> +<p>SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No. Not yet.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Get married.</p> +<p>GERVASE. What?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Take my advice and get married.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You recommend it?</p> +<p>SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you +marry the right woman.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh?</p> +<p>SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of +happiness.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife +a good deal.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>smiling</i>). But then I come back to her a good +deal.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>thoughtfully</i>). Yes, that must be rather +jolly.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I +came upon you here this morning?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>modestly</i>). Oh, well——</p> +<p>SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. +When you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You +have your adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have +your adventure again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second +time. You can say the things which you didn't quite say the first +time, and do the things which you didn't quite do. When my week's +travels are ever, and I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole +week's happenings to tell her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. +Mallory. Our little breakfast here this morning—she will love +to hear about that. I can see her happy excited face as I tell her +all that I said to you, and—if I can remember it—all +that you said to me.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>eagerly</i>). I say, how jolly! +(<i>Thoughtfully</i>) You won't forget what I said about the Great +Percy? I thought that was rather good.</p> +<p>SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I +shall find myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. +That's why I say "Get married." Then you can make things fair for +yourself. You can tell her all the good things of mine which +<i>you</i> said.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that.</p> +<p>SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship +is at the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship +means?</p> +<p>GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally?</p> +<p>SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art +of having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of +sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible +to <i>them</i>, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not +impossible to two people who have found what love is.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>solemnly</i>). It is the most romantic thing in the +whole world. . . . Some more cheese?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking it</i>). Thank you. . . . +(<i>Thoughtfully</i>) Do you believe in love at first sight, Master +Susan?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not +only the face.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I see. (<i>After a pause</i>) It's rather hard to tell, +you know. I suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have +breakfast with you, and see how you get on.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Well, you might do worse.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). And propose to her after +breakfast?</p> +<p>SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball +as some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss +in the moonlight.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking his head</i>). Nothing like that happened +last night.</p> +<p>SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I never read the <i>Daily Mail</i>.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon.</p> +<p>SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem +but to be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have +found in thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the +art of having breakfast with a person. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well, I +must be moving on. <i>We</i> have been companions for a short time; +I thank you for it. I wish you well.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>getting up</i>). I say, I've been awfully glad to +meet you. And I shall never forget the breakfast you gave me.</p> +<p>SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>hesitatingly</i>). You won't mind my having another +one when Ernest comes back—I mean, if Ernest comes back? You +won't think I'm slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor +bathe, you know, one does——</p> +<p>SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an +appetite.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>holding out his hand</i>). Well, good-bye, Mr. +Susan, (SUSAN <i>looks at his hand doubtfully, and</i> GERVASE +<i>says with a laugh</i>) Oh, come on!</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>shaking it</i>). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>smiling</i>). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. +Good-bye.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes off</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>calling after him</i>). Because it wasn't the +moonlight, it wasn't really. It was just <i>Her. (To himself</i>) +It was just <i>Her</i>. . . . I suppose the great Whatsisname would +say, "It was just She," but then, that isn't what I mean.</p> +<p>(GERVASE <i>watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to +the other side, says</i>, "Hallo!" <i>suddenly in great +astonishment, and withdraws a few steps</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. It can't be! (<i>He goes cautiously forward and looks +again</i>) It is!</p> +<p>(<i>He comes back, and walks gently off through the +trees</i>.)</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two +plaits to her waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to +any century. She stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, +holds out her hands to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a +sigh of happiness</i>. . . .)</p> +<p>(GERVASE, <i>his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a +moment he is half-hidden by the trees</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>very softly</i>). Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a +little</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE (a <i>little more loudly</i>). Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>She listens and nods to herself</i>, GERVASE <i>steps out +into the open</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>She turns round</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him wonderingly</i>). You!</p> +<p>GERVASE. At your service, Princess.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It was you who came last night.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You +looked at me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I +thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a +dream?</p> +<p>GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland?</p> +<p>GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with a sigh of happiness</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You have been looking for it?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. For so long. (<i>She is silent for a little, and then +says with a smile</i>) May one sit down in an enchanted forest?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (<i>He spreads his cloak over +the log</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking his head</i>). I haven't finished looking at +you yet. . . . You are very lovely, Princess.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Am I?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Haven't they told you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Perhaps I wondered sometimes.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Very lovely. . . . Have you a name which goes with +it?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. My name is Melisande.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>his whole heart in it</i>). Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>content at last</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>solemnly</i>). Now the Princess Melisande was very +beautiful. (<i>He lies down on the grass near her, looks up at her +and is silent for a little</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>smiling shyly</i>). May we talk about <i>you</i>, +now?</p> +<p>GERVASE. It is for the Princess to say what we shall talk about. +If your Royal Highness commands, then I will even talk about +myself.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You see, I don't know your name yet.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I am called Gervase.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Gervase. It is a pretty name.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I have been keeping it for this morning.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It will be Prince Gervase, will it not, if this is +Fairyland?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Alas, no. For I am only a humble woodcutter's son. One +of seven.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Of seven? I thought that humble woodcutters always +had three sons, and that it was the youngest who went into the +world to seek his fortune.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Three—that's right. I said "one of several." Now +that I count them up, three. (<i>Counting on his fingers</i>) +Er—Bowshanks, er—Mulberry-face and myself. Three. I am +the youngest.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And the fairies came to your christening?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Now for the first time I think that they did.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding</i>). They always come to the christening +of the third and youngest son, and they make him the tallest and +the bravest and the most handsome.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>modestly</i>). Oh, well.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You <i>are</i> the tallest and the bravest and the +most handsome, aren't you?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a modest smile</i>). Well, of course, +Mulberry-face is hardly a starter, and then Bowshanks— (<i>he +indicates the curve of his legs</i>)—I mean, there's not much +competition.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I have no sisters.</p> +<p>GERVASE. The Princess never has sisters. She has suitors.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with a sigh</i>). Yes, she has suitors.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking out his dagger</i>). Tell me their names that +I may remove them for you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. There is one dressed in black and white who seeks to +win my hand.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>feeling the point</i>). He bites the dust +to-morrow.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. To-morrow?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Unless it rains in the night. Perhaps it would be safer +if we arranged for him to bite it this afternoon.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How brave you are!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Say no more. It will be a pleasure.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Ah, but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for +me.</p> +<p>GERVASE. The sacrifice will be his.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But are you so certain that <i>you</i> will kill him? +Suppose he were to kill <i>you</i>?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>getting up</i>). Madam, when the third son of a +humble woodcutter engages in mortal combat with one upon whom the +beautiful Princess has frowned, there can be but one end to the +struggle. To doubt this would be to let Romance go.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You are right. I should never have doubted.</p> +<p>GERVASE. At the same time, it would perhaps be as well to ask +the help of my Uncle Otto.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But is it fair to seek the assistance of an uncle in +order to kill one small black and white suitor?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Ah, but he is a wizard. One is always allowed to ask +the help of a wizard. My idea was that he should cast a spell upon +the presumptuous youth who seeks to woo you, so that to those who +gazed upon him he should have the outward semblance of a rabbit. He +would then realise the hopelessness of his suit and . . . go +away.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with dignity</i>). I should certainly never marry +a small black and white rabbit.</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, you couldn't, could you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>gravely</i>). No. (<i>Then their eyes meet. There +is a twinkle in his; hers respond; and suddenly they are laughing +together</i>. What nonsense you talk!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, it's such an absurdly fine morning, isn't it? +There's a sort of sparkle in the air. I'm really trying to be quite +sensible.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>making room for him at her feet</i>). Go on +talking nonsense. (<i>He sits down on the ground and leans against +the log at her side</i>.) Tell me about yourself. You have told me +nothing yet, but that (<i>she smiles at him</i>) your father is a +woodcutter.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes. He—er—cuts wood.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And you resolved to go out into the world and seek +your fortune?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes. You see if you are a third son of a humble +woodcutter, nobody thinks very much of you at home, and they never +take you out with them; and when you are cutting wood, they always +put you where the sawdust gets into your mouth. Because, you see, +they have never read history, and so they don't know that the third +and youngest son is always the nicest of the family.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And the tallest and the bravest and the most +handsome.</p> +<p>GERVASE. <i>And</i> all the other things you mention.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. So you ran away?</p> +<p>GERVASE. So I ran away—to seek my fortune.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But your uncle the wizard, or your godmother or +somebody, gave you a magic ring to take with you on your travels? +(<i>Nodding</i>) They always do, you know.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>showing the ring on his finger</i>). Yes, my fairy +godmother gave me a magic ring. Here it is.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at it</i>). What does it do?</p> +<p>GERVASE. You turn it round once and think very hard of anybody +you want, and suddenly the person you are thinking of appears +before you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How wonderful! Have you tried it yet?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Once. . . . That's why you are here.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh! (<i>Softly</i>) Have you been thinking of me?</p> +<p>GERVASE. All night.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I dreamed of you all night.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>happily</i>). Did you, Melisande? How dear of you to +dream of me! (<i>Anxiously</i>) Was I—was I all right?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, yes!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>pleased</i>). Ah! (<i>He spreads himself a little +and removes a speck of dust from his sleeve</i>)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>thinking of it still</i>). You were so brave.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I expect I'm pretty brave in other people's +dreams—I'm so cowardly in my own. Did I kill anybody?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You were engaged in a terrible fight with a dragon +when I woke up.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Leaving me and the dragon still asleep—I mean, +still fighting? Oh, Melisande, how could you leave us until you +knew who had won?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I tried so hard to get back to you.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I expect I was winning, you know. I wish you could have +got back for the finish. . . . Melisande, let me come into your +dreams again to-night.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You never asked me last night. You just came.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you for letting me come.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And then when I woke up early this morning, the world +was so young, so beautiful, so fresh that I had to be with it. It +called to me so clearly—to come out and find its secret. So I +came up here, to this enchanted place, and all the way it whispered +to me—wonderful things.</p> +<p>GERVASE. What did it whisper, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. The secret of happiness.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Ah, what is it, Melisande? (<i>She smiles and shakes +her head</i>). . . . I met a magician in the woods this +morning.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Did he speak to you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. <i>He</i> told <i>me</i> the secret of happiness.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What did he tell you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. He said it was marriage.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Ah, but he didn't mean by marriage what so many +people mean.</p> +<p>GERVASE. He seemed a very potent magician.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Marriage to many people means just food. +Housekeeping. <i>He</i> didn't mean that.</p> +<p>GERVASE. A very wise and reverend magician.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Love is romance. Is there anything romantic in +breakfast—or lunch?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, not so much in lunch, of course, +but——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How well you understand! Why do the others not +understand?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling at her</i>). Perhaps because they have not +seen Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh no, no, that isn't it. All the +others——</p> +<p>GERVASE. Do you mean your suitors?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. They are so unromantic, so material. The clothes +they wear; the things they talk about. But you are so different. +Why is it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I don't know. Perhaps because I am the third son of a +woodcutter. Perhaps because they don't know that you are the +Princess. Perhaps because they have never been in the enchanted +forest.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What would the forest tell them?</p> +<p>GERVASE. All the birds in the forest are singing "Melisande"; +the little brook runs through the forest murmuring "Melisande"; the +tall trees bend their heads and whisper to each other "Melisande." +All the flowers have put on their gay dresses for her. Oh, +Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>awed</i>). Is it true? (<i>They are silent for a +little, happy to be together. . . . He looks back at her and gives +a sudden little laugh</i>.) What is it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Just you and I—together—on the top of the +world like this.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes, that's what I feel, too. (<i>After a pause</i>) +Go on pretending.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Pretending?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. That the world is very young.</p> +<p>GERVASE. <i>We</i> are very young, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>timidly</i>). It is only a dream, isn't it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Who knows what a dream is? Perhaps we fell asleep in +Fairyland a thousand years ago, and all that we thought real was a +dream, until now at last we are awake again.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How wonderful that would be.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Perhaps we are dreaming now. But is it your dream or my +dream, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>after thinking it out</i>). I think I would rather +it were your dream, Gervase. For then I should be in it, and that +would mean that you had been thinking of me.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Then it shall be <i>my</i> dream, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Let it be a long one, my dear.</p> +<p>GERVASE. For ever and for ever.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily</i>). Oh, I know that it is only a dream, +and that presently we shall wake up; or else that you will go away +and I will go away, too, and we shall never meet again; for in the +real world, what could I be to you, or you to me? So go on +pretending.</p> +<p>(<i>He stands up and faces her</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande, if this were Fairyland, or if we were +knights and ladies in some old romance, would you trust yourself to +me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. So very proudly.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You would let me come to your father's court and claim +you over all your other suitors, and fight for you, and take you +away with me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. If this were Fairyland, yes.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You would trust me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I would trust my lord.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling at her</i>). Then I will come for the +Princess this afternoon. (<i>With sudden feeling</i>) Ah, how can I +keep away now that I have seen the Princess?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>shyly—happily</i>). When you saw me last +night, did you know that you would see me again?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I have been waiting for you here.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How did you know that I would come?</p> +<p>GERVASE. On such a morning—in such a place—how could +the loved one not be here?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking away</i>). The loved one?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I saw you last night.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>softly</i>). Was that enough?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Enough, yes. Enough? Oh no, no, no!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding</i>). I will wait for you this +afternoon.</p> +<p>GERVASE. And you will come away with me? Out into the world with +me? Over the hills and far away with me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>softly</i>). Over the hills and far away.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>going to her</i>). Princess!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Not Princess.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>holding out her hand to him</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>GERVASE. May I kiss your hands, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. They are my lord's to kiss.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>kissing them</i>). Dear hands.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Now I shall love them, too.</p> +<p>GERVASE. May I kiss your lips, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>proudly</i>). Who shall, if not my lord?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande! (<i>He touches her lips with his</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>breaking away from him</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>triumphantly</i>). I love you, Melisande! I love +you!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>wonderingly</i>). Why didn't I wake up when you +kissed me? We are still here. The dream goes on.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It is no dream, Melisande. Or if it is a dream, then in +my dream I love you, and if we are awake, then awake I love you. I +love you if this is Fairyland, and if there is no Fairyland, then +my love will make a faery land of the world for you. For I love +you, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>timidly</i>). Are we pretending still?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, no, no!</p> +<p>(<i>She looks at him gravely for a moment and then nods her +head</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>pointing</i>). I live down there. You will come +for me?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I will come.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am my lord's servant. I will wait for him. (<i>She +moves away from him. Then she curtsies and says</i>) This +afternoon, my lord.</p> +<p>(<i>She goes down the hill</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>He stands looking after her. While he is standing there, ERN +comes through the trees with breakfast</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT III</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>It is about four o'clock in the afternoon of the same +day.</i> JANE <i>is sitting on the sofa in the hall, glancing at a +paper, but evidently rather bored with it, and hoping that +somebody—</i>BOBBY, <i>did you say?—will appear +presently. However, it is</i> MR. KNOWLE <i>who comes in</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Jane!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>looking up</i>). Hallo, Uncle Henry. Did you have a +good day?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, Peters and I had a very enjoyable drive.</p> +<p>JANE. But you found nothing at the sale? What a pity!</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>taking a catalogue from his pocket</i>). Nothing +which I wanted myself, but there were several very interesting +lots. Peters was strongly tempted by Lot 29—"Two hip-baths +and a stuffed crocodile." Very useful things to have by you if you +think of getting married, Jane, and setting up house for yourself. +I don't know if you have any thoughts in that direction?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>a little embarrassed</i>). Well, I suppose I shall some +day.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Where's Bobby?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>carelessly</i>). Bobby? Oh, he's about somewhere.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I think Bobby would like to hear about Lot 29. +(<i>Returning to his catalogue</i>) Or perhaps Lot 42. "Lot +42—Twelve aspidistras, towel-horse, and 'The Maiden's +Prayer.'" All for seven and sixpence. I ought to have had Bobby +with me. He could have made a firm offer of eight shillings. . . . +By the way, I have a daughter, haven't I? How was Sandy this +morning?</p> +<p>JANE. I didn't see her. Aunt Mary is rather anxious about +her.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Has she left us for ever?</p> +<p>JANE. There's nothing to be frightened about really.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I'm not frightened.</p> +<p>JANE. She had breakfast before any of us were up, and went out +with some sandwiches afterwards, and she hasn't come back yet.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. A very healthy way of spending the day. (MRS. KNOWLE +<i>comes in</i>) Well, Mary, I hear that we have no daughter +now.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, there you are, Henry. Thank Heaven that +<i>you</i> are back safely.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. My dear, I always meant to come back safely. Didn't +you expect me?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I had given up hope. Jane here will tell you what a +terrible morning I have had; prostrate on the sofa, mourning for my +loved ones. My only child torn from me, my husband—dead.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>surprised</i>). Oh, I was dead?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I pictured the car smashed to atoms, and you lying +in the road, dead, with Peters by your side.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! How was Peters?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>with a shrug</i>). I didn't look. What is a +chauffeur to one who has lost her husband and her only child in the +same morning?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Still, I think you might have looked.</p> +<p>JANE. Sandy's all right, Aunt Mary. You know she often goes out +alone all day like this.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, <i>is</i> she alone? Jane, did you count the +gardeners as I asked you?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Count the gardeners?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. To make sure that none of them is missing too.</p> +<p>JANE. It's quite all right, Aunt Mary. Sandy will be back by +tea-time.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>resigned</i>). It all comes of christening her +Melisande. You know, Henry, I quite thought you said Millicent.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, talking about tea, my dear—at which +happy meal our long-lost daughter will be restored to us—we +have a visitor coming, a nice young fellow who takes an interest in +prints.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I've heard nothing of this, Henry.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No, my dear, that's why I'm telling you now.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. A young man?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Nice-looking?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Rich?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I forgot to ask him, Mary. However, we can remedy +that omission as soon as he arrives.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. It's a very unfortunate day for him to have chosen. +Here's Sandy lost, and I'm not fit to be seen, and—Jane, your +hair wants tidying——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. He is not coming to see you or Sandy or Jane, my +dear; he is coming to see me. Fortunately, I am looking very +beautiful this afternoon.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, you had better be in the garden, dear, and +see if you can stop Sandy before she comes in, and just give her a +warning. I don't know <i>what</i> she'll look like after roaming +the fields all day, and falling into pools——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a +wantonness.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I will go and tidy myself. Jane, I think your +mother would like you to—but, after all, one must think of +one's own child first. You will tell Sandy, won't you? We had +better have tea in here. . . . Henry, your trousers—(<i>she +looks to see that JANE is not listening, and then says in a loud +whisper</i>) your trousers——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear, Mary. It's a +young fellow who is coming to see my prints; not the Prince of +Wales who is coming to see my trousers.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>turning to JANE)</i>. You'll remember, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>smiling</i>). Yes, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. That's a good girl.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out.</i></p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Your aunt wasn't very lucid, Jane. Which +one of you is it who is going to marry the gentleman?</p> +<p>JANE. Don't be so absurd, Uncle Henry.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>taking out his catalogue again</i>). Perhaps +<i>he</i> would be interested in Lot 29. (<i>BOBBY comes in through +the windows</i>.) Ah, here's Bobby. Bobby, they tell me that you +think of setting up house.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>looking quickly at JANE</i>). Who told you that?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Now, starting with two hip-baths and a stuffed +crocodile for nine shillings and sixpence, and working up to twelve +aspidistras, a towel-horse and "The Maiden's Prayer" for eight +shillings, you practically have the spare room furnished for +seventeen and six. But perhaps I had better leave the catalogue +with you. (<i>He presses it into the bewildered BOBBY'S hands</i>) +I must go and tidy myself up. Somebody is coming to propose to me +this afternoon.</p> +<p>[<i>He hurries out.</i></p> +<p>(BOBBY <i>looks after him blankly, and then turns to</i> +JANE.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, what's happened?</p> +<p>JANE. Happened?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Yes, why did he say that about my setting up house?</p> +<p>JANE. I think he was just being funny. He is sometimes, you +know.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You don't think he guessed——</p> +<p>JANE. Guessed what? About you and Melisande?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, shut up, Jane. I thought we agreed not to say +anything more about that.</p> +<p>JANE. But what else could he have guessed?</p> +<p>BOBBY. <i>You</i> know well enough.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>shaking her head</i>). No, I don't.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I told you this morning.</p> +<p>JANE. What did you tell me?</p> +<p>BOBBY. <i>You</i> know.</p> +<p>JANE. No, I don't.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Yes, you do.</p> +<p>JANE. No, I don't.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming closer</i>). All right, shall I tell you +again?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>edging away</i>). I don't want to hear it.</p> +<p>BOBBY. How do you know you don't want to hear it, if you don't +know what it is?</p> +<p>JANE. I can guess what it is.</p> +<p>BOBBY. There you are!</p> +<p>JANE. It's what you say to everybody, isn't it?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>loftily</i>). If you want to know, Miss Bagot, I have +only said it to one other person in my life, and that was in +mistake for you.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>coldly</i>). Melisande and I are not very much alike, +Mr. Coote.</p> +<p>BOBBY. No. You're much prettier.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>turning her head away</i>). You don't really think so. +Anyhow, it isn't true.</p> +<p>BOBBY. It is true, Jane. I swear it.</p> +<p>JANE. Well, you didn't think so yesterday.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Why do you keep talking about yesterday? I'm talking +about to-day.</p> +<p>JANE. A girl has her pride, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. So has a man. I'm awfully proud of being in love with +<i>you</i>.</p> +<p>JANE. That isn't what I mean.</p> +<p>BOBBY. What do you mean?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well—well—well, what it +comes to is that you get refused by Sandy, and then you immediately +come to me and expect me to jump at you.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Suppose I had waited a year and then come to you, would +that have been better?</p> +<p>JANE. Of course it would.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, really I can't follow you, darling.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>indignantly</i>). You mustn't call me darling.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Mustn't call you what?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Darling.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Did I call you darling?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>shortly</i>). Yes.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to himself</i>). "Darling." No, I suppose I mustn't. +But it suits you so awfully well—darling. (<i>She stamps her +foot</i>) I'm sorry, darl—— I mean Jane, but really I +can't follow you. Because you're so frightfully fascinating, that +after twenty-four hours of it, I simply have to tell you how much I +love you, then your pride is hurt. But if you had been so +frightfully unattractive that it took me a whole year to see +anything in you at all, then apparently you'd have been awfully +proud.</p> +<p>JANE. You <i>have</i> known me a whole year, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Not really, you know. Directly I saw you and Sandy +together I knew I was in love with one of you, but—well, love +is a dashed rummy thing, and I thought it was Sandy. And so I +didn't really see you till last night, when you were so awfully +decent to me.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>wistfully</i>). It sounds very well, but the trouble is +that it will sound just as well to the next girl.</p> +<p>BOBBY. What next girl?</p> +<p>JANE. The one you propose to to-morrow.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You know, Jane, when you talk like that I feel that you +don't deserve to be proposed to at all.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>loftily</i>). I'm sure I don't want to be.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming closer</i>). Are you?</p> +<p>JANE. Am I what?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Quite sure.</p> +<p>JANE. I should have thought it was pretty obvious seeing that +I've just refused you.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Have you?</p> +<p>JANE. Have I what?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Refused me.</p> +<p>JANE. I thought I had.</p> +<p>BOBBY. And would you be glad if I went away and never saw you +again? (<i>She hesitates</i>) Honest, Jane. Would you?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well, of course, I <i>like</i> you, +Bobby. I always have.</p> +<p>BOBBY. But you feel that you would like me better if I were +somebody else's husband?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>indignantly</i>). Oh, I <i>never</i> said that.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Dash it, you've been saying it all this afternoon.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>weakly</i>). Bobby, don't; I can't argue with you. But +really, dear, I can't say now that I will marry you. Oh, you +<i>must</i> understand. Oh, <i>think</i> what +Sandy——</p> +<p>BOBBY. We won't tell Sandy.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>surprised</i>). But she's bound to know.</p> +<p>BOBBY. We won't tell anybody.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>eagerly</i>). Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>nodding</i>). Just you and me. Nobody else for a long +time. A little private secret.</p> +<p>JANE. Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming to her</i>). Is it a bargain, Jane? Because if +it's a bargain——</p> +<p>JANE (<i>going away from him</i>). No, no, Bobby. Not now. I +must go upstairs and tidy myself—no, I mustn't, I must wait +for Melisande—no, Bobby, don't. Not yet. I mean it, really. +Do go, dear, anybody might come in.</p> +<p>(BOBBY, <i>who has been following her round the hall, as she +retreats nervously, stops and nods to her</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. All right, darling, I'll go.</p> +<p>JANE. You mustn't say "darling." You might say it accidentally +in front of them all.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>grinning</i>). All right, Miss Bagot . . . I am going +now, Miss Bagot. (<i>At the windows</i>) Good-bye, Miss Bagot. +(JANE <i>blows him a kiss. He bows</i>) Your favour to hand, Miss +Bagot. (<i>He turns and sees</i> MELISANDE <i>coming through the +garden</i>) Hallo, here's Sandy! (<i>He hurries off in the opposite +direction</i>!)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Jane, Jane! (<i>She sinks into a chair</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. What, dear?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Everything.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, but that's so vague, darling. Do you mean +that——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily</i>). I have seen him; I have talked to +him; he has kissed me.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>amazed). Kissed</i> you? Do you mean that he +has—kissed you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I have looked into his eyes, and he has looked into +mine.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, but who?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. The true knight, the prince, for whom I have been +waiting so long.</p> +<p>JANE. But <i>who</i> is he?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. They call him Gervase.</p> +<p>JANE. Gervase <i>who</i>?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>scornfully</i>). Did Elaine say, "Lancelot who" +when they told her his name was Lancelot?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, dear, but this is the twentieth century. He must have +a name.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily</i>). Through the forest he came to me, +dressed in blue and gold.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>sharply</i>). Sandy! (<i>Struck with an idea</i>) Have +you been out all day without your hat, darling?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>vaguely</i>). Have I?</p> +<p>JANE. I mean—blue and gold. They don't do it nowadays.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding to her</i>). <i>He</i> did, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE. But how?—Why? Who can he be?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He said he was a humble woodcutter's son. That means +he was a prince in disguise. He called me his princess.</p> +<p>JANE. Darling, how could he be a prince?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I have read stories sometimes of men who went to +sleep and woke up thousands of years afterwards and found +themselves in a different world. Perhaps, Jane, <i>he</i> lived in +those old days, and——</p> +<p>JANE. Did he <i>talk</i> like an ordinary person?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh no, no!</p> +<p>JANE. Well, it's really extraordinary. . . . Was he a +gentleman?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>smiling at her</i>). I didn't ask him, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>crossly</i>). You know what I mean.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He is coming this afternoon to take me away.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>amazed</i>). To take you away? But what about Aunt +Mary?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>vaguely</i>). Aunt Mary? What has <i>she</i> got +to do with it?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>impatiently</i>). Oh, but—— (<i>With a +shrug of</i> <i>resignation</i>) I don't understand. Do you mean +he's coming <i>here</i>? (MELISANDE <i>nods gravely</i>) Melisande, +you'll let me see him?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. I've thought it all out. I wanted you here, +Jane. He will come in; I will present you; and then you must leave +us alone. But I should like you to see him. Just to see how +different, how utterly different he is from every other man. . . . +But you will promise to go when you have seen him, won't you?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>nodding</i>). I'll say, "I'm afraid I must leave you +now, and——" Sandy, how <i>can</i> he be a prince?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. When you see him, Jane, you will say, "How can he not +be a prince?"</p> +<p>JANE. But one has to leave princes backward. I mean—he +won't expect—<i>you</i> know——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't think so. Besides, after all, you are my +cousin.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes. I think I shall get that in; just to be on the safe +side. "Well, cousin, I must leave you now, as I have to attend my +aunt." And then a sort of—not exactly a curtsey, +but—(<i>she practises, murmuring the words to herself</i>). I +suppose you didn't happen to mention <i>me</i> to him this +morning?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>half smiling</i>). Oh no!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>hurt</i>). I don't see why you shouldn't have. What did +you talk about?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't know. (<i>She grips</i> JANE'S <i>arm +suddenly</i>) Jane, I didn't dream it all this morning, did I? It +did happen? I saw him—he kissed me—he is coming for +me—he——</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> ALICE</p> +<p>ALICE. Mr. Gervase Mallory.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>happily)</i>. Ah!</p> +<p>(<i>GERVASE comes in, an apparently ordinary young man in a loud +golfing suit</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. How do you do?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him with growing amazement and +horror</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>(<i>JANE looks from one to the other in bewilderment</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. I ought to explain. Mr. Knowle was kind enough to lend +me some petrol last night; my car broke down; he was good enough to +say I might come this afternoon and see his prints. I am hoping to +be allowed to thank him again for his kindness last night. +And—er—I've brought back the petrol.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>still with her eyes on him</i>). My father will no +doubt be here directly. This is my cousin, Miss Bagot.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>bowing</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>nervously</i>). How do you do? (<i>After a pause</i>) +Well, I'm afraid I must leave you now, as——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with her eyes still on GERVASE, putting out a hand +and clutching at JANE</i>). No!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>startled</i>). What?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Don't go, Jane. Do sit down, won't you, +Mr.—er——</p> +<p>GERVASE. Mallory.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Where will you sit, Mr. Mallory? (<i>She is still +talking in an utterly expressionless voice</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you. Where are you—— (<i>he indicates +the sofa</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>moving to it, but still holding JANE</i>). Thank +<i>you</i>.</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>and</i> JANE <i>sit down together on the sofa</i>. +GERVASE <i>sits on a chair near. There is an awkward +silence</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>half getting up</i>). Well, I'm afraid I +must——</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>pulls her down. She subsides</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Charming weather we are having, are we not, Mr. +Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>enthusiastically</i>). Oh, rather. Absolutely +top-hole.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>to</i> JANE). Absolutely top-hole weather, is it +not, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, I love it.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You play golf, I expect, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, rather. I've been playing this morning. (<i>With a +smile</i>) Pretty rotten, too, I'm afraid.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane plays golf. (<i>To</i> JANE) You're pretty +rotten, too, aren't you, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Bobby and I were both very bad to-day.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I think you will like Bobby, Mr. Mallory. He is +staying with us just now. I expect you will have a good deal in +common. He is on the Stock Exchange.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling</i>). So am I.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>valiantly repressing a shudder</i>). Jane, Mr. +Mallory is on the Stock Exchange. Isn't that curious? I felt sure +that he must be directly I saw him.</p> +<p>(<i>There is another awkward silence</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>getting up</i>). Well, I'm afraid I +must——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>pulling her down</i>). Don't go, Jane. I suppose +there are a great many of you on the Stock Exchange, Mr. +Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, quite a lot.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Quite a lot, Jane. . . . You don't know +Bobby—Mr. Coote?</p> +<p>GERVASE. N—no, I don't think so.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I suppose there are so many of you, and you dress so +much alike, and look so much alike, that it's difficult to be quite +sure whom you do know.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, of course, that makes it more difficult.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. You see that, don't you, Jane? . . . You play +billiards and bridge, of course, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh yes.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. They are absolutely top-hole games, aren't they? Are +you—pretty rotten at them?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>getting up</i>). Ah, here's my father.</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> MR. KNOWLE</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Mr. Mallory, delighted to see you. And Sandy and +Jane to entertain you. That's right.</p> +<p>(<i>They shake hands</i>)</p> +<p>GERVASE. How do you do?</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>comes in with tea</i>)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I've been wasting my day at a sale. I hope you spent +yours more profitably, (GERVASE <i>laughs pleasantly</i>) And what +have you been doing, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Wasting mine, too, Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. Well, they say that the wasted hours are +the best.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>moving to the door</i>). I think I will go +and—— (MRS. KNOWLE <i>comes in with outstretched +hands</i>)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. My dear, this is Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. My dear Mr. Mallory! (<i>Turning round</i>) Sandy, +dear! (MELISANDE <i>comes slowly back</i>) How do you do?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking hands</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy, dear! (<i>To</i> GERVASE) My daughter, +Melisande, Mr. Mallory. My only child.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh—er—we——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory and I have met, Mother.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>indicating</i> JANE). And our dear Jane.</p> +<p>My dear sister's only daughter. But dear Jane has a brother. +Dear Harold! In the Civil Service. Sandy, dear, will you pour out +tea?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>resigned</i>). Yes, Mother. (<i>She goes to the +tea-table</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>going to the sofa</i>). I am such an invalid +now, Mr. Mallory——</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>helping her</i>). Oh, I'm so sorry. Can +I——?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. Dr. Anderson insists on my resting as +much as possible. So my dear Melisande looks after the house for +me. Such a comfort. You are not married yourself, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No. Oh no.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>smiling to herself</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane, Mother's tea. (<i>JANE takes it</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>coming forward</i>). Oh, I beg your pardon. Let +me——</p> +<p>JANE. It's all right.</p> +<p>(<i>GERVASE takes up a cake-stand</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Where's Bobby? Bobby is the real expert at this.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I expect Mr. Mallory is an expert, too, Father. You +enjoy tea-parties, I expect, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I enjoy most things, Miss Knowle. (<i>To MRS. +KNOWLE</i>) What will you have?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. I have to be careful. Dr. Anderson +insists on my being careful, Mr. Mallory. (<i>Confidentially</i>) +Nothing organic, you understand. Both my husband and +I—Melisande has an absolutely sound constitution.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>indicating cup</i>). Jane . . . Sugar and milk, +Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Please. (<i>To MR. KNOWLE</i>) Won't <i>you</i> have +this, sir?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No thank you. I have a special cup.</p> +<p>(<i>He takes a large cup from</i> MELISANDE). A family +tradition, Mr. Mallory. But whether it is that I am supposed to +require more nourishment than the others, or that I can't be +trusted with anything breakable, History does not relate.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). Well, I think you're lucky. I like a +big cup.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Have mine.</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, thanks.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming in</i>). Hallo! Tea?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Bobby, you're just in time. (<i>To</i> GERVASE) +This is Mr. Coote. Bobby, this is Mr. Mallory. (<i>They nod to each +other and say, "How do you do?</i> ")</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>indicating a seat next to her</i>). Come and sit +here, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>who was making for</i> JANE). +Oh—er—righto. (<i>He sits down</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>to</i> GERVASE). And how did the dance go last +night?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, were you at a dance? How lovely!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Dance?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And a fancy dress dance, too, Sandy. <i>You</i> +ought to have been there.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>understanding</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. My daughter is devoted to dancing, Mr. Mallory. +Dances so beautifully, they all say.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Where was it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Collingham.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And did they all fall in love with you? You ought to +have seen him, Sandy.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, I'm afraid I never got there.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. . . . Peters is in love just now. . . . +I hope he didn't give you cider in mistake for petrol.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You have a car, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah! (<i>To</i> MELISANDE) Won't Mr. Mallory have +some more tea, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Will you have some more tea, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you. (<i>To</i> MRS. KNOWLE) Won't +you——</p> +<p>(<i>He begins to get up</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. <i>Please</i> don't trouble. I never have more than +one cup. Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. Only one cup, Mrs. +Knowle.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to</i> MELISANDE). Sandwich? Oh, you're busy. +Sandwich, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>taking one</i>). Thank you.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to</i> GERVASE). Sandwich?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to</i> MR. KNOWLE). Sandwich?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Thank you, Bobby. Fortunately nobody minds what +<i>I</i> eat or drink.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to himself</i>). Sandwich, Mr. Coote? Thank you. +(<i>He takes one</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>to</i> GERVASE). Being such an invalid, Mr. +Mallory, it is a great comfort to me to have Melisande to look +after the house.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I am sure it is.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Of course, I can't expect to keep her for ever.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coldly</i>). More tea, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Thank you, dear.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. It's extraordinary how she has taken to it. I must +say that I do like a girl to be a good housekeeper. Don't you +agree, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, of course, all that sort of thing <i>is</i> +rather important.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. That's what I always tell Sandy. "Happiness begins +in the kitchen, Sandy."</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I'm sure Mr. Mallory agrees with you, Mother.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). Well, one must eat.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>passing plate</i>). Have another sandwich?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking one</i>). Thanks.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Do you live in the neighbourhood, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. About twenty miles away. Little Malling.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>helpfully</i>). Oh, yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I hope we shall see you here again.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That's very kind of you indeed. I shall love to +come.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. More tea, Father?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No, thank you, my love.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. More tea, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, thank you.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>getting up</i>). I don't want to hurry you, Mr. +Mallory, but if you have really finished——</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>getting up</i>). Right.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You won't go without seeing the garden, Mr. +Mallory? Sandy, when your father has finished with Mr. Mallory, you +must show him the garden. We are very proud of our roses, Mr. +Mallory. Melisande takes a great interest in the roses.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I should like very much to see the garden. (<i>Going to +her</i>) Shall I see you again, Mrs. Knowle. . . . Don't get up, +<i>please</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>getting up</i>). In case we don't—(<i>she +holds out her hand</i>).</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking it</i>). Good-bye. And thank you so +much.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Not good-bye. <i>Au revoir</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling</i>). Thank you. (<i>With a bow to</i> JANE +<i>and</i> BOBBY) Good-bye, in case——</p> +<p>BOBBY. Cheero.</p> +<p>JANE. Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, come along. (<i>As they go out</i>) It is +curious how much time one has to spend in saying "How do you do" +and "Good-bye." I once calculated that a man of seventy. . . .</p> +<p>[MR. KNOWLE <i>and</i> GERVASE <i>go out</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, dear, would you mind coming with me to the +drawing-room, and helping me to—er——</p> +<p>JANE (<i>resigned</i>). Of course, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>[<i>They go towards the door</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>with his mouth full</i>). May I come too, Mrs. +Knowle?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You haven't finished your tea, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I shan't be a moment. (<i>He picks up his cup</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Please come, dear Mr. Coote, when you have +finished.</p> +<p>[MRS. KNOWLE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>turns at the door, sees that</i> MELISANDE <i>is not +looking, and blows a hasty kiss to</i> BOBBY.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. More tea, Bobby?</p> +<p>BOBBY. No thanks.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Something more to eat?</p> +<p>BOBBY. No thanks. (<i>He gets up and walks towards the +door</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>turning</i>). Yes?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. There's something I want to say to you. Don't go.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh! Righto. (<i>He comes slowly back</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with difficulty, after a pause</i>). I made a +mistake yesterday.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>not understating</i>). A mistake? Yesterday?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. . . . You were quite right.</p> +<p>BOBBY. How do you mean? When?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. When you said that girls didn't know their own +minds.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh! (<i>With an awkward laugh</i>) Yes. +Well—er—I don't expect any of us do, really, you know. +I mean—er—that is to say——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I'm sorry I said what I did say to you last night, +Bobby. I oughtn't to have said all those things.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, that's all right</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I didn't mean them. And—and Bobby—I +<i>will</i> marry you if you like.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>staggered</i>). Sandy!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And it was silly of me to mind your calling me Sandy, +and to say what I did about your clothes, and I <i>will</i> marry +you, Bobby. And—and thank you for wanting it so much.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, Sandy. I say! I say——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>offering her cheek</i>). You may kiss me if you +like, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say! . . . Er—er—(<i>he kisses her +gingerly</i>) thanks! . . . Er—I say——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What is it, Bobby?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, you know—(<i>he tries again</i>) I don't +want you to—to feel that—I mean, just because I asked +you twice—I mean I don't want you to feel that—well, I +mean you mustn't do it just for <i>my</i> sake, Sandy. I mean +Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You may call me Sandy.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last +night—afterwards, you know—and I began to see, I began +to see that perhaps you were right. I mean about my not being +romantic and—and all that. I mean, I'm rather an ordinary +sort of chap, and——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>sadly</i>). We are all rather ordinary sort of +chaps.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>eagerly</i>). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, +Sandy. I mean Melisande. You <i>aren't</i> ordinary. I don't say +you'd be throwing yourself away on me, but—but I think you +could find somebody more suitable. (<i>Earnestly</i>). I'm sure you +could. I mean somebody who would remember to call you Melisande, +and who would read poetry with you and—and all that. I mean, +there are lots of fellows——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you <i>want</i> to marry me +now?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>with dignity</i>). I don't want to be married out of +pity.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coldly</i>). I have told you that it isn't out of +pity.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, what <i>is</i> it out of? I mean, after what you +said yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved +me——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to +you?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>taken aback</i>). W-what?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing +me?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (<i>Carelessly</i>) +It <i>is</i> Jane, isn't it?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, look here—— (<i>She doesn't</i>) Of +course, I know you think I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . +well—oh, <i>damn</i>!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh—er——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>realising that he is not quite at his best</i>). +Er—oh—er, righto. (<i>He goes to the door and hesitates +there</i>) Er—(<i>Now if he can only think of something +really good, he may yet carry it off</i>.) Er—(<i>something +really witty</i>)—er—er, righto! (<i>He goes +out—to join</i> JANE, <i>who is waiting for him</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>in a soft gentle voice</i>). Where is your +father, dear? In the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to +speak to him. Just on a little matter of business. . . . Dear +child!</p> +<p>[<i>She goes to the library</i>.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible!</p> +<p>(<i>She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling +herself that she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and +she goes to the open windows, and stands for a moment looking out, +trying to recover herself</i>)</p> +<p>GERVASE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>gently</i>). Princess! (<i>She hears; her hand +closes and tightens; but she says nothing</i>.) Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>With an effort she controls herself, turns round and speaks +coldly</i>)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Please don't call me by that ridiculous name.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Nor by that one.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Miss Knowle.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes? What do you want, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I want to marry you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>taken by surprise</i>). Oh! . . . How dare +you!</p> +<p>GERVASE. But I told you this morning.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I think you had better leave this morning out of +it.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But if I leave this morning out of it, then I have only +just met you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. That is what I would prefer.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh! . . . Then if I have only just met you, perhaps I +oughtn't to have said straight off that I want to marry you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It is unusual.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes. But not unusual to <i>want</i> to marry you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am not interested in your wants.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh! (<i>Gently</i>) I'm sorry that we've got to forget +about this morning. (<i>Going closer to her</i>) Is it so easy to +forget, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Very easy for you, I should think.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But not for you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>bitterly</i>). You dress up and amuse yourself, +and then laugh and go back to your ordinary life again—you +don't want to remember <i>that</i>, do you, every time you do +it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. You let your hair down and flirt with me and laugh and +go home again, but <i>you</i> can't forget. Why should I?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>furiously</i>). How dare you say I flirted with +you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. How dare you say I laughed at you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up +to the wood?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Do you think <i>I</i> knew you would be there when +<i>I</i> went up?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Then why were you there all dressed up like that?</p> +<p>GERVASE. My car broke down and I spent the night in it. I went +up the hill to look for breakfast.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Breakfast! That's all you think about.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>cheerfully</i>). Well, it's always cropping up.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>in disgust</i>). Oh! (<i>She moves away from him +and then turns round holding out her hand</i>) Good-bye, Mr. +Mallory.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking it</i>). Good-bye, Miss Knowle. . . . +(<i>Gently</i>) May I kiss your hands, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>pathetically</i>). Oh, don't! (<i>She hides her +face in them</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Dear hands. . . . May I kiss your lips, Melisande? +(<i>She says nothing. He comes closer to her</i>) Melisande!</p> +<p>(<i>He is about to put his arms round her, but she breaks away +from him</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, don't, don't! What's the good of pretending? It +was only pretence this morning—what's the good of going on +with it? I thought you were so different from other men, but you're +just the same, just the same. You talk about the things they talk +about, you wear the clothes they wear. You were my true knight, my +fairy Prince, this morning, and this afternoon you come down +dressed like that (<i>she waves her hand at it</i>) and tell me +that you are on the Stock Exchange! Oh, can't you see what you've +done? All the beautiful world that I had built up for you and +me—shattered, shattered.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>going to her</i>). Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No, no!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>stopping</i>). All right.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>recovering herself</i>). Please go.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a smile</i>). Well, that's not quite fair, you +know.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What do you mean?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, what about <i>my</i> beautiful world—the +world that <i>I</i> had built up?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't understand.</p> +<p>GERVASE. What about <i>your</i> pretence this morning? I thought +you were so different from other women, but you're just the same, +just the same. You were my true lady, my fairy Princess, this +morning; and this afternoon the Queen, your mother, disabled +herself by indigestion, tells me that you do all the housekeeping +for her just like any ordinary commonplace girl. Your father, the +King, has obviously never had a battle-axe in his hand in his life; +your suitor, Prince Robert of Coote, is much more at home with a +niblick than with a lance; and your cousin, the Lady +Jane——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>sinking on to the sofa and hiding her face</i>). +Oh, cruel, cruel!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>remorsefully</i>). Oh, forgive me, Melisande. It was +horrible of me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No, but it's true. How could any romance come into +this house? Now you know why I wanted you to take me +away—away to the ends of the earth with you.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, that's what I want to do.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Ah, don't! When you're on the Stock Exchange!</p> +<p>GERVASE. But there's plenty of romance on the Stock Exchange. +(<i>Nodding his head</i>) Oh yes, you want to look out for it.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>reproachfully</i>). Now you're laughing at me +again.</p> +<p>GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am +laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can +be happy together, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want +jokes.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>bewildered</i>). Did you expect me to?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No. (<i>After a pause</i>) I think that's why I put 'em +on. (<i>She looks at him in surprise</i>.) You see, we had to come +back to the twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on +pretending for ever. Well, here we are—(<i>indicating his +clothes</i>)—back. But I feel just as romantic, Melisande. I +want beauty—your beauty—just as much. (<i>He goes to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to +you this morning in the wood, or the one +who—(<i>bitterly</i>) does all the housekeeping for her +mother? (<i>Violently</i>) And badly, badly, badly!</p> +<p>GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her +mother—and badly, badly, badly, <i>bless</i> her, because she +has never realised what a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping +is.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>amazed</i>). Romantic!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with enthusiasm</i>). Most gloriously romantic. . . +. Did you ever long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert +island?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>clasping her hands</i>). Oh yes!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You imagined yourself there—alone or with a +companion?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Often!</p> +<p>GERVASE. And what were you doing? What is the romance of the +desert island which draws us all? Climbing the bread-fruit tree, +following the turtle to see where it deposits its eggs, discovering +the spring of water, building the hut—<i>housekeeping</i>, +Melisande. . . . Or take Robinson Crusoe. When Man Friday came +along and left his footprint in the sand, why did Robinson Crusoe +stagger back in amazement? Because he said to himself, like a good +housekeeper, "By Jove, I'm on the track of a servant at last." +There's romance for you!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>smiling and shaking her head at him</i>). What +nonsense you talk!</p> +<p>GERVASE. It isn't nonsense; indeed, indeed it isn't. There's +romance everywhere if you look for it. <i>You</i> look for it in +the old fairy-stories, but did <i>they</i> find it there? Did the +gentleman who had just been given a new pair of seven-league boots +think it romantic to be changed into a fish? He probably thought it +a confounded nuisance, and wondered what on earth to do with his +boots. Did Cinderella and the Prince find the world romantic after +they were married? Think of the endless silent evenings which they +spent together, with nothing in common but an admiration for +Cinderella's feet—do you think <i>they</i> didn't long for +the romantic days of old? And in two thousand or two hundred +thousand years, people will read stories about <i>us</i>, and sigh +and say, "Will those romantic days never come back again?" Ah, they +are here now, Melisande, for <i>us</i>; for the people with +imagination; for you and for me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this +morning. Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. +Look at yourself in the glass—how can you help being a +princess? But if we could be companions, Melisande! That's +difficult; that's worth trying.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>gently</i>). What do you want me to do?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat—see me in a +bowler-hat. Help me with my work; play games with me—I'll +teach you if you don't know how. I want to share the world with you +for all our lives. That's a long time, you know; we can't do it on +one twenty-minutes' practice before breakfast. We can be lovers so +easily—can we be friends?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him gravely</i>). You are very +wise.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've +been thinking over what he said. (<i>Suddenly</i>) But when you +look at me like that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away +with me now, now, now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, +you adorable child, you funny foolish little girl. (<i>Holding up a +finger</i>) Smile, Melisande. Smile! (<i>Slowly, reluctantly, she +gives him a smile</i>.) I suppose the fairies taught you that. Keep +it for <i>me</i>, will you—but give it to me often. Do you +ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together sometimes—that +makes life so easy.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with a happy little laugh</i>). Oh, what can I say +to you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, +Gervase."</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>shyly</i>). I think I should like you for a +companion, Gervase.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase."</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>Jumping up and waving his hand</i>) Say, "Hooray for +things!"</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>standing up, but shyly still</i>). Hooray for +things!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (<i>He presses +her hand and goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes +back, bends on one knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it</i>) +My Princess!</p> +<p>[<i>Then</i> GERVASE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>stays there, looking after him, her hand to her +cheek. . . . But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must +begin. With a little smile at herself, at</i> GERVASE, <i>at +things, she fetches out the Great Book from its hiding-place, where +she had buried it many weeks ago in disgust. Now it comes into its +own. She settles down with it in her favourite chair</i>. . . +.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>reading</i>). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an +onion, peel and quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . .</p> +<p>(<i>But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with +it, curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish +little girl</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_14"><!-- RULE4 14 --></a> +<h2>THE STEPMOTHER</h2> +<center> +<h4>A PLAY IN ONE ACT</h4> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +</center> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P.<br> +<br> +LADY PEMBURY.<br> +<br> +PERKINS.<br> +<br> +THE STRANGER.</font> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<font face="Times">The first performance of this play was given at +the Alhambra Theatre on November 16, 1920, with the following +cast:</font><br> +<br> +<font face="Times">Sir John Pembury—GILBERT HARE.<br> +Lady Pembury—WINIFRED EMERY.<br> +Perkins—C.M. LOWNE.<br> +The Stranger—GERALD DU MAURIER.</font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>THE STEPMOTHER</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest +room in the London house of</i> SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. <i>For this +reason</i> LADY PEMBURY <i>uses it a good deal, although it is not +officially hers. It is plainly furnished, and probably set out to +be a sort of waiting-room for</i> SIR JOHN'S <i>many callers, +but</i> LADY PEMBURY <i>has left her mark upon it</i>.</p> +<p>PERKINS, <i>the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past +his prime, leads the may in, followed by</i> THE STRANGER, PERKINS +<i>has already placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the +intelligent person in the pit perceives that he is something better +than that, though whether he is in the process of falling from a +higher estate, or of rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty +odd, shabbily dressed (but then, so are most of us nowadays), and +ill at ease; not because he is shabby, but because he is ashamed of +himself. To make up for this, he adopts a blustering manner, as if +to persuade himself that he is a fine fellow after all. There is a +touch of commonness about his voice, but he is not +uneducated</i>.</p> +<p>PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll +see you, mind.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right +enough.</p> +<p>PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well—— (<i>He looks +at</i> THE STRANGER <i>doubtfully</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>bitterly</i>). I suppose you think I've got no +business in a gentleman's house. Is that it?</p> +<p>PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a +constituent? Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty +queer ones at times. All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps +you're a deputation?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). What the hell's it got to do with +you who I am. You go and tell your master I'm here—that's all +you've got to do. See?</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>unruffled</i>). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even +told me your name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. +Bottomley?</p> +<p>STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, +"Somebody from Lambeth"—<i>he'll</i> know what I mean.</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>humorously</i>). Ah, I beg your pardon—the +Archbishop of Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>angrily</i>). It's people like you who make one +sick of the world. Parasites—servile flunkeys, bolstering up +an effete aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to +do?</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>good-naturedly</i>). Now, look here, young man, this +isn't the time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you +want to get off your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever +it may be, keep it till Sunday afternoon—when I'm off duty. +(<i>He comes a little closer to</i> THE STRANGER) Four o'clock +Sunday afternoon—(<i>jerking his thumb over his +shoulder</i>)—just round the corner—in the Bolton Mews. +See? Nobody there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and +secluded, and a friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (<i>He edges +closer as he talks</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>retreating nervously</i>). No offence meant, mate. +We're in the same boat—you and me; we don't want to get +fighting. My quarrel isn't with you. You go and tell Sir John that +there's a gentleman come to see him—wants a few minutes of +his valuable time—from Lambeth way. <i>He'll</i> know. That's +all right.</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>drawing back, disappointedly</i>). Then I shan't be +seeing you Sunday afternoon?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>laughing awkwardly</i>). There, that's all right. +No offence meant. Somebody from Lambeth—that's what +<i>you've</i> got to say. And tell 'im I'm in a hurry. <i>He'll</i> +know what I mean.</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>going slowly to the door</i>). Well, it's a queer +game, but being in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be +surprised. All sorts, as you might say, <i>all</i> sorts.</p> +<p>[<i>Exit</i> PERKINS.</p> +<p>(THE STRANGER, <i>left alone, walks up and down the room, +nervously impatient</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY <i>comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married +life, she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has +never had a son</i>—<i>her only sorrow. Her motto might be, +"It is just as easy to be kind"; and whether you go to her for +comfort or congratulation, you will come away feeling that she is +the only person who really understands</i>.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh! (<i>She stops and then comes towards</i> THE +STRANGER) How do you do? Are you waiting to see my husband?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>taken aback at seeing her</i>). Yes.</p> +<p>(<i>He is not sure for the moment if this upsets his plans or +forwards them</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. I think he's engaged just now. But he won't be +long. Perkins will tell him as soon as he is free.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>contemptuously</i>). His name is Perkins, is +it?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>surprised</i>). The butler? Yes.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>contemptuously</i>). Mister Perkins, the +Butler.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>with a friendly smile</i>). You don't +<i>mind</i> our having a butler? (<i>She picks up some work from +the table and takes it to the sofa</i>)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>shrugging his shoulders</i>). One more +parasite.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>interested</i>). I always thought parasites +were much smaller than Perkins. (<i>Sitting down</i>) Do sit down, +won't you? (<i>He sits down reluctantly</i>.) You mustn't mind my +being here. This is really my work-room. I expect my husband will +take you into his own room when he's ready.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Your work-room?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>looking up at him with a smile</i>). You don't +seem to like our domestic arrangements.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>waving his hand at her embroidery</i>). You call +that work?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>pleasantly</i>). Other people's work always +seems so contemptible, doesn't it? Now I expect if you tried to do +this, you would find it very difficult indeed, and if I tried to do +yours—what <i>is</i> your work, Mr.—er—Dear me, I +don't even know your name.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>bitterly</i>). Never mind my name. Take it that I +haven't got a name.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. But your friends must call you something.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Take it that I haven't got any friends.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, <i>don't</i> say that! How <i>can</i> you?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>surly</i>). What's it matter to you whether anybody +cares about me?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, never mind whether anybody cares about +<i>you</i>; don't <i>you</i> care about anybody?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Nobody.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Poor, poor man! (<i>Going on with her work</i>) If +you can't tell me your name, I wish you would tell me what work you +do. (<i>Winningly</i>) You don't mind my asking, do you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. I can tell you what work I'm going to do after +to-day.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, do!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). None!</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>surprised</i>). None?</p> +<p>STRANGER. No more work after to-day.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Won't that be rather dull?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, <i>you</i> ought to know. I'm going to be one of +the idle rich—like you and Sir John—and let other +people work for me.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>thoughtfully</i>). I shouldn't have said my +husband was idle. But there it is. No two people ever agree as to +what is work and what isn't.</p> +<p>STRANGER. What do you know about work—you aristocrats?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>mildly</i>). My husband is only a K.B.E., you +know. Quite a recent creation.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>not heeding her</i>). You, who've been brought up +in the lap of luxury—never known a day's discomfort in your +life——</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. My dear young man, you really mustn't tell a woman +who has had five children that she has never known a day's +discomfort in her life. . . . Ask any woman.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>upset</i>). What's that? . . . I didn't come here +to argue with you. You began it. Why can't you let me alone?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>going to a side-table and taking up a +photograph</i>). Five children—all girls—and now I'm a +grandmother. (<i>Showing him the photograph</i>) There! That's my +eldest daughter with her eldest son and my eldest grandchild. Isn't +he a duck? He's supposed to be like me. . . . I never had a son of +my own. (THE STRANGER <i>has taken the photograph in his hand and +is holding it awkwardly</i>.) Oh, let me take it away from you. +Other's people's relations are so uninteresting, aren't they? +(<i>She takes it away and puts it back in its place. Then she +returns to her seat and goes on with her work</i>.) So you've made +a lot of money? How exciting for you!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>grimly</i>). I haven't got it yet, but it's +coming.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Soon?</p> +<p>STRANGER. To-day.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. You're not married, are you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. You want to know a lot, don't you? Well, I'm not +married.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. I was thinking how much nicer it is when you can +share that sort of news with somebody else, somebody you love. It +makes good news so much better, and bad news so much more +bearable.</p> +<p>STRANGER. That's what you and your husband do, is it?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>nodding</i>). Always. For eight-and-twenty +years.</p> +<p>STRANGER. He tells you everything, eh?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Well, not his official secrets, of course. +Everything else.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Ha! I wonder.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. But you have nobody, you say. Well, you must share +your good news with <i>me</i>. Will you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Oh yes, you shall hear about it all right.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. That's nice of you. Well then, first question. How +much money is it going to be?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>thoughtfully</i>). Well, I don't quite know yet. +What do you say to a thousand a year?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, but what a lot!</p> +<p>STRANGER. You think a thousand a year would be all right. Enough +to live on?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. For a bachelor, ample.</p> +<p>STRANGER. For a bachelor.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. There's no one dependent on you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Not a soul. Only got one relation living.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>enjoying a joke of his own</i>). A father. But I +shall not be supporting <i>him</i>. Oh no. Far from it.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>a little puzzled by this, though the is not +going to show it</i>) Then I think you will be very rich with a +thousand a year.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Yes, that's what <i>I</i> thought. I should think it +would stand a thousand.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. What is it? An invention of some sort?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Oh no, not an invention. . . . A discovery.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. How proud she would have been!</p> +<p>STRANGER. Who?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Your wife if you had had one; your mother if she +had been alive.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). Look here, you leave my mother out +of it. My business is with Sir John—— +(<i>sneeringly</i>) Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. If I want to talk +about my mother, he and I will have a nice little talk together +about her. Yes, and about my father, too.</p> +<p>(LADY PEMBURY <i>understands at last. She stands up slowly, and +looks at him, horrified</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. What do you mean?</p> +<p>STRANGER. A thousand a year. You said so yourself. Yes, I think +it's worth a thousand a year.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? +(<i>Bitterly</i>) And if you want to know why, ask Sir John +Pembury, K.B.E.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>in a whisper</i>). He's your father.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son—come to see him at +last, after all these years.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>hardly able to ask it</i>). How—how old +are you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Thirty.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>sitting down on the sofa</i>). Oh, thank God! +Thank God!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>upset by her emotion</i>). Look here, I didn't want +all this. I ask you—did I begin it? It was you who kept +asking questions. I just came for a quiet talk with Sir +John—Father and Son talking together quietly—talking +about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did you want to come +into it for?</p> +<p>(LADY PEMBURY <i>is quiet again now. She wipes away a tear or +two, and sits up, looking at him thoughtfully</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. So <i>you</i> are the son that I never had.</p> +<p>STRANGER. What d'you mean?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>almost to herself</i>). The son whom I wanted +so. Five girls—never a boy. Let me look at you. (<i>She goes +up to him</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>edging away</i>). Here, none of that.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>looking at him earnestly to see if she can see +a likeness</i>). No—and yet—(<i>shaking her head +sadly</i>) Poor boy! What an unhappy life you must have had!</p> +<p>STRANGER. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to get my +rightful allowance—same as any other son.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>to herself</i>). Poor boy! (<i>She goes back to +her seat and then says</i>) You don't mind my asking you questions +<i>now</i>, do you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Go on. There's no mistake about it. I can promise you +that.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. How did you find out? Did your Mother tell +you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Never a word. "Don't ask questions, +sonny——" "Father's dead"—all that sort of +thing.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Does Sir John know? Did he ever know?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>feeling in his pocket</i>). <i>He</i> knew right +enough. (<i>Bringing out letters</i>) Look here—here you are. +This was how I found out. (<i>Selecting one</i>) There—read +that one.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>taking it</i>). Yes—that's John's +writing. (<i>She holds it out to him</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER. Aren't you going to read it?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>shaking her head pathetically</i>). He didn't +write it to <i>me</i>.</p> +<p>STRANGER. He didn't write it to <i>me</i>, if it comes to +that.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. You're her son—you have a right. +I'm—nobody.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>putting it back in his pocket</i>). Oh well, please +yourself.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Did Sir John provide for your mother?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, why shouldn't he? He was a rich man.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Not in those days. . . . But indeed—why +shouldn't he? What else could he do? I'm glad he did.</p> +<p>STRANGER. And now he's going to provide for his loving son. He's +rich enough for that in these days.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. He's never seen you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Never. The historic meeting of Father and Son will +take place this afternoon. (<i>With a feeble attempt at what he +thinks is the aristocratic manner</i>) Afraid the Governor will be +in the deuce of a rage. Been exceedin' my allowance—what? +Make it a thousand, dear old Gov.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Don't they call that blackmail?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). Now look here, I'd better tell you +straight that there's no blackmail about this at all. He's my +father, isn't he? Well, can't a son come to his father if he's hard +up? Where are your threatening letters? Where's the blackmail? +Anyway, what's he going to do about it? Put his son in prison?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>following her own thoughts</i>). You're thirty. +Thank God for that. We hadn't met then. . . . Ah, but he ought to +have told me. He ought to have told me.</p> +<p>STRANGER. P'raps he thought you wouldn't marry him, if he +did.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Do you think that was it? (<i>Earnestly to him, as +if he were an old friend</i>) You know men—young men. I never +had a son; I never had any brothers. Do they tell? They ought to, +oughtn't they?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well—well, if you ask <i>me</i>—I say, +look here, this isn't the sort of thing one discusses with a +lady.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Isn't it? But one can talk to a friend.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>scornfully</i>). You and me look like friends, +don't we?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>smiling</i>). Well, we do, rather.</p> +<p>(<i>He gets up hastily and moves further away from her</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER. I know what <i>your</i> game is. Don't think I don't +see it.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. What is it?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Falling on your knees, and saying with tears in your +eyes: "Oh, kind friend, spare me poor husband!" <i>I</i> know the +sort of thing. And trying to work me up friendly before you +begin.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>shaking her head</i>). No, if I went on my +knees to you, I shouldn't say that. How can you hurt my husband +now?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, I don't suppose the scandal will do him much +good. Not an important Member of Parliament like <i>him</i>.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Ah, but it isn't the outside things that really +hurt you, the things which are done to you, but the things which +you do to yourself. And so if I went on my knees to you, it would +not be for my husband's sake. For I should go on my knees, and I +should say: "Oh, my son that might have been, think before you give +up everything that a man should have. Ambition, hope, pride, +self-respect—are not these worth keeping? Is your life to end +now? Have you done all that you came into the world to do, so that +now you can look back and say, 'It is finished; I have given all +that I had to give; henceforward I will spend'?" (<i>Very +gently</i>) Oh, my son that might have been!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>very uncomfortable</i>). Here, I say, that isn't +fair.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>gently</i>). When did your mother die?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Look here, I wish you wouldn't keep on about +mothers.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. When did she die, proud mother?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>sulkily</i>). Well, why shouldn't she be proud? +(<i>After a pause</i>) Two years ago, if you want to know.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. It was then that you found out who your father +was?</p> +<p>STRANGER. That's right. I found these old letters. She'd kept +them locked up all those years. Bit of luck for me.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>almost to herself</i>). And that was two years +ago. And for two years you had your hopes, your ambitions, for two +years you were proud and independent. . . . Why did you not come to +us then?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>with a touch of vanity</i>). Well, I was getting on +all right, you know—and——</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. And then suddenly, after two years, you lost +hope.</p> +<p>STRANGER. I lost my job.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Poor boy! And couldn't get another.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>bitterly</i>). It's a beast of a world if you're +down. He's in the gutter—kick him down—trample on him. +Nobody wants him. That's the way to treat them when they're down. +Trample on 'em.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. And so you came to your father to help you up +again. To help you out of the gutter.</p> +<p>STRANGER. That's right.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>pleadingly</i>). Ah, but give him a chance!</p> +<p>STRANGER. Now, look here, I've told you already that I'm not +going to have any of <i>that</i> game.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>shaking her head sadly</i>). Foolish boy! You +don't understand. Give him a chance to help you out of the +gutter.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, I'm——! Isn't that what I am +doing?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. No, no. You're asking him to trample you right +down into it, deeper and deeper into the mud and slime. I want you +to let him help you back to where you were two years ago—when +you were proud and hopeful.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>looking at her in a puzzled way</i>). I can't make +out what your game is. It's no good pretending you don't hate the +sight of me—it stands to reason you must.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>smiling</i>). But then women <i>are</i> +unreasonable, aren't they? And I think it is only in fairy-stories +that stepmothers are always so unkind.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>surprised</i>). Stepmother!</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Well, that's practically what I am, isn't it? +(<i>Whimsically</i>) I've never been a stepmother before. +(<i>Persuasively</i>) Couldn't you let me be proud of my +stepson?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, you <i>are</i> a one! . . . Do you mean to say +that you and your husband aren't going to have a row about +this?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. It's rather late to begin a row, isn't it, thirty +years after it's happened? . . . Besides, perhaps you aren't going +to tell him anything about it.</p> +<p>STRANGER. But what else have I come for except to tell him?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. To tell <i>me</i>. . . . I asked you to give him a +chance of helping you out of your troubles, but I'd rather you gave +<i>me</i> the chance. . . . You see, John would be very unhappy if +he knew that I knew this; and he would have to tell me, because +when a man has been happily married to anybody for twenty-eight +years, he can't really keep a secret from the other one. He +pretends to himself that he can, but he knows all the time what a +miserable pretence it is. And so John would tell me, and say he was +sorry, and I would say: "It's all right, darling, I knew," but it +would make him ashamed, and he would be afraid that perhaps I +wasn't thinking him such a wonderful man as I did before. And it's +very bad for a public man like John when he begins to lose faith in +what his wife is thinking about him. . . . So let <i>me</i> be your +friend, will you? (<i>There is a silence between them for a little. +He looks at her wonderingly. Suddenly she stands up, her finger to +her lips</i>) H'sh! It's John. (<i>She moves away from him</i>)</p> +<p>SIR JOHN PEMBURY <i>comes in quickly; big, good-looking, +decisive, friendly; a man who wears very naturally, and without any +self-consciousness, an air of being somebody</i>.</p> +<p>PEMBURY (<i>walking hastily past his wife to her +writing-desk</i>). Hallo, darling! Did I leave a cheque-book in +here? I was writing a cheque for you this morning. Ah, here we are. +(<i>As he comes back, he sees</i> THE STRANGER) I beg your pardon, +Kate. I didn't see—— (<i>He is making for the door with +the cheque-book in his hand, and then stops and says with a +pleasant smile to</i> THE STRANGER) But, perhaps you are waiting to +see <i>me</i>? Perkins said something——</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>coming forward</i>). Yes, I came to see you, Sir +John.</p> +<p>(<i>He stands close in front of</i> SIR JOHN, <i>looking at +him</i>. LADY PEMBURY <i>watches them steadfastly</i>.)</p> +<p>PEMBURY (<i>tapping his cheque-book against his hand</i>). +Important?</p> +<p>STRANGER. I came to ask your help.</p> +<p>PEMBURY (<i>looking at his cheque-book and then back with a +smile at</i> THE STRANGER). A good many people do that. Have you +any special claim on me?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>after a long pause</i>). No.</p> +<p>(PEMBURY <i>looks at him, undecided</i>, LADY PEMBURY <i>comes +forward</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. All right, dear. (<i>Meaning that she will look +after</i> THE STRANGER <i>till he comes back</i>.)</p> +<p>PEMBURY. I'll be back in a moment. (<i>He nods and hurries +out</i>)</p> +<p>(<i>There is silence for a little, and then</i> LADY PEMBURY +<i>claps her hands gently</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>with shining eyes</i>). Oh, brave, brave! Ah, +but I am a proud stepmother to-day. (<i>She holds out her hand to +him</i>) Thank you, son.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>not seeing it, and speaking in a hard voice</i>). +I'd better go.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Mayn't I help you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. I'd better go.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>distressed</i>). You can't go like this. I +don't even know your name, nor where you live.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Don't be afraid—you shan't hear from <i>me</i> +again.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>gently</i>). Not even when you've got back to +where you were two years ago? Mayn't I then?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>looking at her, and then nodding slowly</i>). Yes, +you shall then.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Thank you. I shall wait. I shall hope. I shall +pray. (<i>She holds out her hand again</i>) Good-bye!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>shaking his head</i>). Wait till you hear from me. +(<i>He goes to the door, and then stops and comes slowly back. He +says awkwardly</i>) Wish you'd do one thing for me?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Yes?</p> +<p>STRANGER. That fellow—what did you say his name +was—Perkins?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>surprised</i>). The butler? +Perkins—yes?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Would you give him a message from me?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Of course.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>still awkwardly</i>). Just to say—I'll +<i>be</i> there—at the Mews—on Sunday afternoon. +<i>He'll</i> know. Tell him I'll be there. (<i>He squares his +shoulders and walks out defiantly—ready to take the world on +again—beginning with</i> PERKINS <i>on Sunday +afternoon</i>)</p> +<p>(LADY PEMBURY <i>stands watching him as he goes. She waits after +he has gone, thinking her own thoughts, out of which she comes with +something of a shock as the door opens and</i></p> +<p>SIR JOHN <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>PEMBURY. Hallo! Has he gone?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Yes.</p> +<p>PEMBURY. What did he want? Five pounds—or a place in the +Cabinet?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. He came for—a subscription.</p> +<p>PEMBURY. And got it, if I know my Kate. (<i>Carelessly</i>) What +did he take from you?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>with a wistful little sigh</i>). Yes; he took +something from me. Not very much, I think. But +just—something. (<i>She takes his arm, leads him to the sofa, +and says affectionately</i>) And now tell me all that you've been +doing this morning.</p> +<p>(<i>So he begins to tell her—just as he has told her a +thousand times before. . . . But it isn't quite the same</i>)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4><b><i>Printed in Great Britain by</i> R. & R. CLARK, +LIMITED, <i>Edinburgh</i>.</b></h4> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14734 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..afcbc92 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14734 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14734) diff --git a/old/14734-8.txt b/old/14734-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dcc77fc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14734-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11632 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Plays, by A. A. Milne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Second Plays + +Author: A. A. Milne + +Release Date: January 19, 2005 [EBook #14734] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Rick Niles, John Hagerson, Karen Cotton and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +FIRST PLAYS +THE DAY'S PLAY +THE HOLIDAY ROUND +ONCE A WEEK +ONCE ON A TIME +NOT THAT IT MATTERS +IF I MAY +MR. PIM +THE SUNNY SIDE + + + + + +SECOND PLAYS + +by A.A. MILNE + + + + + + +New York +ALFRED A. KNOPF + + +Printed in Great Britain by +R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh. + + + + +To + +D.M. + +SO LITTLE IN RETURN FOR SO MUCH + + + + +CONTENTS + +MAKE-BELIEVE +MR. PIM PASSES BY +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE +THE ROMANTIC AGE +THE STEPMOTHER + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Encouraged by the reviewer who announced that the Introduction to my +previous collection of plays was the best part of the book, I venture +to introduce this collection in a similar manner. But I shall be +careful not to overdo it this time, in the hope that I may win from my +critic some such tribute as, "Mr. Milne has certainly improved as a +dramatist, in that his plays are now slightly better than his +Introduction." + +Since, then, I am trying to make this preface as distasteful as +possible, in order that the plays may shine out the more pleasantly, I +shall begin (how better?) with an attack on the dramatic critics. I +will relate a little conversation which took place, shortly after the +publication of "First Plays," between myself and a very much more +eminent dramatist. + +EMINENT DRAMATIST (kindly) Your book seems to have been well reviewed. + +MYSELF (ungratefully). Not bad--by those who reviewed it. But I doubt +if it was noticed by more than three regular dramatic critics. And +considering that two of the plays in it had never been produced-- + +EMINENT DRAMATIST (amused by my innocence). My dear fellow, _you_ +needn't complain. I published an unproduced play a little while ago, +and it didn't get a single notice from anybody. + +Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays which +follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be disturbed by +this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in the theatre are +accustomed to read, and sometimes to make, ridiculous accusations +against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn the mercenary fellow +because he will not risk a loss of two or three thousand pounds on the +intellectual masterpiece of a promising young dramatist, preferring to +put on some contemptible but popular rubbish which is certain to fill +his theatre. But now we see that the dramatic critic, that stern +upholder of the best interests of the British Drama, will not himself +risk six shillings (and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in +order to read the intellectual masterpiece of the promising young +dramatist, and so to be able to tell us with authority whether the +Manager really _is_ refusing masterpieces or no. He will not +risk six shillings in order to encourage that promising young +dramatist--discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his hopes of +fame and fortune--by telling him that he _is_ right, and that his +plays are worth something, or (alternatively) to prevent him from +wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form to which he is not +suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but he will write an +important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) article, informing us that +the British Drama is going to the dogs, and that no promising young +dramatist is ever given a fair chance. + +Absurd, isn't it? + +Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask ourselves +why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three reasons--in +their order of importance. + +(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of not +writing. He gets this anyhow. + +(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the +criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank, +_réclame_--call it what you will. But it is obvious that he cannot +have it unless the masterpiece is given to the world, either by +manager or publisher. + +(3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if +produced, possibly a great deal. + +As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest with +ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a desert +island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps all of us; +for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves, our +manuscripts--written on bark with a burnt stick--clutched in a +skeleton hand--might be recovered later by some literary sea-captain. +(As it might be, Conrad.) But how many of us would write masterpieces +if we had to burn them immediately afterwards, or if we were alone +upon the world, the last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to +write? Could we bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we +can admit this much without reserve; it is the second reward which +tears at us, and, lacking it, we should lose courage. + +So when the promising young dramatist has his play refused by the +Managers--after what weeks, months, years of hope and fear, +uncertainty and bitter disappointment--he has this great consolation: +"Anyway, I can always publish it." Perhaps, after a dozen refusals, a +Manager offers to put on his play, on condition that he alters the +obviously right (and unhappy) ending into the obviously foolish, but +happy, ending which will charm the public. Does he, the artist, +succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must get his play before the +public somehow, and that, even if it is not _his_ play now, yet the +first two acts are as he wrote them, and that, if only to feel the +thrill of the audience at that great scene between the Burglar and the +Bishop (his creations!) he must deaden his conscience to the absurdity +of a happy ending. But does he succumb? No. Heroically he tells +himself: "Anyway, I can publish it; and I'm certain that the critics +will agree with me that----" But the critics are too busy to bother +about him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is +going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets a +fair chance. + +Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt if any +dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the critics, the +managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever right I have I +renounce, in return for the good things which I have received from +them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our craft. I say that, in +the case of all dramatists, it is the business of the dramatic critics +to review their unacted plays when published. Some of them do; most of +them do not. It is ridiculous for those who do not to pretend that +they take any real interest in the British Drama. But I say "review," +not "praise." Let them damn, by all means, if the plays are unworthy; +and, by damning, do so much of justice to the Managers who refused +them. + +We can now pass on safely to the plays in this volume. + +We begin with a children's play. The difficulty in the way of writing +a children's play is that Barrie was born too soon. Many people must +have felt the same about Shakespeare. We who came later have no +chance. What fun to have been Adam, and to have had the whole world of +plots and jokes and stories at one's disposal. Possibly, however, one +would never have thought of the things. Of course, there are still +others to come after us, but our works are not immortal, and they will +plagiarise us without protest. Yet I have hopes of _Make-Believe_, for +it had the honour of inaugurating Mr. Nigel Playfair's management at +the Lyric, Hammersmith. It is possible that the historians will +remember this, long after they have forgotten my plays; more likely +(alas!) that their history will be dated A.D. (After Drinkwater) and +that the honour will be given to "Abraham Lincoln." I like to think +that in this event my ghost will haunt them. _Make-Believe_ appeared +with a Prologue by the Manager, lyrics by C.E. Burton, and music by +Georges Dorlay. As the title-page states that this book is, in the +language of children's competitions, "my own unaided work," I print +the play with a new Prologue, and without the charming lyrics. But the +reader is told when he may burst into an improvisation of his own, +though I warn him that he will not make such a good show of it as did +my collaborators. + +_Mr. Pim Passes By_ appeared at several theatres. Let us admit +cheerfully that it was a success--in spite of the warning of an +important gentleman in the theatrical world, who told me, while I was +writing it, that the public wouldn't stand any talk of bigamy, and +suggested that George and Olivia should be engaged only, not married. +(Hence the line, "Bigamy! . . . It _is_ an ugly word," in the Second +Act.) But, of course, nobody sees more clearly than I how largely its +success was due to Mr. Dion Boucicault and Miss Irene Vanbrugh. + +_The Romantic Age_ appeared first at the Comedy, and (like _Mr. Pim_) +found, in its need, a home at The Playhouse. Miss Gladys Cooper has a +charming way of withdrawing into a nursing home whenever I want a +theatre, but I beg her not to make a habit of it. My plays can be +spared so much more easily than she. By the way, a word about +Melisande. Many of the critics said that nobody behaved like that +nowadays. I am terrified at the thought of arguing with them, for they +can always reduce me to blushes with a scornful, "My dear man, you +_can't_ do that in a _play_!" And when they tell me to remember what +Strindberg said in '93 (if he were alive then; I really don't know) or +what Aristotle wrote in--no, I shan't even guess at Aristotle, well, +then, I want to burst into tears, my ignorance is so profound. So, +very humbly, I just say now that, when Melisande talks and behaves in +a certain way, I do not mean that a particular girl exists (Miss +Jones, of 999 Bedford Park) who talks and behaves like this, but I do +mean that there is a type of girl who, in her heart, secretly, +_thinks_ like this. If, from your great knowledge of the most secret +places of a young girl's heart, you tell me that there is no such +type, then I shall only smile. But if you inform me sternly that a +dramatist has no business to express an attitude in terms of an +actress, then you reduce me to blushes again. For I really know +nothing about play-writing, and I am only sustained by two beliefs. +The first is that rules are always made for the other people; the +second is that, if a play by me is not obviously by me, and as +obviously not by anybody else, then (obviously) I had no business to +write it. + +Of the one-act plays, _The Camberley Triangle_ and _The Stepmother_, +nothing much need be said. The former was played at the Coliseum; the +latter, written for Miss Winifred Emery, was deemed by the management +too serious for that place of amusement. This, however, was to the +great advantage of the play, for now it has appeared only at Charity +_matinées_ with an "all-star" cast. + +As before, the plays are printed in the order in which they were +written; in this case between October 1918 and June 1920. May the +reader get as much enjoyment from them as I had in their writing. But +no; that is plainly impossible. + +A.A. MILNE. + + + + +MAKE-BELIEVE + +A CHILDREN'S PLAY IN A PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS + + +_Make-Believe_ was first produced at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, +on December 24, 1918. The chief parts were played by Marjory Holman, +Jean Cadell, Rosa Lynd, Betty Chester, Roy Lennol, John Barclay, +Kinsey Peile, Stanley Drewitt, Ivan Berlyn, and Herbert +Marshall--several parts each. + + + + +MAKE-BELIEVE + +PROLOGUE + + +The playroom of the HUBBARD FAMILY--nine of them. Counting MR. and +MRS. HUBBARD, we realize that there are eleven HUBBARDS in all, and +you would think that one at least of the two people we see in the room +would be a HUBBARD of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is JAMES, +the HUBBARDS' butler, for the HUBBARDS are able to afford a butler +now. How different from the time when Old Mother Hubbard--called "old" +because she was at least twenty-two, and "mother" because she had a +passion for children--could not even find a bone for her faithful +terrier; but, of course, that was before HENRY went into work. Well, +the tall figure is JAMES, the butler, and the little one is ROSEMARY, +a friend of the HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY is going in for literature +this afternoon, as it's raining, and JAMES is making her quite +comfortable first with pens and ink and blotting-paper--always so +important when one wants to write. He has even thought of a stick of +violet sealing-wax; after that there can be no excuse. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (She sits down.) If any one calls I am not +at home. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my +auto--autobiography. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James? + +JAMES. I believe so, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you. (He goes to the door.) Oh, James? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss? + +ROSEMARY. What _is_ an autobiography? + +JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss--not to explain it properly. + +ROSEMARY (dismayed). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew everything. + +JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and then---- + +ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead? Very +easy work, they tell me. + +ROSEMARY (nodding). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a play. Thank +you, James. + +JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out. + +(ROSEMARY bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the inspiration +comes.) + +ROSEMARY (as she writes). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen B-e-l---- (she +stops and frowns) Now which way _is_ it? (She tries it on the +blotting-paper) _That_ looks wrong. (She tries it again) So does that. +Oh, dear! (She rings the bell . . . JAMES returns.) + +JAMES. Yes, Miss? + +ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play Make-Believe. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (carelessly). When you spell "believe," it is "i-e," isn't +it? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i." + +JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (reproachfully). Oh, James! Aren't you certain? + +JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l---- (He stops and scratches his whiskers.) + +ROSEMARY. Yes. _I_ got as far as that. + +JAMES. B-e-l---- + +ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an accident +to the very first word of it. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l----I've noticed sometimes that if one writes a +word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then looks at it with +the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct comes over one, as +makes one say (with a shake of the head) "Rotten." One can then write +it the other way more hopeful. + +ROSEMARY. I've tried that. + +JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name +altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy words +to spell, or "Red Revenge," or---- + +ROSEMARY. I _must_ call it Make-Believe, because it's all of the play +I've thought of so far. + +JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on +purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes. + +ROSEMARY. Does it? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh. + +ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which _is_ the wrong way? + +JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (inspired). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it "i-e"; and if +it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then I'm funny. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. + +JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out. + +ROSEMARY (writing). Make-Believe. A Christmas Entertainment---- (She +stops and thinks, and then shakes her head.) No, play--a Christmas +Play in three acts. Er---- (She is stuck.) + +_Enter JAMES_. + +JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are +without, and crave admittance. + +ROSEMARY. All nine of them? + +JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the +majority of them were present. + +ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and you +being a visitor, if you _had_ been at home, then you wouldn't have +been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting when you're writing a play. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more the +merrier, as you might say. + +ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. (He opens the door and says very rapidly) The Misses +Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and Isabel Hubbard, The Masters +Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold Hubbard. (They come in.) + +ROSEMARY. How do you do? + +ADA. Rosemary, darling, what _are_ you doing? + +BERTRAM. It's like your cheek, bagging our room. + +CAROLINE (primly). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be polite to our +visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if Rosemary wants our +room---- + +DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! + +ADA (at ROSEMARY'S shoulder). Oh, I say, she's writing a play! + +(Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at ROSEMARY.) + +{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What's +{ it about? Bet it's awful rot. +{ +{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am _I_ in it? Do tell us +{ about it. Is it for Christmas? + +ROSEMARY (in alarm). James, could you----? + +JAMES (firmly). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis, down! Miss +Gwendoline, if you wouldn't mind---- (He picks her up and places her +on the floor.) Thank you. (Order is restored.) + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. . . . Yes, it's a play for Christmas, and it +is called "Make-Believe," and that's all I'm certain about yet, except +that we're all going to be in it. + +BERTRAM. Then I vote we have a desert island---- + +DENNIS. And pirates---- + +FRANK. And cannibals---- + +HAROLD (gloatingly). Cannibals eating people--Oo! + +CAROLINE (shocked). Harold! How would _you_ like to be eaten by a +cannibal? + +DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! How would _you_ like to be a cannibal and have +nobody to eat? (CAROLINE is silent, never having thought of this +before.) + +ADA. Let it be a fairy-story, Rosemary, darling. It's so much +_prettier_. + +ELSIE. With a lovely princess---- + +GWENDOLINE. And a humble woodcutter who marries her---- + +ISABEL (her only contribution). P'itty P'incess. + +BERTRAM. Princesses are rot. + +ELSIE (with spirit). So are pirates! (Deadlock.) + +CAROLINE. _I_ should like something about Father Christmas, and snow, +and waits, and a lovely ball, and everybody getting nice presents and +things. + +DENNIS (selfishly, I'm afraid). Bags I all the presents. + +(Of course, the others aren't going to have that. They all say so +together.) + +ROSEMARY (above the turmoil). James, I _must_ have silence. + +JAMES. Silence, all! + +ROSEMARY. Thank you. . . . You will be interested to hear that I have +decided to have a Fairy Story _and_ a Desert Island _and_ a Father +Christmas. + +ALL. Good! (Or words to that effect) + +ROSEMARY (biting her pen). I shall begin with the Fairy Story. (There +is an anxious silence. None of them has ever seen anybody writing a +play before. How does one do it? Alas, ROSEMARY herself doesn't know. +She appeals to JAMES.) James, how _do_ you begin a play? I mean when +you've _got_ the title. + +JAMES (a man of genius). Well, Miss Rosemary, seeing that it's to be +called "Make-Believe," why not make-believe as it's written already? + +ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James! + +JAMES. All that is necessary is for the company to think very hard of +what they want, and--there we are! Saves all the bother of writing and +spelling and what not. + +ROSEMARY (admiringly.) James, how clever you are! + +JAMES. So-so, Miss Rosemary. + +ROSEMARY. Now then, let's all think together. Are you all ready? + +ALL. Yes! (They clench their hands.) + +ROSEMARY. Then one, two, three--Go! + +(They think. . . . The truth is that JAMES, who wasn't really meant to be +in it, thinks too. If there is anything in the play which you don't +like, it is JAMES thinking.) + + + + +ACT I.--THE PRINCESS AND THE WOODCUTTER + + +(The WOODCUTTER is discovered singing at his work, in a glade of the +forest outside his hut. He is tall and strong, and brave and handsome; +all that a woodcutter ought to be. Now it happened that the PRINCESS +was passing, and as soon as his song is finished, sure enough, on she +comes.) + +PRINCESS. Good morning, Woodcutter. + +WOODCUTTER. Good morning. (But he goes on with his work.) + +PRINCESS (after a pause). Good morning, Woodcutter. + +WOODCUTTER. Good morning. + +PRINCESS. Don't you ever say anything except good morning? + +WOODCUTTER. Sometimes I say good-bye. + +PRINCESS. You _are_ a cross woodcutter to-day. + +WOODCUTTER. I have work to do. + +PRINCESS. You are still cutting wood? Don't you ever do anything else? + +WOODCUTTER. Well, you are still a Princess; don't _you_ ever do +anything else? + +PRINCESS (reproachfully). Now, that's not fair, Woodcutter. You can't +say I was a Princess yesterday, when I came and helped you stack your +wood. Or the day before, when I tied up your hand where you had cut +it. Or the day before that, when we had our meal together on the +grass. Was I a Princess then? + +WOODCUTTER. Somehow I think you were. Somehow I think you were saying +to yourself, "Isn't it sweet of a Princess to treat a mere woodcutter +like this?" + +PRINCESS. I think you're perfectly horrid. I've a good mind never to +speak to you again. And--and I would, if only I could be sure that you +would notice I wasn't speaking to you. + +WOODCUTTER. After all, I'm just as bad as you. Only yesterday I was +thinking to myself how unselfish I was to interrupt my work in order +to talk to a mere Princess. + +PRINCESS. Yes, but the trouble is that you _don't_ interrupt your +work. + +WOODCUTTER (interrupting it and going up to her with a smile). Madam, +I am at your service. + +PRINCESS. I wish I thought you were. + +WOODCUTTER. Surely you have enough people at your service already. +Princes and Chancellors and Chamberlains and Waiting Maids. + +PRINCESS. Yes, that's just it. That's why I want your help. +Particularly in the matter of the Princes. + +WOODCUTTER. Why, has a suitor come for the hand of her Royal Highness? + +PRINCESS. Three suitors. And I hate them all. + +WOODCUTTER. And which are you going to marry? + +PRINCESS. I don't know. Father hasn't made up his mind yet. + +WOODCUTTER. And this is a matter which father--which His Majesty +decides for himself? + +PRINCESS. Why, of course! You should read the History Books, +Woodcutter. The suitors to the hand of a Princess are always set some +trial of strength or test of quality by the King, and the winner +marries his daughter. + +WOODCUTTER. Well, I don't live in a Palace, and I think my own +thoughts about these things. I'd better get back to my work. (He goes +on with his chopping.) + +PRINCESS (gently, after a pause). Woodcutter! + +WOODCUTTER (looking up). Oh, are you there? I thought you were married +by this time. + +PRINCESS (meekly). I don't want to be married. (Hastily) I mean, not +to any of those three. + +WOODCUTTER. You can't help yourself. + +PRINCESS. I know. That's why I wanted _you_ to help me. + +WOODCUTTER (going up to her). Can a simple woodcutter help a Princess? + +PRINCESS. Well, perhaps a simple one couldn't, but a clever one might. + +WOODCUTTER. What would his reward be? + +PRINCESS. His reward would be that the Princess, not being married to +any of her three suitors, would still be able to help him chop his +wood in the mornings. . . . I _am_ helping you, aren't I? + +WOODCUTTER (smiling). Oh, decidedly. + +PRINCESS (nodding). I thought I was. + +WOODCUTTER. It is kind of a great lady like yourself to help so humble +a fellow as I. + +PRINCESS (meekly). I'm not _very_ great. (And she isn't. She is the +smallest, daintiest little Princess that ever you saw.) + +WOODCUTTER. There's enough of you to make a hundred men unhappy. + +PRINCESS. And one man happy? + +WOODCUTTER. And one man very, very happy. + +PRINCESS (innocently). I wonder who he'll be. . . . Woodcutter, if _you_ +were a Prince, would you be my suitor? + +WOODCUTTER (scornfully). One of three? + +PRINCESS (excitedly). Oo, would you kill the others? With that axe? + +WOODCUTTER. I would not kill them, in order to help His Majesty make +up his mind about his son-in-law. But if the Princess had made up her +mind--and wanted me---- + +PRINCESS. Yes? + +WOODCUTTER. Then I would marry her, however many suitors she had. + +PRINCESS. Well, she's only got three at present. + +WOODCUTTER. What is that to me? + +PRINCESS. Oh, I just thought you might want to be doing something to +your axe. + +WOODCUTTER. My axe? + +PRINCESS. Yes. You see, she _has_ made up her mind. + +WOODCUTTER (amazed). You mean--But--but I'm only a woodcutter. + +PRINCESS. That's where you'll have the advantage of them, when it +comes to axes. + +WOODCUTTER. Princess! (He takes her in his arms) My Princess! + +PRINCESS. Woodcutter! My woodcutter! My, oh so very slow and +uncomprehending, but entirely adorable woodcutter! + +(They sing together. They just happen to feel like that) + +WOODCUTTER (the song finished). But what will His Majesty say? + +PRINCESS. All sorts of things. . . . Do you really love me, woodcutter, +or have I proposed to you under a misapprehension? + +WOODCUTTER. I adore you! + +PRINCESS (nodding). I thought you did. But I wanted to hear you say +it. If I had been a simple peasant, I suppose you would have said it a +long time ago? + +WOODCUTTER. I expect so. + +PRINCESS (nodding). Yes. . . . Well, now we must think of a plan for +making Mother like you. + +WOODCUTTER. Might I just kiss you again before we begin? + +PRINCESS. Well, I don't quite see how I am to stop you. + +(The WOODCUTTER picks her up in his arms and kisses her.) + +WOODCUTTER. There! + +PRINCESS (in his arms). Oh, Woodcutter, woodcutter, why didn't you do +that the first day I saw you? Then I needn't have had the bother of +proposing to you. (He puts her down suddenly) What is it? + +WOODCUTTER (listening). Somebody coming. (He peers through the trees +and then says in surprise) The King! + +PRINCESS. Oh! I must fly! + +WOODCUTTER. But you'll come back? + +PRINCESS. Perhaps. + + [She disappears quickly through the trees. + +(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and is discovered at it a minute +later by the KING and QUEEN.) + +KING (puffing). Ah! and a seat all ready for us. How satisfying. (They +sit down, a distinguished couple--reading from left to right, "KING, +QUEEN"--on a bench outside the WOODCUTTER'S hut.) + +QUEEN (crossly--she was like that). I don't know why you dragged me +here. + +KING. As I told you, my love, to be alone. + +QUEEN. Well, you aren't alone. (She indicates the WOODCUTTER.) + +KING. Pooh, he doesn't matter. . . . Well now, about these three Princes. +They are getting on my mind rather. It is time we decided which one of +them is to marry our beloved child. The trouble is to choose between +them. + +QUEEN. As regards appetite, there is nothing to choose between them. +They are three of the heartiest eaters I have met for some time. + +KING. You are right. The sooner we choose one of them, and send the +other two about their business, the better. (Reflectively) There were +six peaches on the breakfast-table this morning. Did I get one? No. + +QUEEN. Did _I_ get one? No. + +KING. Did our darling child get one--not that it matters? No. + +QUEEN. It is a pity that the seven-headed bull died last year. + +KING. Yes, he had a way of sorting out competitors for the hand of our +beloved one that was beyond all praise. One could have felt quite sure +that, had the three competitors been introduced to him, only one of +them would have taken any further interest in the matter. + +QUEEN (always the housekeeper). And even he mightn't have taken any +interest in his meals. + +KING (with a sigh). However, those days are over. We must think of a +new test. Somehow I think that, in a son-in-law, moral worth is even +more to be desired than mere brute strength. Now my suggestion is +this: that you should disguise yourself as a beggar woman and approach +each of the three princes in turn, supplicating their charity. In this +way we shall discover which of the three has the kindest heart. What +do you say, my dear? + +QUEEN. An excellent plan. If you remember, I suggested it myself +yesterday. + +KING (annoyed). Well, of course, it had been in my mind for some time. +I don't claim that the idea is original; it has often been done in our +family. (Getting up) Well then, if you will get ready, my dear, I will +go and find our three friends and see that they come this way. + + [They go out together. + +(As soon as they are out of sight the PRINCESS comes back.) + +PRINCESS. Well, Woodcutter, what did I tell you? + +WOODCUTTER. What did you tell me? + +PRINCESS. Didn't you listen to what they said? + +WOODCUTTER. I didn't listen, but I couldn't help hearing. + +PRINCESS. Well, _I_ couldn't help listening. And unless you stop it +somehow, I shall be married to one of them to-night. + +WOODCUTTER. Which one? + +PRINCESS. The one with the kindest heart--whichever that is. + +WOODCUTTER. Supposing they all three have kind hearts? + +PRINCESS (confidently). They won't. They never have. In our circles +when three Princes come together, one of them has a kind heart and the +other two haven't. (Surprised) Haven't you read any History at all? + +WOODCUTTER. I have no time for reading. But I think it's time History +was altered a little. We'll alter it this afternoon. + +PRINCESS. What do you mean? + +WOODCUTTER. Leave this to me. I've got an idea. + +PRINCESS (clapping her hands). Oh, how clever of you! But what do you +want me to do? + +WOODCUTTER (pointing). You know the glade over there where the brook +runs through it? Wait for me there. + +PRINCESS. I obey my lord's commands. + + [She blows him a kiss and runs off + +(The WOODCUTTER resumes his work. By and by the RED PRINCE comes +along. He is a--well, you will see for yourself what he is like.) + +RED PRINCE. Ah, fellow. . . . Fellow! . . . I said fellow! (Yes, that sort +of man.) + +WOODCUTTER (looking up.) Were you speaking to me, my lord? + +RED PRINCE. There is no other fellow here that I can see. + +(The WOODCUTTER looks round to make sure, peers behind a tree or two, +and comes back to the PRINCE.) + +WOODCUTTER. Yes, you must have meant me. + +RED PRINCE. Yes, of course I meant you, fellow. Have you seen the +Princess come past this way? I was told she was waiting for me here. + +WOODCUTTER. She is not here, my lord. (Looking round to see that they +are alone) My lord, are you one of the Princes who is seeking the hand +of the Princess. + +RED PRINCE (complacently). I am, fellow. + +WOODCUTTER. His Majesty the King was here a while ago. He is to make +his decision between you this afternoon. (Meaningly) I think I can +help you to be the lucky one, my lord. + +RED PRINCE. You suggest that I take an unfair advantage over my +fellow-competitors? + +WOODCUTTER. I suggest nothing, my lord. I only say that I can help +you. + +RED PRINCE (magnanimously). Well, I will allow you to help me. + +WOODCUTTER. Thank you. Then I will give you this advice. If a beggar +woman asks you for a crust of bread this afternoon, remember--it is +the test! + +RED PRINCE (staggered). The test! But I haven't _got_ a crust of +bread! + +WOODCUTTER. Wait here and I will get you one. + +(He goes into the hut) + +RED PRINCE (speaking after him as he goes). My good fellow, I am +extremely obliged to you, and if ever I can do anything for you, such +as returning a crust to you of similar size, or even lending you +another slightly smaller one, or---- (The WOODCUTTER comes back with +the crust.) Ah, thank you, my man, thank you. + +WOODCUTTER. I would suggest, my lord, that you should take a short +walk in this direction (pointing to the opposite direction to that +which the PRINCESS has taken), and stroll back casually in a few +minutes' time when the Queen is here. + +RED PRINCE. Thank you, my man, thank you. + +(He puts the crust in his pocket and goes off.) (The WOODCUTTER goes +on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE comes in and stands watching him in +silence for some moments.) WOODCUTTER (looking up). Hullo! + +BLUE PRINCE. Hullo! + +WOODCUTTER. What do you want? + +BLUE PRINCE. The Princess. + +WOODCUTTER. She's not here. + +BLUE PRINCE. Oh! + +(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and the PRINCE goes on looking +at him.) + +WOODCUTTER (struck with an idea). Are you one of the Princes who is +wooing the Princess? + +BLUE PRINCE. Yes. + +WOODCUTTER (coming towards him). I believe I could help your Royal +Highness. + +BLUE PRINCE. DO. + +WOODCUTTER (doubtfully). It would perhaps be not Quite fair to the +others. + +BLUE PRINCE. Don't mind. + +WOODCUTTER. Well then, listen. (He pauses a moment and looks round to +see that they are alone.) + +BLUE PRINCE. I'm listening. + +WOODCUTTER. If you come back in five minutes, you will see a beggar +woman sitting here. She will ask you for a crust of bread. You must +give it to her, for it is the way His Majesty has chosen of testing +your kindness of heart. + +BLUE PRINCE (feeling in his pockets). No bread. + +WOODCUTTER. I will give you some. + +BLUE PRINCE. Do. + +WOODCUTTER (taking a piece from his pocket). Here you are. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thanks. + +WOODCUTTER. Not at all, I'm very glad to have been able to help you. + +(He goes on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE remains looking at him.) + +BLUE PRINCE (with a great effort). Thanks. + +(He goes slowly away. A moment later the YELLOW PRINCE makes a +graceful and languid entry.) + +YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, come hither, my man, come hither. + +WOODCUTTER (stopping his work and looking up). You want me, sir? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Come hither, my man. Tell me, has her Royal Highness +the Princess passed this way lately? + +WOODCUTTER. The Princess? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, the Princess, my bumpkin. But perhaps you have +been too much concerned in your own earthy affairs to have noticed +her. You--ah--cut wood, I see. + +WOODCUTTER. Yes, sir, I am a woodcutter. + +YELLOW PRINCE. A most absorbing life. Some day we must have a long +talk about it. But just now I have other business waiting for me. With +your permission, good friend, I will leave you to your faggots. (He +starts to go.) + +WOODCUTTER. Beg your pardon, sir, but are you one of those Princes +that want to marry our Princess? + +YELLOW PRINCE. I had hoped, good friend, to obtain your permission to +do so. I beg you not to refuse it. + +WOODCUTTER. You are making fun of me, sir. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Discerning creature. + +WOODCUTTER. All the same, I _can_ help you. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Then pray do so, log-chopper, and earn my everlasting +gratitude. + +WOODCUTTER. The King has decided that whichever of you three Princes +has the kindest heart shall marry his daughter. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Then you will be able to bear witness to him that I +have already wasted several minutes of my valuable time in +condescending to a mere faggot-splitter. Tell him this and the prize +is mine. (Kissing the tips of his fingers) Princess, I embrace you. + +WOODCUTTER. The King will not listen to me. But if you return here in +five minutes, you will find an old woman begging for bread. It is the +test which their Majesties have arranged for you. If you share your +last crust with her-- + +YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, but do I look as if I carried a last crust about +with me? + +WOODCUTTER. But see, I will give you one. + +YELLOW PRINCE (taking it between the tips of his fingers). Yes, but-- + +WOODCUTTER. Put it in your pocket, and when-- + +YELLOW PRINCE. But, my dear bark-scraper, have you no feeling for +clothes at all? How can I put a thing like this in my pocket? (Handing +it back to him) I beg you to wrap it up. Here take this. (Gives him a +scarf) Neatly, I pray you. (Taking an orange ribbon out of his pocket) +Perhaps a little of this round it would make it more tolerable. You +think so? I leave it to you. I trust your taste entirely. . . . Leaving a +loop for the little finger, I entreat you . . . so. (He hangs it on his +little finger) In about five minutes, you said? We will be there. +(With a bow) We thank you. + +(He departs delicately. The WOODCUTTER smiles to himself, puts down +his axe and goes off to the PRINCESS. And just in time. For behold! +the KING and QUEEN return. At least we think it is the QUEEN, but she +is so heavily disguised by a cloak which she wears over her court +dress, that for a moment we are not quite sure.) + +KING. Now then, my love, if you will sit down on that log +there--(placing her)--excellent--I think perhaps you should remove the +crown. (Removes it) There! Now the disguise is perfect. + +QUEEN. You're sure they are coming? It's a very uncomfortable seat. + +KING. I told them that the Princess was waiting for them here. Their +natural disappointment at finding I was mistaken will make the test of +their good nature an even more exacting one. My own impression is that +the Yellow Prince will be the victor. + +QUEEN. Oh, I hate that man. + +KING (soothingly). Well, well, perhaps it will be the Blue one. + +QUEEN. If anything, I dislike him _more_ intensely. + +KING. Or even the Red. + +QUEEN. Ugh! I can't bear him. + +KING. Fortunately, dear, you are not called upon to marry any of them. +It is for our darling that we are making the great decision. Listen! I +hear one coming. I will hide in the cottage and take note of what +happens. + +(He disappears into the cottage as the BLUE PRINCE comes in.) + +QUEEN. Oh, sir, can you kindly spare a crust of bread for a poor old +woman! Please, pretty gentleman! + +BLUE PRINCE (standing stolidly in front of her and feeling in his +pocket). Bread . . . Bread . . . Ah! Bread! (He offers it.) + +QUEEN. Oh, thank you, sir. May you be rewarded for your gentle heart. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. + +(He stands gazing at her. There is an awkward pause.) + +QUEEN. A blessing on you, sir. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. (He indicates the crust) Bread. + +QUEEN. Ah, you have saved the life of a poor old woman---- + +BLUE PRINCE. Eat it. + +QUEEN (embarrassed). I--er--you--er---(She takes a bite and mumbles +something.) + +BLUE PRINCE. What? + +QUEEN (swallowing with great difficulty). I'm almost too happy to eat, +sir. Leave a poor old woman alone with her happiness, and--- + +BLUE PRINCE. Not too happy. Too weak. Help you eat. (He breaks off a +piece and holds it to her mouth. With a great effort the QUEEN +disposes of it.) Good! . . . Again! (She does it again.) Now! (She +swallows another piece.) Last piece! (She takes it in. He pats her +kindly on the back, and she nearly chokes.) Good. . . . Better now? + +QUEEN (weakly). Much. + +BLUE PRINCE. Good day. + +QUEEN (with an effort). Good day, kind gentleman. + + [He goes out. + +(The KING is just coming from the cottage, when he returns suddenly. +The KING slips back again.) + +BLUE PRINCE. Small piece left over. (He gives it to her. She looks +hopelessly at him.) Good-bye. + + [He goes. + +QUEEN (throwing the piece down violently). Ugh! What a man! + +KING (coming out). Well, well, my dear, we have discovered the winner. + +QUEEN (from the heart). Detestable person! + +KING. The rest of the competition is of course more in the nature of a +formality-- + +QUEEN. Thank goodness. + +KING. However, I think that it will prevent unnecessary discussion +afterwards if we--Take care, here is another one. (He hurries back.) + +_Enter the RED PRINCE_. + +QUEEN (with not nearly so much conviction). Could you spare a crust of +bread, sir, for a poor hungry old woman? + +RED PRINCE. A crust of bread, madam? Certainly. As luck will have it, +I have a crust on me. My last one, but--your need is greater than +mine. Eat, I pray. + +QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. + +RED PRINCE. Not at all. Come, eat. Let me have the pleasure of seeing +you eating. + +QUEEN. M-might I take it home with me, pretty gentleman? + +RED PRINCE (firmly). No, no. I must see you eating. Come! I will take +no denial. + +QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. (Hopefully) Won't you share it with me? + +RED PRINCE. No, I insist on your having it all. I am in the mood to be +generous. Oblige me by eating it now for I am in a hurry; yet I will +not go until you have eaten. (She does her best.) You eat but slowly. +(Sternly) Did you deceive me when you said you were hungry? + +QUEEN. N-no. I'm very hungry. (She eats) + +RED PRINCE. That's better. Now understand--however poor I am, I can +always find a crust of bread for an old woman. Always! Remember this +when next you are hungry. . . . You spoke? (She shakes her head and goes +on eating.) Finished? + +QUEEN (with great difficulty). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman. + +RED PRINCE. There's a piece on the ground there that you dropped. (She +eats it in dumb agony) Finished? + +QUEEN (huskily). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman. + +RED PRINCE. Then I will leave you, madam. Good morning. + + [He goes out. + +(The QUEEN rises in fury. The KING is about to come out of the +cottage, when the YELLOW PRINCE enters. The QUEEN sits down again and +mumbles something. It is certainly not an appeal for bread, but the +YELLOW PRINCE is not to be denied.) + +YELLOW PRINCE (gallantly). My poor woman, you are in distress. It +pains me to see it, madam, it pains me terribly. Can it be that you +are hungry? I thought so, I thought so. Give me the great pleasure, +madam, of relieving your hunger. See (holding up his finger), my own +poor meal. Take it! It is yours. + +QUEEN (with difficulty). I am not hungry. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, madam, I see what it is. You do not wish to deprive +me. You tell yourself, perchance, that it is not fitting that one in +your station of life should partake of the meals of the highly born. +You are not used, you say, to the food of Princes. Your rougher +palate---- + +QUEEN (hopefully). Did you say food of princes? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Where was I, madam? You interrupted me. No matter--eat. +(She takes the scarf and unties the ribbon.) Ah, now I remember. I was +saying that your rougher palate--- + +QUEEN (discovering the worst). No! No! Not bread! + +YELLOW PRINCE. Bread, madam, the staff of life. Come, madam, will you +not eat? (She tries desperately.) What can be more delightful than a +crust of bread by the wayside? + +(The QUEEN shrieks and falls back in a swoon. The KING rushes out to +her.) + +KING (to YELLOW PRINCE). Quick, quick, find the Princess. + +YELLOW PRINCE. The Princess--find the Princess! (He goes vaguely off +and we shall not see him again. But the WOODCUTTER and the PRINCESS do +not need to be found. They are here.) + +WOODCUTTER (to PRINCESS). Go to her, but don't show that you know me. + +(He goes into the cottage, and the PRINCESS hastens to her father.) + +PRINCESS. Father! + +KING. Ah, my dear, you're just in time. Your mother--- + +PRINCESS. My mother? + +KING. Yes, yes. A little plan of mine--of hers--your poor mother. +Dear, dear! + +PRINCESS. But what's the matter? + +KING. She is suffering from a surfeit of bread, and--- + +(The WOODCUTTER comes up with a flagon of wine) + +WOODCUTTER. Poor old woman! She has fainted from exhaustion. Let me +give her some--- + +QUEEN (shrieking). No, no, not bread! I will _not_ have any more +bread. + +WOODCUTTER. Drink this, my poor woman. + +QUEEN (opening her eyes). Did you say drink? (She seizes the flagon +and drinks) + +PRINCESS. Oh, sir, you have saved my mother's life! + +WOODCUTTER. Not at all. + +KING. I thank you, my man, I thank you. + +QUEEN. My deliverer! Tell me who you are! + +PRINCESS. It is my mother, the Queen, who asks you. + +WOODCUTTER (amazed, as well he may be). The Queen! + +KING. Yes, yes. Certainly, the Queen. + +WOODCUTTER (taking off his hat). Pardon, your Majesty. I am a +woodcutter, who lives alone here, far away from courts. + +QUEEN. Well, you've got more sense in your head than any of the +Princes that _I've_ seen lately. You'd better come to court. + +PRINCESS (shyly). You will be very welcome, sir. + +QUEEN. And you'd better marry the Princess. + +KING. Isn't that perhaps going a _little_ too far, dear? + +QUEEN. Well, you wanted kindness of heart in your son-in-law, and +you've got it. And he's got common sense too. (To WOODCUTTER) Tell me, +what do you think of bread as--as a form of nourishment? + +WOODCUTTER (cautiously). One can have too much of it. + +QUEEN. Exactly my view. (To KING) There you are, you see. + +KING. Well, if you insist. The great thing, of course, is that our +darling child should be happy. + +PRINCESS. I will do my best, father. (She takes the WOODCUTTER'S +hand.) + +KING. Then the marriage will take place this evening. (With a wave of +his wand) Let the revels begin. + +(They begin) + + + + +ACT II.--OLIVER'S ISLAND + + +SCENE I.--The Schoolroom (Ugh!) + +(OLIVER is discovered lying flat on his--well, lying flat on the +floor, deep in a book. The CURATE puts his head in at the door.) + +CURATE. Ah, our young friend, Oliver! And how are we this morning, +dear lad? + +OLIVER (mumbling). All right, thanks. + +CURATE. That's well, that's well. Deep in our studies, I see, deep in +our studies. And what branch of Knowledge are we pursuing this +morning? + +OLIVER (without looking up). "Marooned in the Pacific," or "The +Pirate's Bride." + +CURATE. Dear, dear, what will Miss Pinniger say to this interruption +of our studies? + +OLIVER. Silly old beast. + +CURATE. Tut-tut, dear lad, that is not the way to speak of our mentors +and preceptors. So refined and intelligent a lady as Miss Pinniger. +Indeed I came here to see her this morning on a little matter of +embroidered vestments. Where is she, dear lad? + +OLIVER. It isn't nine yet. + +CURATE (looking at his watch). Past nine, past nine. + +OLIVER (jumping up). Je-hoshaphat! + +CURATE. Oliver! Oliver! My dear lad! Swearing at _your_ age! Really, I +almost feel it my duty to inform your aunt--- + +OLIVER. Fat lot of swearing in just mentioning one of the Kings of +Israel. + +CURATE. Of Judah, dear boy, of Judah. To be ignorant on such a vital +matter makes it even more reprehensible. I cannot believe that our +dear Miss Pinniger has so neglected your education that---- + +_Enter our dear MISS PINNIGER, the Governess_. + +GOVERNESS. Ah, Mr. Smilax; how pleasant to see you! + +CURATE. My dear Miss Pinniger! You will forgive me for interrupting +you in your labours, but there is a small matter of--ah!--- + +GOVERNESS. Certainly, Mr. Smilax. I will walk down to the gate with +you. Oliver, where is Geraldine? + +OLIVER. Aunt Jane wanted her. + +GOVERNESS. Well, you should be at your lessons. It's nine o'clock. The +fact that I am momentarily absent from the room should make no +difference to your zeal. + +OLIVER (without conviction). No, Miss Pinniger. (He sits down at his +desk, putting "Marooned in the Pacific" inside it.) + +CURATE (playfully). For men must work, Oliver, men must work. How doth +the little busy bee--Yes, Miss Pinniger, I am with you. [They go +out. + +OLIVER (opening his poetry book and saying it to himself). It was a +summer evening--It was a summer evening--(He stops, refers to the +book, and then goes on to himself) Old Kaspar's work was done. It was +a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done--- + +_Enter GERALDINE--or JILL_. + +JILL. Where's Pin? + +OLIVER. Hallo, Jill. Gone off with Dearly Belovéd. Her momentary +absence from the room should make no difference to your zeal, my dear +Geraldine. And what are we studying this morning, dear child? (To +himself) It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done. + +JILL (giggling). Is that Pin? + +OLIVER. Pin and Dearly Belovéd between them. She's a bit batey this +morning. + +JILL (at her desk). And all my sums have done themselves wrong. (Hard +at it with paper and pencil) What's nine times seven, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Fifty-six. Old Kaspar's work was done. Jolly well wish mine +was. And he before his cottage door. Fat lot of good my learning this +stuff if I'm going to be a sailor. I bet Beatty didn't mind what +happened to rotten old Kaspar when he saw a German submarine. + +JILL. Six and carry five. Aunt Jane has sent for the doctor to look at +my chest. + +OLIVER. What's the matter with your chest? + +JILL. I blew my nose rather loud at prayers this morning. + +OLIVER. I say, Jill, you _are_ going it! + +JILL. It wasn't my fault, Oliver. Aunt Jane turned over two pages at +once and made me laugh, so I had to turn it into a blow. + +OLIVER. Bet you what you like she knew. + +JILL. Of course she did, and she'll tell the doctor, and he'll be as +beastly as he can. What did she say to you for being late? + +OLIVER. I said somebody had bagged my sponge, and she wouldn't like me +to come down to prayers all unsponged, and she said, "Excuses, Oliver, +_always_ excuses! Leave me. I will see you later." Suppose that means +I've got to go to bed this afternoon. Jill, if I do, be sporty and +bring me up "Marooned in the Pacific." + +JILL. They'll lock the door. They always do. + +OLIVER. Then I shall jolly well go up for a handkerchief this morning, +and shove it in the bed, just in case. Cavé--here's Pin. + +MISS PINNIGER _returns to find them full of zeal_. + +GOVERNESS (sitting down at her desk). Well, Oliver, have you learnt +your piece of poetry? + +OLIVER (nervously). I--I think so, Miss Pinniger. + +GOVERNESS. Close the book, and stand up and say it. (Oliver takes a +last despairing look, and stands up.) Well? + +OLIVER. It was a summer evening--- + +GOVERNESS. The title and the author first, Oliver. Everything in its +proper order. + +OLIVER. Oh, I say, I didn't know I had to learn the title. + +JILL (in a whisper). After Blenheim. + +GOVERNESS. Geraldine, kindly attend to your own work. + +OLIVER. After Blenheim. It was a summer evening. + +GOVERNESS. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey. One of our greatest +poets. + +OLIVER. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey, one of our greatest poets. +It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done--er--Old Kaspar's +work was done--er--work was done, er . . . + +GOVERNESS. And he before--- + +OLIVER. Oh yes, of course. And he before--er--and he before--er--It +was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, and he +before--er--and he before--- Er, it _was_ a summer evening--- + +GOVERNESS. So you have already said, Oliver. + +OLIVER. I just seem to have forgotten this bit, Miss Pinniger. And he +before--- + +GOVERNESS. Well, what was he before? + +OLIVER (hopefully). Blenheim? Oh no, it was _after_ Blenheim. + +GOVERNESS (wearily). His cottage door. + +OLIVER. Oo, yes. And he before his cottage door was sitting in the +sun. (He clears his throat) Was sitting in the sun. Er--(He coughs +again)--er--- + +GOVERNESS. You have a cough, Oliver. Perhaps the doctor had better see +you when he comes to see Geraldine. + +OLIVER. It was just something tickling my throat, Miss Pinniger. +Er--it was a summer evening. + +GOVERNESS. You haven't learnt it, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Yes, I have, Miss Pinniger, only I can't quite remember it. +And he before his cottage door--- + +GOVERNESS. Is it any good, Geraldine, asking you if you have got any +of your sums right? + +JILL. I've got one, Miss Pinniger . . . nearly right . . . except for some +of the figures. + +GOVERNESS. Well, we shall have to spend more time at our lessons, +that's all. This afternoon--ah--er--- + +(She stands up as AUNT JANE and the DOCTOR come in.) + +AUNT JANE. I'm sorry to interrupt lessons, Miss Pinniger, but I have +brought the Doctor to see Geraldine. (To DOCTOR) You will like her to +go to her room? + +DOCTOR. No, no, dear lady. There is no need. Her pulse--(He feels +it)---dear, dear! Her tongue--(She puts it out)--tut-tut! A milk diet, +plenty of rice-pudding, and perhaps she would do well to go to bed +this afternoon. + +AUNT JANE. I will see to it, doctor. + +JILL (mutinously). I _feel_ quite well. + +DOCTOR (to AUNT JANE). A dangerous symptom. _Plenty_ of rice-pudding. + +GOVERNESS. Oliver was coughing just now. + +OLIVER (to himself). Shut up! + +DOCTOR (turning to OLIVER). Ah! His pulse--(Feels it)--tut-tut! His +tongue--(OLIVER puts it out) Dear, dear! The same treatment, dear +lady, as prescribed in the other case. + +OLIVER (under his breath). Beast! + +AUNT JANE. Castor-oil, liquorice-powder, ammoniated quinine--anything +of that nature, doctor? + +DOCTOR. _As_ necessary, dear lady, _as_ necessary. The system must be +stimulated. Nature must be reinforced. + +AUNT JANE (to GOVERNESS). Which do they dislike least? + +OLIVER and JILL (hastily). Liquorice-powder! + +DOCTOR. Then concentrate on the other two, dear lady. + +AUNT JANE. Thank you, doctor. [They go out. + +GOVERNESS. We will now go on with our lessons. Oliver, you will have +opportunities in your bedroom this afternoon of learning your poetry. +By the way, I had better have that book which you were reading when I +came in just now. + +OLIVER (trying to be surprised). Which book? + +JILL (nobly doing her best to save the situation). Miss Pinniger, if +you're multiplying rods, poles, or perches by nine, does it matter +if--- + +GOVERNESS. I am talking to Oliver, Geraldine. Where is that book, +Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oh, _I_ know the one you mean. I must have put it down +somewhere. (He looks vaguely about the room.) + +GOVERNESS. Perhaps you put it in your desk. + +OLIVER. My desk? + +JILL (going up to MISS PINNIGER with her work). You see, it's all gone +wrong here, and I think I must have multiplied---- (Moving in front of +her as she moves) I think I must have multiplied---- + +(Under cover of this, OLIVER makes a great effort to get the book into +JILL'S desk, but it is no good.) + +GOVERNESS (brushing aside JILL and advancing on OLIVER). Thank you, +_I_ will take it. + +OLIVER (looking at the title). Oh yes, this is the one. + +GOVERNESS. And I will speak to your aunt at _once_ about the behaviour +of both of you. [She goes out. + +OLIVER (gallantly). _I_ don't care. + +JILL. I did try to help you, Oliver. + +OLIVER. You wait. Won't I jolly well bag something of hers one day, +just when she wants it. + +JILL. I'm afraid you'll find the afternoon rather tiring without your +book. What will you do? + +OLIVER. I suppose I shall have to think. + +JILL. What shall you think about? + +OLIVER. I shall think I'm on my desert island. + +JILL. Which desert island? + +OLIVER. The one I always pretend I'm on when I'm thinking. + +JILL. Isn't there any one else on it ever? + +OLIVER. Oo, lots of pirates and Dyaks and cannibals and--other people. + +JILL. What sort of other people? + +OLIVER. I shan't tell you. This is a special think I thought last +night. As soon as I thought of it, I decided to keep it for +(impressively) a moment of great emergency. + +JILL (silenced). Oh! . . . Oliver? + +OLIVER Yes? + +JILL. Let me be on your desert island this time. Because I did try to +help you. + +OLIVER. Well--well---- (Generously) Well, you can if you like. + +JILL. Oh, thank you, Oliver. Won't you tell me what it's about, and +then we can both think it together this afternoon. + +OLIVER. I expect you'll think all sorts of silly things that _never_ +happen on a desert island. + +JILL. I'll try not to, Oliver, if you tell me. + +OLIVER. All right. + +JILL (coming close to him). Go on. + +OLIVER. Well, you see, I've been wrecked, you see, and the ship has +foundered with all hands, you see, and I've been cast ashore on a +desert island, you see. + +JILL. Haven't I been cast ashore too? + +OLIVER. Well, you will be this afternoon, of course. Well, you see, we +land on the island, you see, and it's a perfectly ripping island, you +see, and--and we land on it, you see, and. . . . + +* * * * * + +(But we are getting on too fast. When the good ship crashed upon the +rock and split in twain, it seemed like that all aboard must perish. +Fortunately OLIVER was made of stern mettle. Hastily constructing a +raft and placing the now unconscious JILL upon it, he launched it into +the seething maelstrom of waters and pushed off. Tossed like a +cockle-shell upon the mountainous waves, the tiny craft with its +precious freight was in imminent danger of foundering. But OLIVER was +made of stern mettle. With dauntless courage he rigged a jury-mast, +and placed a telescope to his eye. "Pull for the lagoon, JILL," cried +the dauntless OLIVER, and in another moment. . . .) + +(As the raft glides into the still waters beyond the reef, we can see +it more clearly. Can it be JILL'S bed, with OLIVER in his pyjamas +perched on the rail, and holding up his bath-towel? Does he shorten +sail for a moment to thump his chest and say, "But OLIVER was made of +stern mettle"? Or is it----) + +(But the sun is sinking behind the swamp where the rattlesnakes bask. +For a moment longer the sail gleams like copper in its rays, and +then--fizz-z--we have lost it. See! Is that speck on the inky black +waters the dauntless Oliver? It is. Let us follow to the island and +see what adventures befall him.) + + +SCENE II.--It is the island which we have dreamed about all our lives. +But at present we cannot see it properly, for it is dark. In one of +those tropical darknesses which can be felt rather than seen OLIVER +hands JILL out of the boat. + +OLIVER. Tread carefully, Jill, there are lots of deadly rattlesnakes +about. + +JILL (stepping hastily back into the boat). Oli-ver! + +OLIVER. You hear the noise of their rattles sometimes when the sun is +sinking behind the swamp. (The deadly rattle of the rattlesnake is +heard) There! + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, are they very deadly? Because if they are, I don't +think I shall like your island. + +OLIVER. Those aren't. I always have their teeth taken out when ladies +are coming. Besides, it's daylight now. + +(With a rapidity common in the tropics--although it may just be +OLIVER'S gallantry--the sun climbs out of the sea, and floods the +island, JILL, no longer frightened, steps out of the boat, and they +walk up to the clearing in the middle.) + +JILL (looking about her). Oh, what a lovely island! I think it's +lovely, Oliver. + +OLIVER (modestly). It's pretty decent, isn't it? Won't you lie down? I +generally lie down here and watch the turtles coming out of the sea to +deposit their eggs on the sand. + +JILL (lying down). How many do they de-deposit usually, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oh, three--or a hundred. Just depends how hungry I am. Have a +bull's-eye, won't you? + +JILL (excitedly). Oh, did you bring some? + +OLIVER (annoyed). Bring some? (Brightening up) Oh, you mean from the +wreck? + +JILL (hastily). Yes, from the wreck. I mean besides the axe and the +bag of nails and the gunpowder. + +OLIVER. Couldn't. The ship sank with all hands before I could get +them. But it doesn't matter, because (going up to one of the trees) I +recognise this as the bull's-eye tree. (He picks a couple of +bull's-eyes and gives one to her.) + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, how lovely! Thank you. (She puts it in her mouth.) + +OLIVER (sucking hard). There was nothing but breadfruit trees here the +first time I was marooned on it. Rotten things to have on a decent +island. So I planted a bull's-eye tree, and a barley-sugar-cane grove, +and one or two other things, and made a jolly ripping place of it. + +JILL (pointing). What's that tree over there? + +OLIVER. That one? Rice-pudding tree. + +JILL (getting up indignantly). Oliver! Take me back to the boat at +once. + +OLIVER. I say, shut up, Jill. You didn't think I meant it for _you_, +did you? + +JILL. But there's only you and me on the island. + +OLIVER. What about the domestic animals? I suppose _they've_ got to +eat. + +JILL. Oh, how lovely! Have we got a goat and a parrot, and a--a-- + +OLIVER. Much better than that. Look in that cage there. + +JILL. Oh, is that a cage? I never noticed it. What do I do? + +OLIVER (going to it). Here, I'll show you (He draws the blind, and the +DOCTOR is exposed sitting on a stump of wood and blinking at the +sudden light) What do you think of that? + +JILL. Oliver! + +OLIVER (proudly). I thought of that in bed one night. Spiffing idea, +isn't it? I've got some other ones in the plantation over there. +Awfully good specimens. I feed 'em on rice-pudding. + +JILL. Can this one talk? + +OLIVER. I'm teaching it. (Stirring it up with a stick) Come up there. + +DOCTOR (mumbling). Ninety-nine, ninety-nine . . . + +OLIVER. That's all it can say at present. I'm going to give it a swim +in the lagoon to-morrow. I want to see if there are any sharks. If +there aren't, then we can bathe there afterwards. + +(The DOCTOR shudders.) + +JILL. Have you given it a name yet? I think I should like to call it +Fluffkins. + +OLIVER. Righto! Good night, Fluffkins. Time little doctors were in +bed. (He pulls down the blind.) + +JILL (lying down again). Well, I think it's a lovely island. + +OLIVER (lying beside her). If there's anything you want, you know, +you've only got to say so. Pirates or anything like that. There's a +ginger-beer well if you're thirsty. + +JILL (closing her eyes). I'm quite happy, Oliver, thank you. + +OLIVER (after a pause, a little awkwardly). Jill, you didn't ever want +to marry a pirate, did you? + +JILL (still on her back with her eyes shut). I hadn't thought about it +much, Oliver dear. + +OLIVER. Because I can get you an awfully decent pirate, if you like, +and if I was his brother-in-law it would be ripping. I've often been +marooned with him, of course, but never as his brother-in-law. + +JILL. Why don't you marry his daughter and be his son-in-law? + +OLIVER. He hasn't got a daughter. + +JILL. Well, you could think him one. + +OLIVER. I don't want to. If ever I'm such a silly ass as to marry, +which I'm jolly well not going to be, I shall marry a--a dusky maiden. +Jill, be sporty. All girls have to get married some time. It's +different with men. + +JILL. Very well, Oliver. I don't want to spoil your afternoon. + +OLIVER. Good biz. (He stands up, shuts his eyes and waves his hands +about.) + + [Enter the PIRATE CHIEF. + +PIRATE CHIEF (with a flourish). Gentles, your servant. Commodore +Crookshank, at your service. Better known on the Spanish Main as +One-eared Eric. + +OLIVER. Glad to meet you, Commodore. I'm--er-- Two-toed Thomas, the +Terror of the Dyaks. But you may call me Oliver, if you like. This is +my sister Jill--the Pride of the Pampas. + +PIRATE CHIEF (with another bow). Charmed! + +JILL (politely). Don't mention it, Commodore. + +OLIVER. My sister wants to marry you. Er--carry on. (He moves a little +away from them and lies down.) + +JILL (sitting down and indicating a place beside her). Won't you sit +down, Commodore? + +PIRATE CHIEF. Thank you, madam. The other side if I may. I shall hear +better if you condescend to accept me. (He sits down on the other side +of her.) + +JILL. Oh, I'm so sorry! I was forgetting about your ear. + +PIRATE CHIEF. Don't mention it. A little discussion in the La Plata +river with a Spanish gentleman. At the end of it I was an ear short +and he was a head short. It was considered in the family that I had +won. + +(There is an awkward pause.) + +JILL (shyly). Well, Commodore? + +PIRATE CHIEF. Won't you call me Eric? + +JILL. I am waiting, Eric. + +PIRATE CHIEF. Madam, I am not a marrying man, not to any extent, but +if you would care to be Mrs. Crookshank, I'd undertake on my part to +have the deck swabbed every morning, and to put a polish on the +four-pounder that you could see your pretty face in. + +JILL. Eric, how sweet of you. But I think you must speak to my brother +in the library first. Oli-ver! + +OLIVER (coming up). Hallo! Settled it? + +JILL. It's all settled, Oliver, between Eric and myself, but you will +want to ask him about his prospects, won't you? + +OLIVER. Yes, yes, of course. + +PIRATE. I shall be very glad to tell you anything I can, sir. I think +I may say that I am doing fairly well in my profession. + +OLIVER. What's your ship? A sloop or a frigate? + +PIRATE. A brigantine. + +JILL (excited). Oh, that's what Oliver puts on his hair when he goes +to a party. + +OLIVER (annoyed). Shut up, Jill! A brigantine? Ah yes, a rakish craft, +eh, Commodore? + +PIRATE (earnestly). Extremely rakish. + +OLIVER. And how many pieces of eight have you? + +PIRATE. Nine thousand. + +OLIVER. Ah! (To JILL) What's nine times eight? + +JILL (to herself). Nine times eight. + +OLIVER (to himself). Nine times eight. + +PIRATE (to himself). Nine times eight. + +JILL. Seventy-two. + +PIRATE. I made it seventy-one, but I expect you're right. + +OLIVER. Then you've seventy-two thousand pieces altogether? + +PIRATE. Yes, sir, about that. + +OLIVER. Any doubloons? + +PIRATE. Hundreds of 'em. + +OLIVER. Ingots of gold? + +PIRATE. Lashings of 'em. + +JILL. And he's going to polish up the four-pounder until I can see my +face in it. + +OLIVER. I was just going to ask you about your guns. You've got 'em +fore and aft of course? + +PIRATE. Yes, sir. A four-pounder fore and a half-pounder haft. + +OLIVER (a little embarrassed). And do you ever have brothers-in-law in +your ship? + +PIRATE. Well, I never have had yet, but I have always been looking +about for one. + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, isn't Eric a _nice_ man? + +OLIVER (casually). I suppose the captain's brother-in-law is generally +the first man to board the Spaniard with his cutlass between his +teeth? + +PIRATE. You might almost say always. Many a ship on the Spanish Main +I've had to leave unboarded through want of a brother-in-law. They're +touchy about it somehow. Unless the captain's brother-in-law comes +first they get complaining. + +OLIVER (bashfully). And there's just one other thing. If the +brigantine happened to put in at an island for water, and the +captain's brother-in-law happened--just happened--to be a silly ass +and go and marry a dusky maiden, whom he met on the beach--- + +PIRATE. Bless you, it's always happening to a captain's +brother-in-law. + +OLIVER (in a magnificent manner). Then, Captain Crookshank, you may +take my sister! + +JILL. Thank you, Oliver. + +(It is not every day that one-eared ERIC, that famous chieftain, +marries into the family of the TERROR OF THE DYAKS. Naturally the +occasion is celebrated by the whole pirate crew with a rousing chorus, +followed by a dance in which the dusky maidens of the Island join. At +the end of it, JILL finds herself alone with TUA-HEETA, the Dusky +Princess.) + +JILL (fashionably). I'm so pleased to meet my brother's future wife. +It's so nice of you to come to see me. You will have some tea, won't +you? (She puts out her hand and presses an imaginary bell) I wanted to +see you, because I can tell you so many little things about my +brother, which I think you ought to know. You see, Eric--my husband-- + +TUA-HEETA. Ereec? + +JILL. Yes. I wish you could see him. He's so nice-looking. But I'm +afraid he won't be home to tea. That's the worst of marrying a sailor. +They are away so much. Well, I was telling you about Oliver. I think +it would be better if you knew at once that--he doesn't like +rice-pudding. + +TUA-HEETA. Rice-poodeeng? + +JILL. Yes, he hates it. It is very important that you should remember +that. Then there's another thing--(An untidy looking servant comes in. +Can it be--can it possibly be AUNT JANE? Horrors!) He dislikes--Oh, +there you are, Jane. You've been a very long time answering the bell. + +AUNT JANE. I'm so sorry ma'am, I was just dressing. + +JILL. Excuses, Jane, always excuses. Leave me. Take a week's notice. +(To TUA-HEETA) YOU must excuse my maid. She's very stupid. Tea at +once, Jane. (AUNT JANE sniffs and goes off) What was I saying? Oh yes, +about Oliver. He doesn't care for cod-liver oil in the way that some +men do. You would be wise not to force it on him just at first. . . . +Have you any idea where you are going to live? + +TUA-HEETA. Live? (These dusky maidens are no conversationalists.) + +JILL. I expect Oliver will wish to reside at Hammersmith, so +convenient for the City. You'll like Hammersmith. You'll go to St. +Paul's Church, I expect. The Vicar will be sure to call. (Enter AUNT +JANE with small tea-table.) Ah, here's tea. (To JANE) You're very +slow, Jane. + +AUNT JANE. I'm sorry, ma'am. + +JILL. It's no good being sorry. Take another week's notice. (To +TUA-HEETA) You must forgive my talking to my maid. She wants such a +lot of looking after. (JANE puts down the table) That will do, Jane, +(JANE bumps against the table) Dear, dear, how clumsy you are. What +wages am I giving you now? + +AUNT JANE. A shilling a month, ma'am. + +JILL. Well, we'd better make it ninepence. (JANE goes out in tears.) +Servants are a great nuisance, aren't they? Jane is a peculiarly +stupid person. She used to be aunt to my brother, and I have only +taken her on out of charity. (She pours out from an imaginary tea-pot) +Milk? Sugar? (She puts them in and hands the imaginary cup to +TUA-HEETA.) + +TUA-HEETA. Thank you. (Drinks.) + +JILL (pouring herself a cup). I hope you like China. (She drinks, and +then rings an imaginary bell) Well, as I was saying---(Enter AUNT +JANE.) You can clear away, Jane. + +AUNT JANE. Yes, ma'am. + +(She clears away the tea and TUA-HEETA and--very quickly--herself, as +OLIVER comes back. OLIVER has been discussing boarding-tactics with +his brother-in-law. CAPTAIN CROOKSHANK belongs to the now +old-fashioned Marlinspike School; OLIVER is for well-primed pistols.) + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, I love your island. I've been thinking things all by +myself. You're married to Tua-heeta. You don't mind, do you? + +OLIVER. Not at all, Jill. Make yourself at home. I've just been trying +the doctor in the lagoon. There _were_ sharks there, after all, so +we'll have to find another place for bathing. Oh, and I shot an +elephant. What would you like to do now? + +JILL. Just let's lie here and see what happens. (What happens is that +a cassowary comes along.) Oh, what a lovely bird! Is it an ostrich? + +(The cassowary sniffs the air, puts its beak to the ground and goes +off again.) + +OLIVER. Silly! It's a cassowary, of course. + +JILL. What's a cassowary? + +OLIVER. Jill! Don't you remember the rhyme? + +I wish I were a cassowary + Upon the plains of Timbuctoo +And then I'd eat a missionary-- + And hat and gloves and hymn-book too! + +JILL. Is that all they're for? + +OLIVER. Well, what else would you want them for? + +(A MISSIONARY, pith-helmet, gloves, hymn-book, umbrella, all +complete--creeps cautiously up. He bears a strong likeness to the +curate, the REVEREND SMILAX.) + +MISSIONARY. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, dear friends, but +have you observed a cassowary on this island, apparently looking for +something? + +OLIVER. Yes, we saw one just now. + +MISSIONARY (shuddering). Dear, dear, dear. You didn't happen to ask +him what was the object of his researches? + +JILL. He went so quickly. + +MISSIONARY (coming out of the undergrowth to them). I wonder if you +have ever heard of a little rhyme which apparently attributes to the +bird in question, when residing in the level pastures of Timbuctoo, an +unholy lust for the body and appurtenances thereto of an unnamed +clerical gentleman? + +OLIVER and JILL (shouting together). Yes! Rather! + +MISSIONARY. Dear, dear! Fortunately--I say fortunately--this is not +Timbuctoo! (OLIVER slips away and comes back with a notice-board +"Timbuctoo," which he places at the edge of the trees, unseen by the +MISSIONARY, who goes on talking to JILL) I take it that a cassowary +residing in other latitudes is of a more temperate habit. His +appetite, I venture to suggest, dear lady, would be under better +restraint. That being so, I may perhaps safely---- (He begins to move +off, and comes suddenly up to the notice-board) Dear, dear, dear, +dear, dear! This is terrible! You said, I think, that the--ah--bird in +question was moving in _this_ direction? + +OLIVER. That's right. + +MISSIONARY. Then I shall move, hastily yet with all due precaution, in +_that_ direction. (He walks off on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder +in case the cassowary should reappear. Consequently, he does not +observe the enormous CANNIBAL who has appeared from the trees on the +right, until he bumps into him) I beg your---- (He looks up) Dear, +dear, dear, dear, dear! + +CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. Yes, my dear sir, it is as you say, a beautiful morning. + +CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. But I was just going a little walk--in this direction--if +you will permit me. + +CANNIBAL (threateningly). Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. I have noticed it, my dear sir, I have often made that +very observation to my parishioners. + +CANNIBAL (very threateningly). Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. Oh, what's he saying? + +OLIVER. He says it's his birthday to-morrow. + +CANNIBAL. Wurra, wurra wug! + +OLIVER. And will you come to the party? + +MISSIONARY (to CANNIBAL). My dear sir, it is most kind of you to +invite me, but a prior engagement in a different part of the +country--a totally unexpected call upon me in another locality--will +unfortunately---- + +(While he is talking, the cassowary comes back, sidles up to him, and +taps with his beak on the MISSIONARY'S pith-helmet.) + +MISSIONARY (absently, without looking round). Come in! . . . As I was +saying, my dear sir---- (The bird taps again. The MISSIONARY turns +round annoyed) Can't you see I'm engaged----Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, +dear! + +(He clasps the CANNIBAL in his anguish, recoils from the CANNIBAL and +clasps the cassowary. The three of them go off together, OLIVER and +JILL following eagerly behind to see who gets most.) + +(The PIRATES come back, each carrying a small wooden ammunition-box, +and sit round in a semicircle, the PIRATE CHIEF in the middle.) + +PIRATE. Steward! Steward! + +STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. + +CHIEF. Now then, tumble up, my lad. I would carouse. Circulate the dry +ginger. + +STEWARD (hurrying out). Yes, sir, going, sir. + +CHIEF. Look lively, my lad, look lively. + +STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. (He hands round mugs to +them all.) + +CHIEF (rising). Gentlemen! (They all stand up) The crew of the +_Cocktail_ will carouse---- (They all take one step to the right, one +back, and one left--which brings them behind their boxes--and then +place their right feet on the boxes together) One! (They raise their +mugs) Two! (They drink) Three! (They bang down their mugs) Four! (They +wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands) So! . . . Steward! + +STEWARD. Yes, sir, here, sir. + +CHIEF. The carouse is over. + +STEWARD. Yes, sir. (He collects the mugs and goes out.) (The PIRATES +sit down again.) + +CHIEF (addressing the men). Having passed an hour thus in feasting and +song---- + +(Hark! is it the voice of our dear MISS PINNIGER? It is.) + +GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Oliver! Jill! You may get up now and come +down to tea. + +CHIEF. Having, as I say, slept off our carouse--- + +GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Jill! (She comes in) Oh, I beg your pardon, +I--er--- + +(All the PIRATES rise and draw their weapons) + +CHIEF. Pray do not mention it. (Polishing his pistol lovingly) You +were asking--- + +GOVERNESS. I--I was l-looking for a small boy--Oliver-- + +CHIEF. Oliver? (To 1ST PIRATE) Have we any Olivers on board? + +1ST PIRATE. NO, Captain. Only Bath Olivers. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to my brother-in-law, +hight Two-Toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks? + +GOVERNESS. Oh no, no--Just a small boy and his sister--Jill. + +CHIEF (to 2ND PIRATE). Have we any Jills on board? + +2ND PIRATE. No, Captain. Only gills of rum. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to Mrs. Crookshank, +styled the Pride of the Pampas? + +GOVERNESS. Oh no, no, I am so sorry. Perhaps I--er-- + +CHIEF. Wait, woman. (to 6TH PIRATE) Ernest, offer your seat to the +lady. + +(The 6TH PIRATE stands up.) + +GOVERNESS (nervously). Oh please don't trouble, I'm getting out at the +next station--I mean I-- + +6TH PIRATE (thunderously). Sit down! + +(She sits down tremblingly and he stands by her with his pistol.) + +CHIEF. Thank you. (to 1ST PIRATE) Cecil, have you your pencil and +notebook with you? + +1ST PIRATE (producing them). Ay, ay, Captain. + +CHIEF. Then we will cross-examine the prisoner. (to GOVERNESS) Name? + +GOVERNESS. Pinniger. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Pincher. + +CHIEF. Christian names, if any? + +GOVERNESS. Letitia. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Letisher--how would you spell it, Captain? + +CHIEF. Spell it like a sneeze. Age? + +GOVERNESS. Twenty-three. + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Habits--untruthful. Appearance--against her. +Got that? + +1ST PIRATE. Yes, sir. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). And what are you for? + +GOVERNESS. I teach. Oliver and Jill, you know. + +CHIEF. And what do you teach them? + +GOVERNESS. Oh, everything. Arithmetic, French, Geography, History, +Dancing---- + +CHIEF (holding up his hand). A moment! I would take counsel with +Percy. (to 2ND PIRATE) Percy, what shall we ask her in Arithmetic? +(The 2ND PIRATE whispers to him.) Excellent. (To her) If you really +are a teacher as you say, answer me this question. The brigantine +_Cocktail_ is in longitude 40° 39' latitude 22° 50', sailing +closehauled on the port tack at 8 knots in a 15-knot nor'-nor' +westerly breeze--how soon before she sights the Azores? + +GOVERNESS. I--I--I'm afraid I---You see--I---- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Arithmetic rotten. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Arithmetic rotten. + +CHIEF (to 3RD PIRATE). Basil, ask her a question in French. + +3RD PIRATE. What would the mate of a French frigate say if he wanted +to say in French, "Avast there, ye lubbering swab" to a friend like? + +GOVERNESS. Oh, but I hardly--I--- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). French futile. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). French futile. + +CHIEF (to 4TH PIRATE). I don't suppose it's much use, Francis. But try +her in Geography. + +4TH PIRATE. Well now, lady. If you was wanting a nice creek to lay up +cosy in, atween Dago Point and the Tortofitas, where would you run to? + +GOVERNESS. It-run to? But that isn't--of course I--- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Geography ghastly. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Geography ghastly. + +CHIEF (to 5TH PIRATE). Give her a last chance, Mervyn. See if she +knows any history. + +5TH PIRATE. I suppose you couldn't tell me what year it was when old +John Cann took the _Saucy Codfish_ over Black Tooth Reef and laid her +alongside the Spaniard in the harbour there, and up comes the Don in +his nightcap. "Shiver my timbers," he says in Spanish, "but there's +only one man in the whole of the Spanish Main," he says, "and that's +John Cann," he says, "who could---" + +(The GOVERNESS looks dumbly at him.) + +CHIEF. She couldn't. History hopeless. + +1ST PIRATE. History hopeless. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). What else do you teach? + +GOVERNESS. Music, dancing--er--but I don't think--- + +CHIEF. Steward! + +STEWARD (coming in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. + +CHIEF. Concertina. + +STEWARD (going out). Yes, sir, going, sir. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). Can you dance a hornpipe? + +GOVERNESS. No, I--- + +CHIEF. Dancing dubious. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Dancing dubious. + +STEWARD (coming in). Concertina, sir. + +CHIEF. Give it to the woman. (He takes it to her.) + +GOVERNESS. I'm afraid I---(She produces one ghastly noise and drops +the concertina in alarm.) + +1ST PIRATE (writing). What shall I say, sir? Music mouldy or music +measly? + +CHIEF (standing up). Gentlemen, I think you will agree with me that +the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly incapable of +teaching anybody anything. Twenty-five years, man and boy, I have +sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible exception of a dumb and +half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in '64, I have never met any +one so profoundly lacking in intellect. I propose, therefore, that for +the space of twenty-four hours the woman Pinniger should be +incarcerated in the smuggler's cave, in the company of a black beetle +of friendly temperament. + +GOVERNESS. Mercy! Mercy! + +1ST PIRATE. I should like to second that. + +CHIEF. Those in favour--ay! (They all say "Ay.") Contrary--No! (The +GOVERNESS says "No.") The motion is carried. + +(One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave. The GOVERNESS rushes +to the CHIEF and throws herself at his feet. OLIVER and JILL appear in +the nick of time.) + +OLIVER. A maiden in distress! I will rescue her. (She looks up and +OLIVER recognises her) Oh! Carry on, Commodore. + +(The GOVERNESS is lowered into the cave and the door is shut.) + +CHIEF (to his men). Go, find that black beetle, and having found it, +introduce it circumspectly by the back door. + +PIRATES. Ay, ay, sir. [They go out. + +OLIVER. All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to rescue +somebody. + +JILL (excitedly). Oo, rescue me, Oliver. + +CHIEF (solemnly). Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks, and Pest of +the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one. Wilt fight me +for the wench? (He puts an arm round JILL.) + +OLIVER. I will. + +CHIEF. Swords? + +OLIVER. Pistols. + +CHIEF. At twenty paces? + +OLIVER. Across a handkerchief. + +CHIEF. Done! (Feeling in his pockets) Have you got a handkerchief? I +think I must have left mine on the dressing-table. + +OLIVER (bringing out his and putting it hastily back again). Mine's +rather--Jill, haven't you got one? + +JILL (feeling). I know I had one, but I---- + +CHIEF. This is an ill business. Five-and-thirty duels have I +fought--and never before been delayed for lack of a handkerchief. + +JILL. Ah, here it is. (She produces a very small one and lays it on +the ground. They stand one each side of it, pistols ready.) + +OLIVER. Jill, you must give the word. JILL. Are you ready? + +(The sound of a gong is heard.) + +CHIEF. Listen! (The gong is heard again) The Spanish Fleet is engaged! + +JILL. _I_ thought it was our tea gong. + +CHIEF. Ah, perhaps you're right. + +OLIVER. I say, we oughtn't to miss tea. (Holding out his hand to her) +Come on, Jill. + +CHIEF. But you'll come back? We shall always be waiting here for you +whenever you want us. + +JILL. Yes, we'll come back, won't we, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oo, rather. + +(The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and Dusky +Maidens, come on. They sing as they wave good-bye to the children who +are making their way to the boat.) + +JILL (from the boat). Good-bye, good-bye. + +OLIVER. Good-bye, you chaps. + +JILL (politely). And thank you all for a very pleasant afternoon. + + [They are all singing as the boat pushes off. Night comes on with + tropical suddenness. The singing dies slowly down. + + + + +ACT III.--FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE HUBBARD FAMILY + + +SCENE I.--The drawing-room of the HUBBARDS before Fame and Prosperity +came to them. It is simply furnished with a deal table and two cane +chairs. + +MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, in faultless evening dress, are at home, MR. +HUBBARD reading a magazine, MRS. HUBBARD with her hands in her lap. +She sighs. + +MR. HUBBARD (impetuously throwing down his magazine). Dearest, you +sighed? + +MRS. HUBBARD (quickly). No, no, Henry. In a luxurious and +well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh? + +MR. HUBBARD. True, dear. Not only is it artistically furnished, as you +say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all things--(he +lifts up the magazine)--a library. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful for. + +MR. HUBBARD. We have indeed. But I am selfish. Would you care to read? +(He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to her.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry. + +(They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs again.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves you. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me. + +MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully). Isabel? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she comes +after Harold? + +MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers). A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I--dear +me, have we got nine already? + +MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly). Darling, say you don't think it's too +many. + +MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it isn't as +if they were real children. + +MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly). Henry! How can you say they are not real? + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they're only the children we thought we'd +like to have if Father Christmas gave us any. + +MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here in the +house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis, pretty Elsie +with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired Frank-- + +MR. HUBBARD (firmly). Darling one, Frank has curly brown hair. It was +an understood thing that you should choose the girls, and _I_ should +choose the boys. When we decided to take--A, B, C, D, E, F--a sixth +child, it was my turn for a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly +brown hair and a fondness for animals. + +MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you're right, dear. Of course it is a little +confusing when you never see your children. + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will give +us some. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our +stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a +diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order +would be something. + +MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the chimney +has not been swept for some years may have something to do with it. Or +he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot help feeling +that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this way he would be +very much annoyed. + +MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I am +standing up in--I mean sitting down in. + +MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of us in +the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening dress. We +are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately cuts us off in +this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go on reading or would +you like to walk up and down the room? Fortunately these simple +pleasures are left to us. + +MRS. HUBBARD. I've finished this page. + +MR. HUBBARD (tearing out one). Have another, my love. (They read for a +little while, until interrupted by a knock at the door.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Some one at the door! Who could it be? + +MR. HUBBARD (getting up). Just make the room look a little more homey, +dear, in case it's any one important. + +(He goes out, leaving her to alter the position of the chairs +slightly.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Well? + +MR. HUBBARD (coming in). A letter. (He opens it.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Quick! + +MR. HUBBARD (whistling with surprise). Father Christmas! An invitation +to Court! (Reading) "Father Christmas at Home, 25th December. +Jollifications, 11.59 P.M." My love, he has found us at last! (They +embrace each other.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry, how gratifying! + +MR. HUBBARD. Yes. (Sadly, after a pause) But we can't go. + +MRS. HUBBARD (sadly). No, I have no clothes. + +MR. HUBBARD. Nor I. + +MRS. HUBBARD. How can I possibly go without a diamond necklace? None +of the Montmorency-Smythe women has ever been to Court without a +diamond necklace. + +MR. HUBBARD. The Hubbards are a proud race. No male Hubbard would +dream of appearing at Court without a gentleman's gold Albert +watch-chain. . . . Besides, there is another thing. There will be many +footmen at Father Christmas's Court, who will doubtless require +coppers pressed into their palms. My honour would be seriously +affected, were I compelled to whisper to them that I had no coppers. + +MRS. HUBBARD. It is very unfortunate. Father Christmas may have +hundreds of presents waiting for us. + +MR. HUBBARD. True. But how would it be to hang up our stockings again +this evening--now that we know he knows we are here? I would suggest +tied on to the door-knocker, to save him the trouble of coming down +the chimney. + +MRS. HUBBARD (excitedly). Henry, I wonder! But of course we will. + +(They begin to take off--the one a sock, the other a stocking.) + +MR. HUBBARD. I almost wish now that my last suit had been a +knickerbocker one. However, we must do what we can with a sock. + +MRS. HUBBARD (holding up her stocking and looking at it a little +anxiously). I hope Father Christmas won't give me a bicycle. A +stocking never sets so well after it has had a bicycle in it. + +MR. HUBBARD (taking it from her). Now, dear, I will go down and put +them in position. Let us hope that fortune will be kind to us. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Let us hope so, darling. And quickly. For (picking up +her page of the magazine) it is a trifle cold. + + [He goes out and she is left reading. + + + +SCENE II.--Outside the house the snow lies deep. The stocking and sock +are tied on to the door-knocker. There is a light in the window. + +A party of carol-singers, with lanterns, come by and halt in the snow +outside the house. + +PETER ABLEWAYS. Friends, are we all assembled? + +JONAS HUMPHREY. Ay, ay, Peter Ableways, assembled and met together in +a congregation, for the purpose of lifting up our voices in joyous +thanksgiving, videlicet the singing of a carol or other wintry melody. + +JENNIFER LING. Keep your breath for your song, Master Humphrey. That +last "Alleluia" of yours was a poor windy thing, lacking grievously in +substance. + +JONAS (sadly). It is so. I never made much of an Alleluia. It is not +in my nature somehow. 'Tis a vain boastful thing an Alleluia. + +MARTHA PORRITT. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are +cold. + +JONAS. What matter the feet, Martha Porritt, if the heart be warm with +loving-kindness and seasonable emotions? + +MARTHA. Well, nothing of me will be warm soon. + +JENNIFER. Ay, let's begin, Peter Ableways, while we carry the tune in +our heads. It is ill searching for the notes in the middle of the +carol, as some singers do. + +PETER. Well spoken, Mistress Jennifer. Now listen all, while I unfold +the nature of the entertainment. _Item_--A carol or birth song to draw +the attention of all folk to the company here assembled and the +occasion celebrated. _Item_--Applause and the clapping of hands. +_Item_--A carol or song of thanksgiving. _Item_--A collection. + +JONAS. An entertainment well devised, Master Ableways, sobeit the +words of the second song remain with me after I am delivered of the +first. + +MARTHA. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are cold. + +PETER. Are we all ready, friends? I will say one--two--three--and at +"three" I pray you all to give it off in a hearty manner from the +chest. One--two-- + +JONAS. Hold, hold, Master Ableways! Does it begin--No, that's the +other one. (JENNIFER whispers the first line to him) Ay, ay--I have it +now--and bursting to get out of me. Proceed, Peter Ableways. + +PETER. One--two--three--(They carol.) + +PETER. Well sung, all. + +HUMPHREY. The applause followed, good Master Peter, as ordained. +Moreover, I have the tune of the second song ready within me. Likewise +a la-la-la or two to replace such words as I have forgotten. + +MARTHA. Don't forget the collection, Master Ableways. + +PETER. Ay, the collection. (He takes off his hat and places it on the +ground.) + +HUMPHREY. Nay, not so fast, Master Peter. It would be ill if the good +folk thought that our success this night were to be estimated by an +empty hat. Place some of our money in it, Master Ableways. Where money +is, money will come. + +JENNIFER. Ay, it makes a pleasing clink. + +PETER. True, Mistress Jennifer. Master Humphrey speaks true. (He pours +some coppers from his pockets into his hat.) + +MARTHA. Are we to go on, Master Ableways? My feet are cold. + +PETER (shaking the hat). So, a warming noise. + +HUMPHREY. To it again, gentles. + +PETER. Are all ready? One--two--three! (They carol.) + +PETER. Well sung, all. + +HUMPHREY. Have you the hat, Master Peter? + +PETER (picking it up). Ay, friend, all is ready. + +(The door opens and MR. HUBBARD appears at the entrance.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Good evening, friends. + +PETER. Good evening, sir. (He holds out the hat.) + +MR. HUBBARD (looking at it). What is this? (PETER shakes it) Aha! +Money! + +PETER. Remember the carol singers, sir. + +MR. HUBBARD (helping himself). My dear friends, I will always remember +you. This is most generous. I shall never forget your kindness. This +is most unexpected. But not the less welcome, not the less--I think +there's a ha'penny down there that I missed--thank you. As I was +saying, unexpected but welcome. I thank you heartily. Good evening, +friends. + + [He goes in and shuts the door. + +PETER (who has been too surprised to do anything but keep his mouth +open). Well! . . . Well! . . . Well, friends, let us to the next house. We +have got all that we can get here. + + [They trail off silently. + +MARTHA (as they go off). Master Ableways! + +PETER. Ay, lass! + +MARTHA. My feet aren't so cold now. + +(But this is to be an exciting night. As soon as they are gone, a +Burglar and a Burglaress steal into view) + +BILL. Wotcher get, Liz? (She holds up a gold watch and chain. He nods +and holds up a diamond necklace) 'Ow's that? + +LIZ (starting suddenly). H'st! + +BILL (in a whisper). What is it? + +LIZ. Copper! + +BILL (desperately). 'Ere, quick, get rid of these. 'Ide 'em in the +snow, or--- + +LIZ. Bill! (He turns round) Look! (She points to the stocking and sock +hanging up) We can come back for 'em as soon as 'e's gone. + +(BILL looks at them, and back at her, and grins. He drops the necklace +into one and the watch into the other. As the POLICEMAN approaches +they strike up, "While shepherds watched their flock by night," with +an air of great enthusiasm.) + +POLICEMAN. Now then, move along there. + +(They move along. The POLICEMAN flashes his light on the door to see +that all is well. The stocking and sock are revealed. He beams +sentimentally at them.) + + +SCENE III.--We are inside the house again. MRS. HUBBARD is still +reading a page of the magazine. In dashes MR. HUBBARD with the sock +and stocking. + +MR. HUBBARD. My darling, what do you think? Father Christmas has sent +you a little present. (He hands her the stocking.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Has he sent you one too? + +MR. HUBBARD (holding up his sock). Observe! + +MRS. HUBBARD. How sweet of him! I wonder what mine is. What is yours, +darling? + +MR. HUBBARD. I haven't looked yet, my love. Perhaps just a few nuts or +something of that sort, with a card attached saying, "To wish you the +old, old wish." We must try not to be disappointed, whatever it is, +darling. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, Henry. After all, it is the kindly thought +which really matters. + +MR. HUBBARD. Certainly. All the same, I hope--Will you look in yours, +dear, first, or shall I? + +MRS. HUBBARD. I think I should like to, darling. (Feeling it) It feels +so exciting. (She brings out a diamond necklace) Henry! + +MR. HUBBARD. My love! (They embrace) Now you will be able to go to +Court. You must say that your husband is unfortunately in bed with a +bad cold. You can tell me all about it when you come home. I shall be +able to amuse myself with--(He is feeling in his sock while talking, +and now brings out the watch and chain.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! My love! + +MR. HUBBARD. A gentleman's gold hunter and Albert watch-chain. My +darling! + +(They put down their presents on the table and embrace each other +again.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Let's put them on at once, Henry, and see how they suit +us. + +MR. HUBBARD. Allow me, my love. (He fastens her necklace.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (happily). Now I feel really dressed again! Oh, I wish we +had a looking-glass. + +MR. HUBBARD (opening his gold watch). Try in here, my darling. + +MRS. HUBBARD (surveying herself). How perfectly sweet! . . . Now let me +put your watch-chain on for you, dear. (She arranges it for him--HENRY +very proud.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Does it suit me, darling? + +MRS. HUBBARD. You look fascinating, Henry! + +(They strut about the room with an air.) + +MR. HUBBARD (taking out his watch and-looking at it ostentatiously). +Well, well, we ought to be starting. My watch makes it 11.58. (He +holds it to her ear) Hasn't it got a sweet tick? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Sweet! But starting where, Henry? Do you mean we can +really--But you haven't any money. + +MR. HUBBARD. Money? (Taking out a handful) Heaps of it. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Father Christmas? + +MR. HUBBARD. Undoubtedly, my love. Brought round to the front door +just now by some of his messengers. By the way, dear--(indicating the +sock and stocking)--hadn't we better put these on before we start? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course. How silly of me! + +(They sit down and put them on.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Really this is a very handsome watch-chain. + +MRS. HUBBARD. It becomes you admirably, Henry. + +MR. HUBBARD. Thank you, dear. There's just one little point. Father +Christmas is sometimes rather shy about acknowledging the presents he +gives. He hates being thanked. If, therefore, he makes any comment on +your magnificent necklace or my handsome watch-chain, we must say that +they have been in the family for some years. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, dear. (They get up.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, now we're ready. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, don't you think we might bring the +children? + +MR. HUBBARD. Of course, dear! How forgetful of me! . . . Children--'shun! +(Listen! Their heels click as they come to attention) Number! (Their +voices--alternate boy and girl, one to nine--are heard) Right _turn_! + +MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, I almost seem to hear them! + +MR. HUBBARD. Are you ready, my love? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, Henry. + +MR. HUBBARD. Quick march! + +(The children are heard tramping off. Very proudly MR. and MRS. +HUBBARD bring up the rear.) + + +SCENE IV.--The Court of FATHER CHRISTMAS. Shall we describe it? No. +But there is everything there which any reasonable person could want, +from ices to catapults. And the decorations, done in candy so that you +can break off a piece whenever you are hungry, are superb. + +1ST USHER (from the back). Father Christmas! + +SEVERAL USHERS (from the front). Father Christmas! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (genially). Good evening, everybody. + +(I ought to have said that there are already some hundreds of people +there, though how some of them got invitations--but, after all, that +is not our business. Wishing to put them quite at their ease, FATHER +CHRISTMAS, who has a very creditable baritone, gives them a song. +After the applause which follows it, he retires to the throne at the +back, and awaits his more important guests. The USHERS take up their +places, one at the entrance, one close to the throne.) + +1ST USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard! (They come in.) + +MR. HUBBARD (pressing twopence into his palm). Thank you, my man, +thank you. + +2ND USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard. + +MR. HUBBARD (handing out another twopence). Not at all, my man, not at +all. + +(MRS. HUBBARD curtsies and MR. HUBBARD bows to FATHER CHRISTMAS.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. I am delighted to welcome you to my Court. How are +you both? + +MR. HUBBARD. Very well, thank you, sir. My wife has a slight cold in +one foot, owing to-- + +MRS. HUBBARD (hastily). A touch of gout, sir, inherited from my +ancestors, the Montmorency-Smythes. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. Dear me, it won't prevent you dancing, I hope? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Oh no, sir. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. That's right. We shall have a few more friends +coming in soon. You have been giving each other presents already, I +see. I congratulate you, madam, on your husband's taste. + +MRS. HUBBARD (touching her necklace). Oh no, this is a very old +heirloom of the Montmorency-Smythe family. + +MR. HUBBARD. An ancestress of Mrs. Hubbard's--a lady-in-waiting at the +Tottenham Court--at the Tudor Court--was fortunate enough to catch the +eye of--er-- + +MRS. HUBBARD. Elizabeth. + +MR. HUBBARD. Queen Elizabeth, and--er-- + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. I see. You are lucky, madam, to have such beautiful +jewels. (Turning to MR. HUBBARD) And this delightful gold Albert +watch-chain-- + +MR. HUBBARD. Presented to an ancestor of mine, Sir Humphrey de +Hubbard, at the battle of--er-- + +MRS. HUBBARD. Agincourt. + +MR. HUBBARD. As you say, dear, Agincourt. By King Richard the--I +should say William the--well, by the King. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How very interesting. + +MR. HUBBARD. Yes. My ancestor clove a scurvy knave from the chaps to +the chine. I don't quite know how you do that, but I gather that he +inflicted some sort of a scratch upon his adversary, and the King +rewarded him with this handsome watch-chain. + +USHERS (announcing). Mr. Robinson Crusoe! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +CRUSOE (bowing). I'm a little late, I'm afraid, sir. My raft was +delayed by adverse gales. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS introduces him to the HUBBARDS, who inform him that +the weather is very seasonable.) + +USHERS. Miss Riding Hood! (She comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +RIDING HOOD (curtseying). I hope I am in time, sir. I had to look in +on my grandmother on the way here. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS makes the necessary introductions.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (to CRUSOE). Do come and see me, Mr. Crusoe. Any Friday. +I should like your advice about my parrot. He's moulting in all the +wrong places. + +MR. HUBBARD (to RED RIDING HOOD). I don't know if you're interested in +wolves at all, Miss Hood. I heard a very good story about one the +other day. (He begins to tell it, but she has hurried away before he +can remember whether it was Thursday or Friday.) + +USHERS. Baron Bluebeard! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +BLUEBEARD (bowing). I trust you have not been waiting for me, sir. I +had a slight argument with my wife before starting, which delayed me +somewhat. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS forgives him.) + +USHERS. Princess Goldilocks! + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +GOLDILOCKS (curtseying). I brought the youngest bear with me--do you +mind? (She introduces the youngest bear to FATHER CHRISTMAS and the +other guests) Say, how do you do, darling? (To an USHER) Will you give +him a little porridge, please, and if you have got a nice bed where he +could rest a little afterwards--he gets tired so quickly. + +USHER. Certainly, your Royal Highness. + +(Music begins.) + +GOLDILOCKS (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Are we going to dance? How lovely! + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (to the HUBBARDS). You will dance, won't you? + +MRS. HUBBARD. I think not just at first, thank you. + +GOLDILOCKS (to CRUSOE). Come along! + +CRUSOE. I am a little out of practice--er--but if you don't +mind--er--(He comes.) + +BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). May I have the pleasure? + +MRS. HUBBARD (to RIDING HOOD). Be careful, dear; he has a very bad +reputation. + +RIDING HOOD (to BLUEBEARD). You don't eat people, do you? + +BLUEBEARD (pained by this injustice). Never! + +RIDING HOOD. Oh then, I don't mind. But I do hate being eaten. + +(Now we can't possibly describe the whole dance to you, for in every +corner of the big ballroom couples were revolving and sliding, and +making small talk with each other. So we will just take two specimen +conversations.) + +CRUSOE (nervous, poor man). Princess Goldilocks, may I speak to you on +a matter of some importance to me? + +GOLDILOCKS. I wish you would. + +CRUSOE (looking across at BLUEBEARD and RED RIDING HOOD, who are +revolving close by). Alone. + +GOLDILOCKS (to BLUEBEARD). Do you mind? You can have your turn +afterwards. + +BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). Shall we adjourn to the Buffet? + +RIDING HOOD. Oh, do let's. [They adjourn. + +CRUSOE (bravely). Princess, I am a lonely man. + +GOLDILOCKS (encouragingly). Yes, Robinson? + +CRUSOE. I am not much of a one for society, and I don't quite know how +to put these things, but--er--if you would like to share my island, +I--I should so love to have you there. + +GOLDILOCKS. Oh, Robbie! + +CRUSOE (warming to it). I have a very comfortable house, and a +man-servant, and an excellent view from the south windows, and several +thousands of acres of good rough-shooting, and--oh, do say you'll +come! + +GOLDILOCKS. May I bring my bears with me? + +CRUSOE. Of course! I ought to have said that. I have a great fondness +for animals. + +GOLDILOCKS. How sweet of you! But perhaps I ought to warn you that we +all like porridge. Have you--- + +CRUSOE. I have a hundred acres of oats. + +GOLDILOCKS. Then, Robinson, I am yours. (They embrace) There! Now tell +me--did you make all your clothes yourself? + +CRUSOE (proudly). All of them. + +GOLDILOCKS (going off with him). How wonderful of you! Really you +hardly seem to want a wife. + + [They go out. Now it is the other couple's turn. + +Enter, then, BLUEBEARD and RIDING HOOD + +BLUEBEARD. Perhaps I ought to tell you at once, Miss Riding Hood, that +I have been married before. + +RIDING HOOD. Yes? + +BLUEBEARD. My last wife unfortunately died just before I started out +here this evening. + +RIDING HOOD (calmly). Did you kill her? + +BLUEBEARD (taken aback). I--I--I-- + +RIDING HOOD. Are you quite a nice man, Bluebeard? + +BLUEBEARD. W-what do you mean? I am a very _rich_ man. If you will +marry me, you will live in a wonderful castle, full of everything that +you want. + +RIDING HOOD. That will be rather jolly. + +BLUEBEARD (dramatically) But there is one room into which you must +never go. (Holding up a key) Here is the key of it. (He offers it to +her.) + +RIDING HOOD (indifferently) But if I'm never to go into it, I shan't +want the key. + +BLUEBEARD (upset). You--you _must_ have the key. + +RIDING HOOD. Why? + +BLUEBEARD. The--the others all had it. + +RIDING HOOD (coldly). Bluebeard, you aren't going to talk about your +_other_ wives all the time, are you? + +BLUEBEARD. N--no. + +RIDING HOOD. Then don't be silly. And take this key, and go and tidy +up that ridiculous room of yours, and when it's nice and clean, and +when you've shaved off that absurd beard, perhaps I'll marry you. + +BLUEBEARD (furiously drawing his sword). Madam! + +RIDING HOOD. Don't do it here. You'll want some hot water. + +BLUEBEARD (trying to put his sword back). This is too much, this is-- + +RIDING HOOD. You're putting it in the wrong way round. + +BLUEBEARD (stiffly). Thank you. (He manages to get it in.) + +RIDING HOOD. Well, do you want to marry me? + +BLUEBEARD. Yes! + +RIDING HOOD. Sure? + +BLUEBEARD (admiringly). More than ever. You're the first woman I've +met who hasn't been afraid of me. + +RIDING HOOD (surprised). Are you very alarming? Wolves frighten me +sometimes, but not just silly men. . . . (Giving him her hand) All right +then. But you'll do what I said? + +BLUEBEARD. Beloved one, I will do anything for you. + +(CRUSOE and GOLDILOCKS come back. Probably it will occur to the four +of them to sing a song indicative of the happy family life awaiting +them. On the other hand they may prefer to dance. . . .) + +But enough of this. Let us get on to the great event of the evening. +Ladies and gentlemen, are you all assembled? Then silence, please, for +FATHER CHRISTMAS. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to +see you here at my Court this evening; and in particular my friends +Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, of whom I have been too long neglectful. +However, I hope to make up for it to-night. (To an USHER) Disclose the +Christmas Tree! + +(The Christmas Tree is disclosed, and--what do you think? Children +disguised as crackers are hanging from every branch! Well, I never!) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (quite calmly). Distribute the presents! + +(An USHER takes down the children one by one and places them in a row, +reading from the labels on them. "MRS. HUBBARD, MR. HUBBARD" +alternately.) + +USHER (handing list to MR. HUBBARD). Here is the nominal roll, sir. + +MR. HUBBARD (looking at it in amazement). What's this? (MRS. HUBBARD +looks over his shoulder) Ada, Bertram, Caroline--My darling one! + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Our children at last! Oh, are they all--_all_ +there? + +MR. HUBBARD. We'll soon see, dear. Ada! + +ADA (springing to attention). Father! (She stands at ease.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Bertram! . . . (And so on up to ELSIE) . . . Frank! + +FRANK. Father! + +MR. HUBBARD. There you are, darling, I told you he had curly brown +hair. . . . Gwendoline! (And so on.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Oh thank you so much. It is sweet +of you. + +MR. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). We are slightly overcome. Do you +mind if we just dance it off. (FATHER CHRISTMAS nods genially.) Come +on, children! + +(He holds out his hands, and he and his wife and the children dance +round in a ring singing, "Here we go round the Christmas Tree, all on +a Christmas evening. . . .") + +(And then--But at this moment JAMES and ROSEMARY and the HUBBARD +children stopped thinking, so of course the play came to an end. And +if there were one or two bits in it which the children didn't quite +understand, that was JAMES'S fault. He never ought to have been +thinking at all, really.) + + + + +MR. PIM PASSES BY + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + + +CHARACTERS + + +GEORGE MARDEN, J.P. +OLIVIA (his wife). +DINAH (his niece). +LADY MARDEN (his aunt). +BRIAN STRANGE. +CARRAWAY PIM. +ANNE. + + + * * * * * + +The first performance of this play in London took place at the New +Theatre on January 5, 1920, with the following cast: + + +George Marden--BEN WEBSTER. +Olivia--IRENE VANBRUGH. +Dinah--GEORGETTE COHAN. +Lady Marden--ETHEL GRIFFIES. +Brian Strange--LESLIE HOWARD. +Carraway Pim--DION BOUCICAULT. +Anne--ETHEL WELLESLEY. + + + + +MR. PIM PASSES BY + +ACT I + + +(The morning-room at Marden House (Buckinghamshire) decided more than +a hundred years ago that it was all right, and has not bothered about +itself since. Visitors to the house have called the result such +different adjectives as "mellow" "old-fashioned," "charming"--even +"baronial" and "antique"; but nobody ever said it was "exciting." +Sometimes OLIVIA wants it to be more exciting, and last week she let +herself go over some new curtains. At present they are folded up and +waiting for her; she still has the rings to put on. It is obvious that +the curtains alone will overdo the excitement; they will have to be +harmonised with a new carpet and cushions. OLIVIA has her eye on just +the things, but one has to go carefully with GEORGE. What was good +enough for his great-great-grandfather is good enough for him. +However, we can trust OLIVIA to see him through it, although it may +take time.) + +(There are two ways of coming into the room; by the open windows +leading from the terrace or by the door. On this pleasant July morning +MR. PIM chooses the latter way--or rather ANNE chooses it for him; and +old MR. PIM, wistful, kindly, gentle, little MR. PIM, living in some +world of his own whither we cannot follow, ambles after her.) + +ANNE. I'll tell Mr. Marden you're here, sir. Mr. Pim, isn't it? + +PIM (coming back to this world). Yes--er--Mr. Carraway Pim. He doesn't +know me, you understand, but if he could just see me for a +moment--er--(He fumbles in his pockets) I gave you that letter? + +ANNE. Yes, sir, I'll give it to him. + +PIM (bringing out a letter which is not the one he was looking for, +but which reminds him of something else he has forgotten). Dear me! + +ANNE. Yes, sir? + +PIM. I ought to have sent a telegram, but I can do it on my way back. +You have a telegraph office in the village? + +ANNE. Oh yes, sir. If you turn to the left when you get outside the +gates, it isn't more than a hundred yards down the hill. + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. Very stupid of me to have forgotten. + + [ANNE goes out. + +(MR. PIM wanders about the room humming to himself, and looking +vaguely at the pictures. He has his back to the door as DINAH comes +in. She is nineteen, very pretty, very happy, and full of boyish high +spirits and conversation.) + +DINAH. Hullo! + +PIM (turning round). Ah, good morning, Mrs. Marden. You must forgive +my--er-- + +DINAH. Oh I say, I'm not Mrs. Marden. I'm Dinah. + +PIM (with a bow). Then I will say, Good morning, Miss Diana. + +DINAH (reproachfully). Now, look here, if you and I are going to be +friends you mustn't do that. Dinah, _not_ Diana. Do remember it, +there's a good man, because I get so tired of correcting people. Have +you come to stay with us? + +PIM. Well no, Miss--er--Dinah. + +DINAH (nodding). That's right. I can see I shan't have to speak to +_you_ again. Now tell me _your_ name, and I bet you I get it right +first time. And do sit down. + +PIM (sitting down). Thank you. My name is--er--Pim, Carraway Pim-- + +DINAH. Pim, that's easy. + +PIM. And I have a letter of introduction to your father-- + +DINAH. Oh no; now you're going wrong again, Mr. Pim. George isn't my +father; he's my uncle. _Uncle_ George--he doesn't like me calling him +George. Olivia doesn't mind--I mean she doesn't mind being called +Olivia, but George is rather touchy. You see, he's been my guardian +since I was about two, and then about five years ago he married a +widow called Mrs. Telworthy--that's Olivia--so she became my Aunt +Olivia, only she lets me drop the Aunt. Got that? + +PIM (a little alarmed). I--I think so, Miss Marden. + +DINAH (admiringly). I say, you _are_ quick, Mr. Pim. Well, if you take +my advice, when you've finished your business with George, you will +hang about a bit and see if you can't see Olivia. She's simply +devastating. I don't wonder George fell in love with her. + +PIM. It's only the merest matter of business--just a few minutes with +your uncle--I'm afraid I shall hardly-- + +DINAH. Well, you must please yourself, Mr. Pim. I'm just giving you a +friendly word of advice. Naturally, I was awfully glad to get such a +magnificent aunt, because, of course, marriage _is_ rather a toss up, +isn't it, and George might have gone off with anybody. It's different +on the stage, where guardians always marry their wards, but George +couldn't marry _me_ because I'm his niece. Mind you, I don't say that +I should have had him, because between ourselves he's a little bit +old-fashioned. + +PIM. So he married--er--Mrs. Marden instead. + +DINAH. Mrs. Telworthy--don't say you've forgotten already, just when +you were getting so good at names. Mrs. Telworthy. You see, Olivia +married the Telworthy man and went to Australia with him, and he drank +himself to death in the bush, or wherever you drink yourself to death +out there, and Olivia came home to England, and met my uncle, and he +fell in love with her and proposed to her, and he came into my room +that night--I was about fourteen--and turned on the light and said, +"Dinah, how would you like to have a beautiful aunt of your very own?" +And I said: "Congratulations, George." That was the first time I +called him George. Of course, I'd seen it coming for _weeks_. +Telworthy, isn't it a funny name? + +PIM. Very singular. From Australia, you say? + +DINAH. Yes, I always say that he's probably still alive, and will turn +up here one morning and annoy George, because that's what first +husbands always do in books, but I'm afraid there's not much chance. + +PIM (shocked). Miss Marden! + +DINAH. Well, of course, I don't really _want_ it to happen, but it +_would_ be rather exciting, wouldn't it? However, things like that +never seem to occur down here, somehow. There was a hay-rick burnt +last year about a mile away, but that isn't quite the same thing, is +it? + +PIM. No, I should say that that was certainly different. + +DINAH. Of course, something very, very wonderful did happen last +night, but I'm not sure if I know you well enough---- (She looks at +him hesitatingly.) + +PIM (uncomfortably). Really, Miss Marden, I am only a--a passer-by, +here to-day and gone to-morrow. You really mustn't---- + +DINAH. And yet there's something about you, Mr. Pim, which inspires +confidence. The fact is--(in a stage whisper)--I got engaged last +night! + +PIM. Dear me, let me congratulate you. + +DINAH. I expect that's why George is keeping you such a long time. +Brian, my young man, the well-known painter--only nobody has ever +heard of him--he's smoking a pipe with George in the library and +asking for his niece's hand. Isn't it exciting? You're really rather +lucky, Mr. Pim--I mean being told so soon. Even Olivia doesn't know +yet. + +PIM (getting up). Yes, yes. I congratulate you, Miss Marden. Perhaps +it would be better---- + + [ANNE comes in. + +ANNE. Mr. Marden is out at the moment, sir---- Oh, I didn't see you, +Miss Dinah. + +DINAH. It's all right, Anne. _I'm_ looking after Mr. Pim. + +ANNE. Yes, Miss. + + [She goes out. + +DINAH (excitedly). That's me. They can't discuss me in the library +without breaking down, so they're walking up and down outside, and +slashing at the thistles in order to conceal their emotion. _You_ +know. I expect Brian---- + +PIM (looking at his watch). Yes, I think, Miss Marden, I had better go +now and return a little later. I have a telegram which I want to send, +and perhaps by the time I came back---- + +DINAH. Oh, but how disappointing of you, when we were getting on +together so nicely. And it was just going to be your turn to tell me +all about _your_self. + +PIM. I have really nothing to tell, Miss Marden. I have a letter of +introduction to Mr. Marden, who in turn will give me, I hope, a letter +to a certain distinguished man whom it is necessary for me to meet. +That is all. (Holding out his hand) And now, Miss Marden---- + +DINAH. Oh, I'll start you on your way to the post office. I want to +know if you're married, and all that sort of thing. You've got heaps +to tell me, Mr. Pim. Have you got your hat? That's right. Then +we'll--hullo, here's Brian. + +(BRIAN STRANGE comes in at the windows. He is what GEORGE calls a +damned futuristic painter-chap, aged twenty-four. To look at, he is a +very pleasant boy, rather untidily dressed.) + +BRIAN (nodding). How do you do? + +DINAH (seizing him). Brian, this is Mr. Pim. Mr. Carraway Pim. He's +been telling me all about himself. It's so interesting. He's just +going to send a telegram, and then he's coming back again. Mr. Pim, +this is Brian--_you_ know. + +BRIAN (smiling and shaking hands). How do you do? + +DINAH (pleadingly). You _won't_ mind going to the post office by +yourself, will you, because, you see, Brian and I--(she looks lovingly +at BRIAN). + +PIM (because they are so young). Miss Dinah and Mr.--er--Brian, I have +only come into your lives for a moment, and it is probable that I +shall now pass out of them for ever, but you will allow an old man---- + +DINAH. Oh, not old! + +PIM (chuckling happily). Well, a middle-aged man--to wish you both +every happiness in the years that you have before you. Good-bye, +good-bye. + + [He disappears gently through the windows. + +DINAH. Brian, he'll get lost if he goes that way. + +BRIAN (going to the windows and calling after him). Round to the left, +sir. . . . That's right. (He comes back into the room) Rum old bird. Who +is he? + +DINAH. Darling, you haven't kissed me yet. + +BRIAN (taking her in his arms). I oughtn't to, but then one never +ought to do the nice things. + +DINAH. Why oughtn't you? + +(They sit on the sofa together.) + +BRIAN. Well, we said we'd be good until we'd told your uncle and aunt +all about it. You see, being a guest in their house---- + +DINAH. But, darling child, what _have_ you been doing all this morning +_except_ telling George? + +BRIAN. _Trying_ to tell George. + +DINAH (nodding). Yes, of course, there's a difference. + +BRIAN. I think he guessed there was something up, and he took me down +to see the pigs--he said he had to see the pigs at once--I don't know +why; an appointment perhaps. And we talked about pigs all the way, and +I couldn't say, "Talking about pigs, I want to marry your niece----" + +DINAH (with mock indignation). Of course you couldn't. + +BRIAN. No. Well, you see how it was. And then when we'd finished +talking about pigs, we started talking _to_ the pigs---- + +DINAH (eagerly). Oh, _how_ is Arnold? + +BRIAN. The little black-and-white one? He's very jolly, I believe, but +naturally I wasn't thinking about him much. I was wondering how to +begin. And then Lumsden came up, and wanted to talk pig-food, and the +atmosphere grew less and less romantic, and--and I gradually drifted +away. + +DINAH. Poor darling. Well, we shall have to approach him through +Olivia. + +BRIAN. But I always wanted to tell her first; she's so much easier. +Only you wouldn't let me. + +DINAH. That's _your_ fault, Brian. You would tell Olivia that she +ought to have orange-and-black curtains. + +BRIAN. But she _wants_ orange-and-black curtains. + +DINAH. Yes, but George says he's not going to have any futuristic +nonsense in an honest English country house, which has been good +enough for his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather, +and--and all the rest of them. So there's a sort of strained feeling +between Olivia and George just now, and if Olivia were to--sort of +recommend you, well, it wouldn't do you much good. + +BRIAN (looking at her). I see. Of course I know what _you_ want, +Dinah. + +DINAH. What do I want? + +BRIAN. You want a secret engagement, and notes left under door-mats, +and meetings by the withered thorn, when all the household is asleep. +_I_ know you. + +DINAH. Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered +thorns. + +BRIAN. Well, I'm not going to have it. + +DINAH (childishly). Oh, George! Look at us being husbandy! + +BRIAN. You babe! I adore you. (He kisses her and holds her away from +him and looks at her) You know, you're rather throwing yourself away +on me. Do you mind? + +DINAH. Not a bit. + +BRIAN. We shall never be rich, but we shall have lots of fun, and meet +interesting people, and feel that we're doing something worth doing, +and not getting paid nearly enough for it, and we can curse the +Academy together and the British Public, and--oh, it's an exciting +life. + +DINAH (seeing it). I shall love it. + +BRIAN. I'll make you love it. You shan't be sorry, Dinah. + +DINAH. You shan't be sorry either, Brian. + +BRIAN (looking at her lovingly). Oh, I know I shan't. . . . What will +Olivia think about it? Will she be surprised? + +DINAH. She's never surprised. She always seems to have thought of +things about a week before they happen. George just begins to get hold +of them about a week _after_ they've happened. (Considering him) After +all, there's no reason why George _shouldn't_ like you, darling. + +BRIAN. I'm not his sort, you know. + +DINAH. You're more Olivia's sort. Well, we'll tell Olivia this +morning. + +OLIVIA (coming in). And what are you going to tell Olivia this +morning? (She looks at them with a smile) Oh, well, I think I can +guess. + +(Shall we describe OLIVIA? But you will know all about her before the +day is over.) + +DINAH (jumping up). Olivia, darling! + +BRIAN (following). Say you understand, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Mrs. Marden, I am afraid, is a very dense person, Brian, but I +think if you asked Olivia if she understood---- + +BRIAN. Bless you, Olivia. I knew you'd be on our side. + +DINAH. Of course she would. + +OLIVIA. I don't know if it's usual to kiss an aunt-in-law, Brian, but +Dinah is such a very special sort of niece that--(she inclines her +cheek and BRIAN kisses it). + +DINAH. I say, you _are_ in luck to-day, Brian. + +OLIVIA (going over to her chair by the work-table and getting to +business with the curtains) And how many people have been told the +good news? + +BRIAN. Nobody yet. + +DINAH. Except Mr. Pim. + +BRIAN. Oh, does _he_-- + +OLIVIA. Who's Mr. Pim? + +DINAH. Oh, he just happened--I say, are those _the_ curtains? Then +you're going to have them after all? + +OLIVIA (with an air of surprise). After all what? But I decided on +them long ago. (to BRIAN) You haven't told George yet? + +BRIAN. I began to, you know, but I never got any farther than +"Er--there's just--er--" + +DINAH. George _would_ talk about pigs all the time. + +OLIVIA. Well, I suppose you want me to help you. + +DINAH. Do, darling. + +BRIAN. It would be awfully decent of you. Of course, I'm not quite his +sort really-- + +DINAH. You're _my_ sort. + +BRIAN. But I don't think he objects to me, and-- + +(GEORGE comes in, a typical, narrow-minded, honest country gentleman +of forty odd.) + +GEORGE (at the windows). What's all this about a Mr. Pim? (He kicks +some of the mud off his boots) Who is he? Where is he? I had most +important business with Lumsden, and the girl comes down and cackles +about a Mr. Pim, or Ping, or something. Where did I put his card? +(Bringing it out) Carraway Pim. Never heard of him in my life. + +DINAH. He said he had a letter of introduction, Uncle George. + +GEORGE. Oh, _you_ saw him, did you? Yes, that reminds me, there _was_ +a letter--(he brings it out and reads it). + +DINAH. He had to send a telegram. He's coming back. + +OLIVIA. Pass me those scissors, Brian. + +BRIAN. These? (He picks them up and comes close to her.) + +OLIVIA. Thank you. (She indicates GEORGE'S back. "Now?" says BRIAN +with his eyebrows. She nods.) + +GEORGE (reading). Ah well, a friend of Brymer's. Glad to oblige him. +Yes, I know the man he wants. Coming back, you say, Dinah? Then I'll +be going back. Send him down to the farm, Olivia, when he comes. (to +BRIAN) Hallo, what happened to _you_? + +OLIVIA. Don't go, George, there's something we want to talk about. + +GEORGE. Hallo, what's this? + +BRIAN (to OLIVIA). Shall I----? + +OLIVIA. Yes. + +BRIAN (stepping out). I've been wanting to tell you all this morning, +sir, only I didn't seem to have an opportunity of getting it out. + +GEORGE. Well, what is it? + +BRIAN. I want to marry Dinah, sir. + +GEORGE. You want to marry Dinah? God bless my soul! + +DINAH (rushing to him and putting her cheek against his coat). Oh, do +say you like the idea, Uncle George. + +GEORGE. Like the idea! Have you heard of this nonsense, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. They've just this moment told me, George. I think they would +be happy together. + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). And what do you propose to be happy together _on_? + +BRIAN. Well, of course, it doesn't amount to much at present, but we +shan't starve. + +DINAH. Brian got fifty pounds for a picture last March! + +GEORGE (a little upset by this). Oh! (Recovering gamely) And how many +pictures have you sold since? + +BRIAN. Well, none, but-- + +GEORGE. None! And I don't wonder. Who the devil is going to buy +pictures with triangular clouds and square sheep? And they call that +Art nowadays! Good God, man, (waving him to the windows) go outside +and _look_ at the clouds! + +OLIVIA. If he draws round clouds in future, George, will you let him +marry Dinah? + +GEORGE. What--what? Yes, of course, you _would_ be on his side--all +this Futuristic nonsense. I'm just taking these clouds as an example. +I suppose I can see as well as any man in the county, and I say that +clouds _aren't_ triangular. + +BRIAN. After all, sir, at my age one is naturally experimenting, and +trying to find one's (with a laugh)--well, it sounds priggish, but +one's medium of expression. I shall find out what I want to do +directly, but I think I shall always be able to earn enough to live +on. Well, I have for the last three years. + +GEORGE. I see, and now you want to experiment with a wife, and you +propose to start experimenting with _my_ niece? + +BRIAN (with a shrug). Well, of course, if you-- + +OLIVIA. You could help the experiment, darling, by giving Dinah a good +allowance until she's twenty-one. + +GEORGE. Help the experiment! I don't _want_ to help the experiment. + +OLIVIA (apologetically). Oh, I thought you did. + +GEORGE. You will talk as if I was made of money. What with taxes +always going up and rents always going down, it's as much as we can do +to rub along as we are, without making allowances to everybody who +thinks she wants to get married. (to BRIAN) And that's thanks to you, +my friend. + +BRIAN (surprised) To me? + +OLIVIA. You never told me, darling. What's Brian been doing? + +DINAH (indignantly). He hasn't been doing anything. + +GEORGE. He's one of your Socialists who go turning the country upside +down. + +OLIVIA. But even Socialists must get married sometimes. + +GEORGE. I don't see any necessity. + +OLIVIA. But you'd have nobody to damn after dinner, darling, if they +all died out. + +BRIAN. Really, sir, I don't see what my politics and my art have got +to do with it. I'm perfectly ready not to talk about either when I'm +in your house, and as Dinah doesn't seem to object to them-- + +DINAH. I should think she doesn't. + +GEORGE. Oh, you can get round the women, I daresay. + +BRIAN. Well, it's Dinah I want to marry and live with. So what it +really comes to is that you don't think I can support a wife. + +GEORGE. Well, if you're going to do it by selling pictures, I don't +think you can. + +BRIAN. All right, tell me how much you want me to earn in a year, and +I'll earn it. + +GEORGE (hedging). It isn't merely a question of money. I just mention +that as one thing--one of the important things. In addition to that, I +think you are both too young to marry. I don't think you know your own +minds, and I am not at all persuaded that, with what I venture to call +your outrageous tastes, you and my niece will live happily together. +Just because she thinks she loves you, Dinah may persuade herself now +that she agrees with all you say and do, but she has been properly +brought up in an honest English country household, and--er--she--well, +in short, I cannot at all approve of any engagement between you. +(Getting up) Olivia, if this Mr.--er--Pim comes, I shall be down at +the farm. You might send him along to me. + +(He walks towards the windows.) + +BRIAN (indignantly). Is there any reason why I shouldn't marry a girl +who has been properly brought up? + +GEORGE. I think you know my views, Strange. + +OLIVIA. George, wait a moment, dear. We can't quite leave it like +this. + +GEORGE. I have said all I want to say on the subject. + +OLIVIA. Yes, darling, but I haven't begun to say all that _I_ want to +say on the subject. + +GEORGE. Of course, if you have anything to say, Olivia, I will listen +to it; but I don't know that this is quite the time, or that you have +chosen--(looking darkly at the curtains)--quite the occupation likely +to--er--endear your views to me. + +DINAH (mutinously). I may as well tell you, Uncle George, that _I_ +have got a good deal to say, too. + +OLIVIA. I can guess what you are going to say, Dinah, and I think you +had better keep it for the moment. + +DINAH (meekly). Yes, Aunt Olivia. + +OLIVIA. Brian, you might take her outside for a walk. I expect you +have plenty to talk about. + +GEORGE. Now mind, Strange, no love-making. I put you on your honour +about that. + +BRIAN. I'll do my best to avoid it, sir. + +DINAH (cheekily). May I take his arm if we go up a hill? + +OLIVIA. I'm sure you'll know how to behave--both of you. + +BRIAN. Come on, then, Dinah. + +DINAH. Righto. + +GEORGE (as they go). And if you do see any clouds, Strange, take a +good look at them. (He chuckles to himself) Triangular clouds--I never +heard of such nonsense. (He goes back to his chair at the +writing-table) Futuristic rubbish. . . . Well, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Well, George? + +GEORGE. What are you doing? + +OLIVIA. Making curtains, George. Won't they be rather sweet? Oh, but I +forgot--you don't like them. + +GEORGE. I don't like them, and what is more, I don't mean to have them +in my house. As I told you yesterday, this is the house of a simple +country gentleman, and I don't want any of these new-fangled ideas in +it. + +OLIVIA. Is marrying for love a new-fangled idea? + +GEORGE. We'll come to that directly. None of you women can keep to the +point. What I am saying now is that the house of my fathers and +forefathers is good enough for me. + +OLIVIA. Do you know, George, I can hear one of your ancestors saying +that to his wife in their smelly old cave, when the new-fangled idea +of building houses was first suggested. "The Cave of my Fathers is--" + +GEORGE. That's ridiculous. Naturally we must have progress. But that's +just the point. (Indicating the curtains) I don't call this sort of +thing progress. It's--ah--retrogression. + +OLIVIA. Well, anyhow, it's pretty. + +GEORGE. There I disagree with you. And I must say once more that I +will not have them hanging in my house. + +OLIVIA. Very well, George. (But she goes on working.) + +GEORGE. That being so, I don't see the necessity of going on with +them. + +OLIVIA. Well, I must do something with them now I've got the material. +I thought perhaps I could sell them when they're finished--as we're so +poor. + +GEORGE. What do you mean--so poor? + +OLIVIA. Well, you said just now that you couldn't give Dinah an +allowance because rents had gone down. + +GEORGE (annoyed). Confound it, Olivia! Keep to the point! We'll talk +about Dinah's affairs directly. We're discussing our own affairs at +the moment. + +OLIVIA. But what is there to discuss? + +GEORGE. Those ridiculous things. + +OLIVIA. But we've finished that. You've said you wouldn't have them +hanging in your house, and I've said, "Very well, George." Now we can +go on to Dinah and Brian. + +GEORGE (shouting). But put these beastly things away. + +OLIVIA (rising and gathering up the curtains). Very well, George. (She +puts them away, slowly, gracefully. There is an uncomfortable silence. +Evidently somebody ought to apologise.) + +GEORGE (realising that he is the one). Er--look here, Olivia, old +girl, you've been a jolly good wife to me, and we don't often have +rows, and if I've been rude to you about this--lost my temper a bit +perhaps, what?--I'll say I'm sorry. May I have a kiss? + +OLIVIA (holding up her face). George, darling! (He kisses her.) Do you +love me? + +GEORGE. You know I do, old girl. + +OLIVIA. As much as Brian loves Dinah? + +GEORGE (stiffly). I've said all I want to say about that. (He goes +away from her.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, but there must be lots you want to say--and perhaps don't +like to. Do tell me, darling. + +GEORGE. What it comes to is this. I consider that Dinah is too young +to choose a husband for herself, and that Strange isn't the husband I +should choose for her. + +OLIVIA. You were calling him Brian yesterday. + +GEORGE. Yesterday I regarded him as a boy, now he wants me to look +upon him as a man. + +OLIVIA. He's twenty-four. + +GEORGE. And Dinah's nineteen. Ridiculous! + +OLIVIA. If he'd been a Conservative, and thought that clouds were +round, I suppose he'd have seemed older, somehow. + +GEORGE. That's a different point altogether. That has nothing to do +with his age. + +OLIVIA (innocently). Oh, I thought it had. + +GEORGE. What I am objecting to is these ridiculously early marriages +before either party knows its own mind, much less the mind of the +other party. Such marriages invariably lead to unhappiness. + +OLIVIA. Of course, _my_ first marriage wasn't a happy one. + +GEORGE. As you know, Olivia, I dislike speaking about your first +marriage at all, and I had no intention of bringing it up now, but +since you mention it--well, that is a case in point. + +OLIVIA (looking back at it). When I was eighteen, I was in love. Or +perhaps I only thought I was, and I don't know if I should have been +happy or not if I had married him. But my father made me marry a man +called Jacob Telworthy; and when things were too hot for him in +England--"too hot for him"--I think that was the expression we used in +those days--then we went to Australia, and I left him there, and the +only happy moment I had in all my married life was on the morning when +I saw in the papers that he was dead. + +GEORGE (very uncomfortable). Yes, yes, my dear, I know. You must have +had a terrible time. I can hardly bear to think about it. My only hope +is that I have made up to you for it in some degree. But I don't see +what bearing it has upon Dinah's case. + +OLIVIA. Oh, none, except that _my_ father _liked_ Jacob's political +opinions and his views on art. I expect that that was why he chose him +for me. + +GEORGE. You seem to think that I wish to choose a husband for Dinah. I +don't at all. Let her choose whom she likes as long as he can support +her and there's a chance of their being happy together. Now, with +regard to this fellow-- + +OLIVIA. You mean Brian? + +GEORGE. He's got no money, and he's been brought up in quite a +different way from Dinah. Dinah may be prepared to believe +that--er--all cows are blue, and that--er--waves are square, but she +won't go on believing it for ever. + +OLIVIA. Neither will Brian. + +GEORGE. Well, that's what I keep telling him, only he won't see it. +Just as I keep telling you about those ridiculous curtains. It seems +to me that I am the only person in the house with any eyesight left. + +OLIVIA. Perhaps you are, darling; but you must let us find out our own +mistakes for ourselves. At any rate, Brian is a gentleman; he loves +Dinah, Dinah loves him; he's earning enough to support himself, and +you are earning enough to support Dinah. I think it's worth risking, +George. + +GEORGE (stiffly). I can only say the whole question demands much more +anxious thought than you seem to have given it. You say that he is a +gentleman. He knows how to behave, I admit; but if his morals are as +topsy-turvy as his tastes and--er--politics, as I've no doubt they +are, then--er--In short, I do _not_ approve of Brian Strange as a +husband for my niece and ward. + +OLIVIA (looking at him thoughtfully). You _are_ a curious mixture, +George. You were so very unconventional when you married me, and +you're so very conventional when Brian wants to marry Dinah. . . . George +Marden to marry the widow of a convict! + +GEORGE. Convict! What do you mean? + +OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy, convict--I forget his number--surely I told +you all this, dear, when we got engaged? + +GEORGE. Never! + +OLIVIA. I told you how he carelessly put the wrong signature to a +cheque for a thousand pounds in England; how he made a little mistake +about two or three companies he'd promoted in Australia; and how-- + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, but you never told me he was _convicted_! + +OLIVIA. What difference does it make? + +GEORGE. My dear Olivia, if you can't see that--a convict! + +OLIVIA. So, you see, we needn't be too particular about our niece, +need we? + +GEORGE. I think we had better leave your first husband out of the +conversation altogether. I never wished to refer to him; I never wish +to hear about him again. I certainly had not realised that he was +actually--er--_convicted_ for his--er-- + +OLIVIA. Mistakes. + +GEORGE. Well, we needn't go into that. As for this other matter, I +don't for a moment take it seriously. Dinah is an exceptionally pretty +girl, and young Strange is a good-looking boy. If they are attracted +to each other, it is a mere outward attraction which I am convinced +will not lead to any lasting happiness. That must be regarded as my +last word in the matter, Olivia. If this Mr.--er--what was his name, +comes, I shall be down at the farm. + + [He goes out by the door. + +(Left alone, OLIVIA brings out her curtains again, and gets calmly to +work upon them.) + +(DINAH and BRIAN come in by the windows.) + +DINAH. Finished? + +OLIVIA. Oh no, I've got all these rings to put on. + +DINAH. I meant talking to George. + +BRIAN. We walked about outside-- + +DINAH. Until we heard him _not_ talking to you any more-- + +BRIAN. And we didn't kiss each other once. + +DINAH. Brian was very George-like. He wouldn't even let me tickle the +back of his neck. (She goes up suddenly to OLIVIA and kneels by her +and kisses her) Darling, being George-like is a very nice thing to +be--I mean a nice thing for other people to be--I mean--oh, you know +what I mean. But say that he's going to be decent about it. + +OLIVIA. Of course he is, Dinah. + +BRIAN. You mean he'll let me come here as--as-- + +DINAH. As my young man? + +OLIVIA. Oh, I think so. + +DINAH. Olivia, you're a wonder. Have you really talked him round? + +OLIVIA. I haven't said anything yet. But I daresay I shall think of +something. + +DINAH (disappointedly). Oh! + +BRIAN (making the best of it). After all, Dinah, I'm going back to +London to-morrow-- + +OLIVIA. You can be good for one more day, Dinah, and then when Brian +isn't here, we'll see what we can do. + +DINAH. Yes, but I didn't want him to go back to-morrow. + +BRIAN (sternly). Must. Hard work before me. Earn thousands a year. +Paint the Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey, life-size, including chains +of office; paint slice of haddock on plate. Copy Landseer for old +gentleman in Bayswater. Design antimacassar for middle-aged sofa in +Streatham. Earn a living for you, Dinah. + +DINAH (giggling). Oh, Brian, you're heavenly. What fun we shall have +when we're married. + +BRIAN (stiffly). Sir Brian Strange, R.A., if you please, Miss Marden. +Sir Brian Strange, R.A., writes: "Your Sanogene has proved a most +excellent tonic. After completing the third acre of my Academy picture +'The Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey' I was completely exhausted, but +one bottle of Sanogene revived me, and I finished the remaining seven +acres at a single sitting." + +OLIVIA (looking about her). Brian, find my scissors for me. + +BRIAN. Scissors. (Looking for them) Sir Brian Strange, R.A., looks for +scissors. (Finding them) Aha! Once more we must record an unqualified +success for the eminent Academician. Your scissors. + +OLIVIA. Thank you so much. + +DINAH. Come on, Brian, let's go out. I feel open-airy. + +OLIVIA. Don't be late for lunch, there's good people. Lady Marden is +coming. + +DINAH. Aunt Juli-ah! Help! (She faints in BRIAN'S arms) That means a +clean pinafore. Brian, you'll jolly well have to brush your hair. + +BRIAN (feeling it). I suppose there's no time now to go up to London +and get it cut? + + [Enter ANNE, followed by PIM. + +ANNE. Mr. Pim! + +DINAH (delighted). Hullo, Mr. Pim! Here we are again! You can't get +rid of us so easily, you see. + +PIM. I--er--dear Miss Marden-- + +OLIVIA. How do you do, Mr. Pim? I can't get up, but do come and sit +down. My husband will be here in a minute. Anne, send somebody down to +the farm-- + +ANNE. I think I heard the Master in the library, madam. + +OLIVIA. Oh, will you tell him then? + +ANNE. Yes, madam. + + [ANNE goes out. + +OLIVIA. You'll stay to lunch, of course, Mr. Pim? + +DINAH. Oh, do! + +PIM. It's very kind of you, Mrs. Marden, but-- + +DINAH. Oh, you simply must, Mr. Pim. You haven't told us half enough +about yourself yet. I want to hear all about your early life. + +OLIVIA. Dinah! + +PIM. Oh, we are almost, I might say, old friends, Mrs. Marden. + +DINAH. Of course we are. He knows Brian, too. There's more in Mr. Pim +than you think. You _will_ stay to lunch, won't you? + +PIM. It's very kind of you to ask me, Mrs. Marden, but I am lunching +with the Trevors. + +OLIVIA. Oh, well, you must come to lunch another day. + +DINAH. The reason why we like Mr. Pim so much is that he was the first +person to congratulate us. We feel that he is going to have a great +influence on our lives. + +PIM (to OLIVIA). I, so to speak, stumbled on the engagement this +morning and--er-- + +OLIVIA. I see. Children, you must go and tidy yourselves up. Run +along. + +BRIAN. Sir Brian and Lady Strange never run; they walk. (Offering his +arm) Madam! + +DINAH (taking it). Au revoir, Mr. Pim. (Dramatically) +We--shall--meet--_again_! + +PIM (chuckling). Good morning, Miss Dinah. + +BRIAN. Good morning. + + [He and DINAH go out. + +OLIVIA. You must forgive them, Mr. Pim. They're such children. And +naturally they're rather excited just now. + +PIM. Oh, not at all, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Of course you won't say anything about their engagement. We +only heard about it five minutes ago, and nothing has been settled +yet. + +PIM. Of course, of course! + + [Enter GEORGE. + +GEORGE. Ah, Mr. Pim, we meet at last. Sorry to have kept you waiting +before. + +PIM. The apology should come from me, Mr. Marden for having--er-- + +GEORGE. Not at all. Very glad to meet you now. Any friend of Brymer's. +You want a letter to this man Fanshawe? + +OLIVIA. Shall I be in your way at all? + +PIM. Oh, no, no, please don't. + +GEORGE. It's only just a question of a letter. (Going to his desk) +Fanshawe will put you in the way of seeing all that you want to see. +He's a very old friend of mine. (Taking a sheet of notepaper) You'll +stay to lunch, of course? + +PIM. I'm afraid I am lunching with the Trevors-- + +GEORGE. Oh, well, they'll look after you all right. Good chap, Trevor. + +PIM (to OLIVIA). You see, Mrs. Marden, I have only recently arrived +from Australia after travelling about the world for some years, and +I'm rather out of touch with my--er--fellow-workers in London. + +OLIVIA. Oh yes. You've been in Australia, Mr. Pim? + +GEORGE (disliking Australia). I shan't be a moment, Mr. Pim. (He +frowns at OLIVIA.) + +PIM. Oh, that's all right, thank you. (to OLIVIA) Oh yes, I have been +in Australia more than once in the last few years. + +OLIVIA. Really? I used to live at Sydney many years ago. Do you know +Sydney at all? + +GEORGE (detesting Sydney). H'r'm! Perhaps I'd better mention that you +are a friend of the Trevors? + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. (to OLIVIA) Indeed yes, I spent several +months in Sydney. + +OLIVIA. How curious. I wonder if we have any friends in common there. + +GEORGE (hastily). Extremely unlikely, I should think. Sydney is a very +big place. + +PIM. True, but the world is a very small place, Mr. Marden. I had a +remarkable instance of that, coming over on the boat this last time. + +GEORGE. Ah! (Feeling that the conversation is now safe, he resumes his +letter.) + +PIM. Yes. There was a man I used to employ in Sydney some years ago, a +bad fellow, I'm afraid, Mrs. Marden, who had been in prison for some +kind of fraudulent company-promoting and had taken to drink and--and +so on. + +OLIVIA. Yes, yes, I understand. + +PIM. Drinking himself to death I should have said. I gave him at the +most another year to live. Yet to my amazement the first person I saw +as I stepped on board the boat that brought me to England last week +was this fellow. There was no mistaking him. I spoke to him, in fact; +we recognised each other. + +OLIVIA. Really? + +PIM. He was travelling steerage; we didn't meet again on board, and as +it happened at Marseilles, this poor fellow--er--now what _was_ his +name? A very unusual one. Began with a--a T, I think. + +OLIVIA (with suppressed feeling). Yes, Mr. Pim, yes? (She puts out a +hand to GEORGE.) + +GEORGE (in an undertone). Nonsense, dear! + +PIM (triumphantly). I've got it! Telworthy! + +OLIVIA. Telworthy! + +GEORGE. Good God! + +PIM (a little surprised at the success of his story). An unusual name, +is it not? Not a name you could forget when once you had heard it. + +OLIVIA (with feeling). No, it is not a name you could forget when once +you had heard it. + +GEORGE (hastily coming over to PIM). Quite so, Mr. Pim, a most +remarkable name, a most odd story altogether. Well, well, here's your +letter, and if you're sure you won't stay to lunch-- + +PIM. I'm afraid not, thank you. You see, I-- + +GEORGE. The Trevors, yes. I'll just see you on your way--(to OLIVIA) +Er--my dear-- + +OLIVIA (holding out her hand, but not looking at him). Good-bye, Mr. +Pim. + +PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! + +GEORGE (leading the way through the windows). This way, this way. +Quicker for you. + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. + + [GEORGE hurries MR. PIM out. + +(OLIVIA sits there and looks into the past. Now and then she +shudders.) + + [GEORGE comes back. + +GEORGE. Good God! Telworthy! Is it possible? (Before OLIVIA can +answer, LADY MARDEN is announced. They pull themselves together and +greet her.) + + + + +ACT II + + +(Lunch is over and coffee has been served on the terrace. Conversation +drags on, to the satisfaction of LADY MARDEN, but of nobody else. +GEORGE and OLIVIA want to be alone; so do BRIAN and DINAH. At last +BRIAN murmurs something about a cigarette-case; and, catching DINAH'S +eye, comes into the house. He leans against the sofa and waits for +DINAH.) + +DINAH (loudly as she comes in). Have you found it? + +BRIAN. Found what? + +DINAH (in her ordinary voice). That was just for _their_ benefit. I +said I'd help you find it. It _is_ your cigarette-case we're looking +for, isn't it? + +BRIAN (taking it out). Yes. Have one? + +DINAH. No, thank you, darling. Aunt Juli-ah still thinks it's +unladylike. . . . Have you ever seen her beagling? + +BRIAN. No. Is that very ladylike? + +DINAH. Very. . . . I say, what has happened, do you think? + +BRIAN. Everything. I love you, and you love me. + +DINAH. Silly! I meant between George and Olivia. Didn't you notice +them at lunch? + +BRIAN. I noticed that you seemed to be doing most of the talking. But +then I've noticed that before sometimes. Do you think Olivia and your +uncle have quarrelled because of _us_? + +DINAH. Of course not. George may _think_ he has quarrelled, but I'm +quite sure Olivia hasn't. No, I believe Mr. Pim's at the bottom of it. +He's brought some terribly sad news about George's investments. The +old home will have to be sold up. + +BRIAN. Good. Then your uncle won't mind your marrying me. + +DINAH. Yes, darling, but you must be more dramatic about it than that. +"George," you must say, with tears in your eyes, "I cannot pay off the +whole of the mortgage for you. I have only two and ninepence; but at +least let me take your niece off your hands." Then George will thump +you on the back and say gruffly, "You're a good fellow, Brian, a damn +good fellow," and he'll blow his nose very loudly, and say, "Confound +this cigar, it won't draw properly." (She gives us a rough impression +of GEORGE doing it.) + +BRIAN. Dinah, you're a heavenly idiot. And you've simply got to marry +me, uncles or no uncles. + +DINAH. It will have to be "uncles," I'm afraid, because, you see, I'm +his ward, and I can get sent to Chancery or Coventry or somewhere +beastly, if I marry without his consent. Haven't _you_ got anybody who +objects to your marrying _me_? + +BRIAN. Nobody, thank Heaven. + +DINAH. Well, that's rather disappointing of you. I saw myself +fascinating your aged father at the same time that you were +fascinating George. I should have done it much better than you. As a +George-fascinator you aren't very successful, sweetheart. + +BRIAN. What am I like as a Dinah-fascinator? + +DINAH. Plus six, darling. + +BRIAN. Then I'll stick to that and leave George to Olivia. + +DINAH. I expect she'll manage him all right. I have great faith in +Olivia. But you'll marry me, anyhow, won't you, Brian? + +BRIAN. I will. + +DINAH. Even if we have to wait till I'm twenty-one? + +BRIAN. Even if we have to wait till you're fifty-one. + +DINAH (holding out her hands to him). Darling! + +BRIAN (uneasily). I say, don't do that. + +DINAH. Why not? + +BRIAN. Well, I promised I wouldn't kiss you. + +DINAH. Oh! . . . Well, you might just _send_ me a kiss. You can look the +other way as if you didn't know I was here. + +BRIAN. Like this? + +(He looks the other way, kisses the tips of his fingers, and flicks it +carelessly in her direction.) + +DINAH. That was a lovely one. Now here's one coming for you. + +(He catches it gracefully and conveys it to his mouth.) + +BRIAN (with a low bow). Madam, I thank you. + +DINAH (curtseying). Your servant, Mr. Strange. + +OLIVIA (from outside). Dinah! + +DINAH (jumping up). Hullo! + +(OLIVIA comes in through the windows, followed by GEORGE and LADY +MARDEN, the latter a vigorous young woman of sixty odd, who always +looks as if she were beagling.) + +OLIVIA. Aunt Julia wants to see the pigs, dear. I wish you'd take her +down. I'm rather tired, and your uncle has some business to attend to. + +LADY MARDEN. I've always said that you don't take enough exercise, +Olivia. Look at me--sixty-five and proud of it. + +OLIVIA. Yes, Aunt Julia, you're wonderful. + +DINAH. How old would Olivia be if she took exercise? + +GEORGE. Don't stand about asking silly questions, Dinah. Your aunt +hasn't much time. + +BRIAN. May I come, too, Lady Marden? + +LADY MARDEN. Well, a little exercise wouldn't do _you_ any harm, Mr. +Strange. You're an artist, ain't you? + +BRIAN. Well, I try to paint. + +DINAH. He sold a picture last March for-- + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, never mind that now. + +LADY MARDEN. Unhealthy life. Well, come along. + + [She strides out, followed by DINAH and BRIAN. + +(GEORGE sits down at his desk with his head in his hand, and stabs the +blotting-paper with a pen. OLIVIA takes the curtains with her to the +sofa and begins to work on them.) + +GEORGE (looking up and seeing them). Really, Olivia, we've got +something more important, more vital to us than curtains, to discuss, +now that we _are_ alone at last. + +OLIVIA. I wasn't going to discuss them, dear. + +GEORGE. I'm always glad to see Aunt Julia in my house, but I wish she +hadn't chosen this day of all days to come to lunch. + +OLIVIA. It wasn't Aunt Julia's fault. It was really Mr. Pim who chose +the wrong day. + +GEORGE (fiercely). Good Heavens, is it true? + +OLIVIA. About Jacob Telworthy? + +GEORGE. You told me he was dead. You always said that he was dead. +You--you-- + +OLIVIA. Well, I always thought that he was dead. He was as dead as +anybody could be. All the papers said he was dead. + +GEORGE (scornfully). The papers! + +OLIVIA (as if this would settle it for GEORGE). The _Times_ said he +was dead. There was a paragraph about him. Apparently even his death +was fraudulent. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, I'm not blaming you, Olivia, but what are we going +to do, that's the question, what are we going to do? My God, it's +horrible! You've never been married to me at all! You don't seem to +understand. + +OLIVIA. It is a little difficult to realise. You see, it doesn't seem +to have made any difference to our happiness. + +GEORGE. No, that's what's so terrible. I mean--well, of course, we +were quite innocent in the matter. But, at the same time, nothing can +get over the fact that we--we had no right to--to be happy. + +OLIVIA. Would you rather we had been miserable? + +GEORGE. You're Telworthy's wife, that's what you don't seem to +understand. You're Telworthy's wife. You--er--forgive me, Olivia, but +it's the horrible truth--you committed bigamy when you married me. (In +horror) Bigamy! + +OLIVIA. It is an ugly word, isn't it? + +GEORGE. Yes, but don't you understand--(He jumps up and comes over to +her) Look here, Olivia, old girl, the whole thing is nonsense, eh? It +isn't your husband, it's some other Telworthy that this fellow met. +That's right, isn't it? Some other shady swindler who turned up on the +boat, eh? This sort of thing doesn't happen to people like +_us_--committing bigamy and all that. Some other fellow. + +OLIVIA (shaking her head). I knew all the shady swindlers in Sydney, +George. . . . They came to dinner. . . . There were no others called +Telworthy. + +(GEORGE goes back despondently to his seat.) + +GEORGE. Well, what are we going to do? + +OLIVIA. You sent Mr. Pim away so quickly. He might have told us +things. Telworthy's plans. Where he is now. You hurried him away so +quickly. + +GEORGE. I've sent a note round to ask him to come back. My one idea at +the moment was to get him out of the house--to hush things up. + +OLIVIA. You can't hush up two husbands. + +GEORGE (in despair). You can't. Everybody will know. Everybody! + +OLIVIA. The children, Aunt Julia, they may as well know now as later. +Mr. Pim must, of course. + +GEORGE. I do not propose to discuss my private affairs with Mr. +Pim---- + +OLIVIA. But he's mixed himself up in them rather, hasn't he, and if +you're going to ask him questions---- + +GEORGE. I only propose to ask him one question. I shall ask him if he +is absolutely certain of the man's name. I can do that quite easily +without letting him know the reason for my inquiry. + +OLIVIA. You couldn't make a mistake about a name like Telworthy. But +he might tell us something about Telworthy's plans. Perhaps he's going +back to Australia at once. Perhaps he thinks I'm dead, too. Perhaps-- +oh, there are so many things I want to know. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, dear. It would be interesting to--that is, one +naturally wants to know these things, but of course it doesn't make +any real difference. + +OLIVIA (surprised). No difference? + +GEORGE. Well, that is to say, you're as much his wife if he's in +Australia as you are if he's in England. + +OLIVIA. I am not his wife at all. + +GEORGE. But, Olivia, surely you understand the position---- + +OLIVIA (shaking her head). Jacob Telworthy may be alive, but I am not +his wife. I ceased to be his wife when I became yours. + +GEORGE. You never _were_ my wife. That is the terrible part of it. Our +union--you make me say it, Olivia--has been unhallowed by the Church. +Unhallowed even by the Law. Legally, we have been living in--living +in--well, the point is, how does the Law stand? I imagine that +Telworthy could get a--a divorce. . . . Oh, it seems impossible that +things like this can be happening to _us_. + +OLIVIA (Joyfully). A divorce? + +GEORGE. I--I imagine so. + +OLIVIA. But then we could _really_ get married, and we shouldn't be +living in--living in--whatever we were living in before. + +GEORGE. I can't understand you, Olivia. You talk about it so calmly, +as if there was nothing blameworthy in being divorced, as if there was +nothing unusual in my marrying a divorced woman, as if there was +nothing wrong in our having lived together for years without having +been married. + +OLIVIA. What seems wrong to me is that I lived for five years with a +bad man whom I hated. What seems right to me is that I lived for five +years with a good man whom I love. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, my dear, I know. But right and wrong don't settle +themselves as easily as that. We've been living together when you were +Telworthy's wife. That's _wrong_. + +OLIVIA. Do you mean wicked? + +GEORGE. Well, no doubt the Court would consider that we acted in +perfect innocence-- + +OLIVIA. What Court? + +GEORGE. These things have to be done legally, of course. I believe the +proper method is a nullity suit, declaring our marriage null +and--er--void. It would, so to speak, wipe out these years of--er-- + +OLIVIA. Wickedness? + +GEORGE. Of irregular union, and--er--then-- + +OLIVIA. Then I could go back to Jacob. . . . Do you really mean that, +George? + +GEORGE (uneasily). Well, dear, you see--that's how things are--one +can't get away from--er---- + +OLIVIA. What you feel is that Telworthy has the greater claim? You are +prepared to--make way for him? + +GEORGE. Both the Church and the Law would say that I had no claim at +all, I'm afraid. I--I suppose I haven't. + +OLIVIA. I see. (She looks at him curiously) Thank you for making it so +clear, George. + +GEORGE. Of course, whether or not you go back to--er--Telworthy is +another matter altogether. That would naturally be for you to decide. + +OLIVIA (cheerfully). For me and Jacko to decide. + +GEORGE. Er--Jacko? + +OLIVIA. I used to call my first husband--I mean my only +husband--Jacko. I didn't like the name of Jacob, and Jacko seemed to +suit him somehow. . . . He had very long arms. Dear Jacko. + +GEORGE (annoyed). You don't seem to realise that this is not a joke, +Olivia. + +OLIVIA (a trifle hysterically). It may not be a joke, but it _is_ +funny, isn't it? + +GEORGE. I must say I don't see anything funny in a tragedy that has +wrecked two lives. + +OLIVIA. Two? Oh, but Jacko's life isn't wrecked. It has just been +miraculously restored to him. And a wife, too. There's nothing tragic +for Jacko in it. + +GEORGE (stiffly). I was referring to _our_ two lives--yours and mine. + +OLIVIA. Yours, George? Your life isn't wrecked. The Court will absolve +you of all blame; your friends will sympathise with you, and tell you +that I was a designing woman who deliberately took you in; your Aunt +Julia---- + +GEORGE (overwrought). Stop it! What do you mean? Have you no heart? Do +you think I _want_ to lose you, Olivia? Do you think I _want_ my home +broken up like this? Haven't you been happy with me these last five +years? + +OLIVIA. Very happy. + +GEORGE. Well then, how can you talk like that? + +OLIVIA (pathetically). But you want to send me away. + +GEORGE. There you go again. I don't _want_ to. I have hardly had time +to realise just what it will mean to me when you go. The fact is I +simply daren't realise it. I daren't think about it. + +OLIVIA (earnestly). Try thinking about it, George. + +GEORGE. And you talk as if I _wanted_ to send you away! + +OLIVIA. Try thinking about it, George. + +GEORGE. You don't seem to understand that I'm not _sending_ you away. +You simply aren't mine to keep. + +OLIVIA. Whose am I? + +GEORGE. Your husband's. Telworthy's. + +OLIVIA (gently). If I belong to anybody but myself, I think I belong +to you. + +GEORGE. Not in the eyes of the Law. Not in the eyes of the Church. Not +even in the eyes of--er---- + +OLIVIA. The County? + +GEORGE (annoyed). I was about to say "Heaven." + +OLIVIA (unimpressed). Oh! + +GEORGE. That this should happen to _us_! (He gets up and walks about +the room, wondering when he will wake up from this impossible dream, +OLIVIA works in silence. Then she stands up and shakes out her +curtains.) + +OLIVIA (looking at them). I do hope Jacko will like these. + +GEORGE. What! You---- (Going up to her) Olivia, Olivia, have you no +heart? + +OLIVIA. Ought you to talk like that to another man's wife? + +GEORGE. Confound it, is this just a joke to you? + +OLIVIA. You must forgive me, George; I am a little over-excited--at +the thought of returning to Jacob, I suppose. + +GEORGE. Do you _want_ to return to him? + +OLIVIA. One wants to do what is right. In the eyes of--er--Heaven. + +GEORGE. Seeing what sort of man he is, I have no doubt that you could +get a separation, supposing that he didn't--er--divorce you. I don't +know _what_ is best. I must consult my solicitor. The whole position +has been sprung on us, and--(miserably) I don't know, I don't know. I +can't take it all in. + +OLIVIA. Wouldn't you like to consult your Aunt Julia too? She could +tell you what the County--I mean what Heaven really thought about it. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes. Aunt Julia has plenty of common sense. You're quite +right, Olivia. This isn't a thing we can keep from the family. + +OLIVIA. Do I still call her _Aunt_ Julia? + +GEORGE (looking up from his pacings). What? What? (ANNE comes in.) +Well, what is it? + +ANNE. Mr. Pim says he will come down at once, sir. + +GEORGE. Oh, thank you, thank you. + + [ANNE goes out. + +OLIVIA. George, Mr. Pim has got to know. + +GEORGE. I don't see the necessity. + +OLIVIA. Not even for me? When a woman suddenly hears that her +long-lost husband is restored to her, don't you think she wants to ask +questions? Where is he living, and how is he looking, and---- + +GEORGE (coldly). Of course, if you are interested in these things-- + +OLIVIA. How can I help being? Don't be so silly, George. We _must_ +know what Jacko-- + +GEORGE (annoyed). I wish you wouldn't call him by that ridiculous +name. + +OLIVIA. My husband-- + +GEORGE (wincing). Yes, well--your husband? + +OLIVIA. Well, we must know his plans--where we can communicate with +him, and so on. + +GEORGE. I have no wish to communicate with him. + +OLIVIA. I'm afraid you'll have to, dear. + +GEORGE. I don't see the necessity. + +OLIVIA. Well, you'll want to--to apologise to him for living with his +wife for so long. And as I belong to him, he ought to be told where he +can--call for me. + +GEORGE (after a struggle). You put it in a very peculiar way, but I +see your-point. (With a shudder) Oh, the horrible publicity of it all! + +OLIVIA (going up to him and comforting him). Poor George. Dear, don't +think I don't sympathise with you. I understand so exactly what you +are feeling. The publicity! It's terrible. + +GEORGE (miserably). I want to do what's right, Olivia. You believe +that? + +OLIVIA. Of course I do. It's only that we don't quite agree as to what +is right and what is wrong. + +GEORGE. It isn't a question of agreeing. Right is right, and wrong is +wrong, all the world over. + +OLIVIA (with a sad little smile). But more particularly in +Buckinghamshire, I think. + +GEORGE. If I only considered myself, I should say: "Let us pack this +man Telworthy back to Australia. He would make no claim. He would +accept money to go away and say nothing about it." If I consulted +simply my own happiness, Olivia, that is what I should say. But when I +consult--er---- + +OLIVIA (surprised). Mine? + +GEORGE. My conscience---- + +OLIVIA. Oh! + +GEORGE. Then I can't do it. It's wrong. (He is at the window as he +says this.) + +OLIVIA (making her first and last appeal). George, aren't I worth a +little---- + +GEORGE (turning round). H'sh! Dinah! (Loudly for DINAH'S benefit) +Well, then I'll write to him and--Ah, Dinah, where's Aunt Julia? + +DINAH (coming in). We've seen the pigs, and now she's discussing the +Art of Landseer with Brian. I just came to ask---- + +OLIVIA. Dinah, dear, bring Aunt Julia here. And Brian too. We have +things we want to talk about with you all. + +GEORGE (outraged). Olivia! + +DINAH. Righto. What fun! + + [Exit DINAH. + +GEORGE. Olivia, you don't seriously suggest that we should discuss +these things with a child like Dinah and a young man like Strange, a +mere acquaintance. + +OLIVIA. Dinah will have to know. I'm very fond of her, George. You +can't send me away without telling Dinah. And Brian is my friend. You +have your solicitor and your aunt and your conscience to +consult--mayn't I even have Brian? + +GEORGE (forgetting). I should have thought that your _husband_---- + +OLIVIA. Yes, but we don't know where Jacko is. + +GEORGE. I was not referring to--er--Telworthy. + +OLIVIA. Well then? + +GEORGE. Well, naturally I--you mustn't--Oh, this is horrible! + +(He comes back to his desk as the others come in.) + +OLIVIA (getting up). George and I have had some rather bad news, Aunt +Julia. We wanted your advice. Where will you sit? + +LADY MARDEN. Thank you, Olivia. I can sit down by myself. (She does +so, near GEORGE. DINAH sits on the sofa with OLIVIA, and BRIAN half +leans against the back of it. There is a hush of expectation. . . .) What +is it? Money, I suppose. Nobody's safe nowadays. + +GEORGE (signalling for help). Olivia-- + +OLIVIA. We've just heard that my first husband is still alive. + +DINAH. Telworthy! + +BRIAN. Good Lord! + +LADY MARDEN. George! + +DINAH (excitedly). And only this morning I was saying that nothing +ever happened in this house! (Remorsefully to OLIVIA) Darling, I don't +mean that. Darling one! + +LADY MARDEN. What does this mean, George? I leave you for ten +minutes--barely ten minutes--to go and look at the pigs, and when I +come back you tell me that Olivia is a bigamist. + +BRIAN (indignantly). I say-- + +OLIVIA (restraining him). H'sh! + +BRIAN (to OLIVIA). If this is a row, I'm on your side. + +LADY MARDEN. Well, George? + +GEORGE. I'm afraid it's true, Aunt Julia. We heard the news just +before lunch--just before you came. We've only this moment had an +opportunity of talking about it, of wondering what to do. + +LADY MARDEN. What was his name--Tel--something-- + +OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy. + +LADY MARDEN. So he's alive still? + +GEORGE. Apparently. There seems to be no doubt about it. + +LADY MARDEN (to OLIVIA). Didn't you _see_ him die? I should always +want to _see_ my husband die before I married again. Not that I +approve of second marriages, anyhow. I told you so at the time, +George. + +OLIVIA. _And_ me, Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Did I? Well, I generally say what I think. + +GEORGE. I ought to tell you, Aunt Julia, that no blame attaches to +Olivia over this. Of that I am perfectly satisfied. It's nobody's +fault, except---- + +LADY MARDEN. Except Telworthy's. _He_ seems to have been rather +careless. Well, what are you going to do about it? + +GEORGE. That's just it. It's a terrible situation. There's bound to be +so much publicity. Not only all this, but--but Telworthy's past +and--and everything. + +LADY MARDEN. I should have said that it was Telworthy's present which +was the trouble. Had he a past as well? + +OLIVIA. He was a fraudulent company promoter. He went to prison a good +deal. + +LADY MARDEN. George, you never told me this! + +GEORGE. I--er---- + +OLIVIA. I don't see _why_ he should want to talk about it. + +DINAH (indignantly). What's it got to do with Olivia, anyhow? It's not +_her_ fault. + +LADY MARDEN (sarcastically). Oh no, I daresay it's mine. + +OLIVIA (to GEORGE). YOU wanted to ask Aunt Julia what was the right +thing to do. + +BRIAN (bursting out). Good Heavens, what _is_ there to do except the +one and only thing? (They all look at him and he becomes embarrassed) +I'm sorry. You don't want _me_ to-- + +OLIVIA. _I_ do, Brian. + +LADY MARDEN. Well, go on, Mr. Strange. What would _you_ do in George's +position? + +BRIAN. Do? Say to the woman I loved, "You're _mine_, and let this +other damned fellow come and take you from me if he can!" And he +couldn't--how could he?--not if the woman chose _me_. + +(LADY MARDEN gazes at BRIAN in amazement, GEORGE in anger, OLIVIA +presses his hand gratefully. He has said what she has been +waiting--oh, so eagerly--for GEORGE to say.) + +DINAH (adoringly). Oh, Brian! (In a whisper) It _is_ me, isn't it, and +not Olivia? + +BRIAN. You baby, of course! + +LADY MARDEN. I'm afraid, Mr. Strange, your morals are as peculiar as +your views on Art. If you had led a more healthy life-- + +BRIAN. This is not a question of morals or of art, it's a question of +love. + +DINAH. Hear, hear! + +LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Isn't it that girl's bedtime yet? + +OLIVIA (to DINAH). We'll let her sit up a little longer if she's good. + +DINAH. I will be good, Olivia, only I thought anybody, however +important a debate was, was allowed to say "Hear, hear!" + +GEORGE (coldly) I really think we could discuss this better if Mr. +Strange took Dinah out for a walk. Strange, if you--er-- + +OLIVIA. Tell them what you have settled first, George. + +LADY MARDEN. Settled? What is there to be settled? It settles itself. + +GEORGE (sadly). That's just it. + +LADY MARDEN. The marriage must be annulled--is that the word, George? + +GEORGE. I presume so. + +LADY MARDEN. One's solicitor will know all about that of course. + +BRIAN. And when the marriage has been annulled, what then? + +LADY MARDEN. Presumably Olivia will return to her husband. + +BRIAN (bitterly). And _that's_ morality! As expounded by Bishop +Landseer! + +GEORGE (angered). I don't know what you mean by Bishop Landseer. +Morality is acting in accordance with the Laws of the Land and the +Laws of the Church. I am quite prepared to believe that _your_ creed +embraces neither marriage nor monogamy, but my creed is different. + +BRIAN (fiercely). My creed includes both marriage _and_ monogamy, and +monogamy means sticking to the woman you love, as long as she wants +you. + +LADY MARDEN (calmly). You suggest that George and Olivia should go on +living together, although they have never been legally married, and +wait for this Telworthy man to divorce her, and then--bless the man, +what do you think the County would say? + +BRIAN (scornfully). Does it matter? + +DINAH. Well, if you really want to know, the men would say, "Gad, +she's a fine woman; I don't wonder he sticks to her," and the women +would say, "I can't _think_ what he sees in her to stick to her like +that," and they'd both say, "After all, he may be a damn fool, but you +can't deny he's a sportsman." That's what the County would say. + +GEORGE (indignantly) Was it for this sort of thing, Olivia, that you +insisted on having Dinah and Mr. Strange in here? To insult me in my +own house? + +LADY MARDEN. I can't think what young people are coming to nowadays. + +OLIVIA. I think, dear, you and Brian had better go. + +DINAH (getting up). We will go. But I'm just going to say one thing, +Uncle George. Brian and I _are_ going to marry each other, and when we +are married we'll stick to each other, _however_ many of our dead +husbands and wives turn up! + + [She goes out indignantly, followed by BRIAN. + +GEORGE. Upon my word, this is a pleasant discussion. + +OLIVIA. I think the discussion is over, George. It is only a question +of where I shall go, while you are bringing your--what sort of suit +did you call it? + +LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Nullity suit. I suppose that _is_ the best +thing? + +GEORGE. It's horrible. The awful publicity. That it should be +happening to _us_, that's what I can't get over. + +LADY MARDEN. I don't remember anything of the sort in the Marden +Family before, ever. + +GEORGE (absently). Lady Fanny. + +LADY MARDEN (recollecting). Yes, of course; but that was two hundred +years ago. The standards were different then. Besides, it wasn't quite +the same, anyhow. + +GEORGE (absently). No, it wasn't quite the same. + +LADY MARDEN. No. We shall all feel it. Terribly. + +GEORGE (his apology). If there were any other way! Olivia, what _can_ +I do? It _is_ the only way, isn't it? All that that fellow said--of +course, it sounds very well--but as things are. . . . _Is_ there anything +in marriage, or isn't there? You believe that there is, don't you? You +aren't one of these Socialists. Well, then, _can_ we go on living +together when you're another man's wife? It isn't only what people +will say, but it _is_ wrong, isn't it? . . . And supposing he doesn't +divorce you, are we to go on living together, unmarried, for _ever_? +Olivia, you seem to think that I'm just thinking of the +publicity--what people will say. I'm not. I'm not. That comes in any +way. But I want to do what's right, what's best. I don't mean what's +best for _us_, what makes us happiest, I mean what's really best, +what's rightest. What anybody else would do in my place. _I_ don't +know. It's so unfair. You're not my wife at all, but I want to do +what's right. . . . Oh, Olivia, Olivia, you do understand, don't you? + +(They have both forgotten LADY MARDEN. OLIVIA has never taken her eyes +off him as he makes his last attempt to convince himself.) + +OLIVIA (almost tenderly). So very very well, George. Oh, I understand +just what you are feeling. And oh, I do so wish that you could--(with +a little sigh)--but then it wouldn't be George, not the George I +married--(with a rueful little laugh)--or didn't quite marry. + +LADY MARDEN. I must say, I think you are both talking a little wildly. + +OLIVIA (repeating it, oh, so tenderly). Or didn't--quite--marry. (She +looks at him with all her heart in her eyes. She is giving him his +last chance to say "Damn Telworthy; you're mine!" He struggles +desperately with himself. . . . Will he?--will he? . . . But we shall never +know, for at that moment ANNE comes in.) + +ANNE. Mr. Pim is here, sir. + +GEORGE (emerging from the struggle with an effort). Pim? Pim? Oh, ah, +yes, of course. Mr. Pim. (Looking up) Where have you put him? + +OLIVIA. I want to see Mr. Pim, too, George. + +LADY MARDEN. Who on earth is Mr. Pim? + +OLIVIA. Show him in here, Anne. + +ANNE. Yes, madam. [She goes out. + +OLIVIA. It was Mr. Pim who told us about my husband. He came across +with him in the boat, and recognised him as the Telworthy he knew in +Australia. + +LADY MARDEN. Oh! Shall I be in the way? + +GEORGE. No, no. It doesn't matter, does it, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Please stay. + + [ANNE enters followed by MR. PIM. + +ANNE. Mr. Pim. + +GEORGE (pulling himself together). Ah, Mr. Pim! Very good of you to +have come. The fact is--er--(It is too much for him; he looks +despairingly at OLIVIA.) + +OLIVIA. We're so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Pim. By the way, do you +know Lady Marden? (MR. PIM and LADY MARDEN bow to each other.) Do come +and sit down, won't you? (She makes room for him on the sofa next to +her) The fact is, Mr. Pim, you gave us rather a surprise this morning, +and before we had time to realise what it all meant, you had gone. + +MR. PIM. A surprise, Mrs. Marden? Dear me, not an unpleasant one, I +hope? + +OLIVIA. Well, rather a--surprising one. + +GEORGE. Olivia, allow me a moment. Mr. Pim, you mentioned a man called +Telworthy this morning. My wife used to--that is to say, I used +to--that is, there are reasons-- + +OLIVIA. I think we had better be perfectly frank, George. + +LADY MARDEN. I am sixty-five years of age, Mr. Pim, and I can say that +I've never had a moment's uneasiness by telling the truth. + +MR. PIM (after a desperate effort to keep up with the conversation). +Oh! . . . I--er--I'm afraid I am rather at sea. Have I--er--left anything +unsaid in presenting my credentials to you this morning? This +Telworthy whom you mention--I seem to remember the name-- + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, you told us this morning of a man whom you had met on +the boat, a man who had come down in the world, whom you had known in +Sydney. A man called Telworthy. + +MR. PIM (relieved). Ah yes, yes, of course. I did say Telworthy, +didn't I? Most curious coincidence, Lady Marden. Poor man, poor man! +Let me see, it must have been ten years ago-- + +GEORGE. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. You're quite sure that his name was +Telworthy? + +MR. PIM. Telworthy--Telworthy--didn't I say Telworthy? Yes, that was +it--Telworthy. Poor fellow! + +OLIVIA. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Pim. I feel +quite sure that I can trust you. This man Telworthy whom you met is my +husband. + +MR. PIM. Your husband? (He looks in mild surprise at GEORGE.) +But--er-- + +OLIVIA. My first husband. His death was announced six years ago. I had +left him some years before that, but there seems no doubt from your +story that he's still alive. His record--the country he comes +from--above all, the very unusual name--Telworthy. + +MR. PIM. Telworthy--yes--certainly a most peculiar name. I remember +saying so. Your first husband? Dear me! Dear me! + +GEORGE. You understand, Mr. Pim, that all this is in absolute +confidence. + +MR. PIM. Of course, of course. + +OLIVIA. Well, since he is my husband, we naturally want to know +something about him. Where is he now, for instance? + +MR. PIM (surprised). Where is he now? But surely I told you? I told +you what happened at Marseilles? + +GEORGE. At Marseilles? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, poor fellow, it was most unfortunate. (Quite happy +again) You must understand, Lady Marden, that although I had met the +poor fellow before in Australia, I was never in any way intimate-- + +GEORGE (thumping the desk). Where is he _now_, that's what we want to +know? + +(MR. PIM turns to him with a start.) + +OLIVIA. Please, Mr. Pim! + +PIM. Where is he now? But--but didn't I tell you of the curious +fatality at Marseilles--poor fellow--the fish-bone? + +ALL. Fish-bone? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, a herring, I understand. + +OLIVIA (understanding first). Do you mean he's dead? + +MR. PIM. Dead--of course--didn't I--? + +OLIVIA (laughing hysterically). Oh, Mr. Pim, you--oh, what a husband +to have--oh, I--(But that is all she can say for the moment.) + +LADY MARDEN. Pull yourself together, Olivia. This is so unhealthy for +you. (to PIM) So he really _is_ dead this time? + +MR. PIM. Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly. A fishbone lodged in his +throat. + +GEORGE (trying to realise it). Dead! + +OLIVIA (struggling with her laughter). I think you must excuse me, Mr. +Pim--I can never thank you enough--a herring--there's something about +a herring--morality depends on such little things--George, +you--(Shaking her head at him in a weak state of laughter, she hurries +out of the room.) + +MR. PIM. Dear me! Dear me! + +GEORGE. Now, let us have this quite clear, Mr. Pim. You say that the +man, Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead? + +MR. PIM. Telworthy, yes--didn't I say Telworthy? This man I was +telling you about-- + +GEORGE. He's dead? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, he died at Marseilles. + +LADY MARDEN. A dispensation of Providence, George. One can look at it +in no other light. + +GEORGE. Dead! (Suddenly annoyed) Really, Mr. Pim, I think you might +have told us before. + +MR. PIM. But I--I _was_ telling you--I-- + +GEORGE. If you had only told us the whole story at once, instead of in +two--two instalments like this, you would have saved us all a good +deal of anxiety. + +MR. PIM. Really, I-- + +LADY MARDEN. I am sure Mr. Pim meant well, George, but it seems a pity +he couldn't have said so before. If the man was dead, _why_ try to +hush it up? + +MR. PIM (lost again). Really, Lady Marden, I-- + +GEORGE (getting up). Well, well, at any rate, I am much obliged to +you, Mr. Pim, for having come down to us this afternoon. Dead! _De +mortuis_, and so forth, but the situation would have been impossible +had he lived. Good-bye! (Holding out his hand) Good-bye! + +LADY MARDEN. Good-bye, Mr. Pim. + +MR. PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! (GEORGE takes him to the door.) Of +course, if I had--(to himself) Telworthy--I _think_ that was the name. +(He goes out, still wondering.) + +GEORGE (with a sigh of thankfulness). Well! This is wonderful news, +Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Most providential! . . . You understand, of course, that you +are not married to Olivia? + +GEORGE (who didn't). Not married? + +LADY MARDEN. If her first husband only died at Marseilles a few days +ago-- + +GEORGE. Good Heavens! + +LADY MARDEN. Not that it matters. You can get married quietly again. +Nobody need know. + +GEORGE (considering it). Yes . . . yes. Then all these years we have +been--er--Yes. + +LADY MARDEN. Who's going to know? + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, that's true. . . . And in perfect innocence, too. + +LADY MARDEN. I should suggest a Registry Office in London. + +GEORGE. A Registry Office, yes. + +LADY MARDEN. Better go up to town this afternoon. Can't do it too +quickly. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes. We can stay at an hotel-- + +LADY MARDEN (surprised). George! + +GEORGE. What? + +LADY MARDEN. _You_ will stay at your club. + +GEORGE. Oh--ah--yes, of course, Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Better take your solicitor with you to be on the safe +side. . . . To the Registry Office, I mean. + +GEORGE. Yes. + +LADY MARDEN (getting up). Well, I must be getting along, George. Say +good-bye to Olivia for me. And those children. Of course, you won't +allow this absurd love-business between them to come to anything? + +GEORGE. Most certainly not. Good-bye, Aunt Julia! + +LADY MARDEN (indicating the windows). I'll go _this_ way. (As she +goes) And get Olivia out more, George. I don't like these hysterics. +You want to be firm with her. + +GEORGE (firmly) Yes, yes! Good-bye! + +(He waves to her and then goes back to his seat.) + +(OLIVIA comes in, and stands in the middle of the room looking at him. +He comes to her eagerly.) + +GEORGE (holding out his hands). Olivia! Olivia! (But it is not so easy +as that.) + +OLIVIA (drawing herself up proudly). Mrs. Telworthy! + + + + +ACT III + + +(OLIVIA is standing where we left her at the end of the last act.) + +GEORGE (taken aback). Olivia, I--I don't understand. + +OLIVIA (leaving melodrama with a little laugh and coming down to +him). Poor George! Did I frighten you rather? + +GEORGE. You're so strange to-day. I don't understand you. You're not +like the Olivia I know. + +(They sit down on the sofa together.) + +OLIVIA. Perhaps you don't know me very well after all. + +GEORGE (affectionately). Oh, that's nonsense, old girl. You're just my +Olivia. + +OLIVIA. And yet it seemed as though I wasn't going to be your Olivia +half an hour ago. + +GEORGE (with a shudder). Don't talk about it. It doesn't bear thinking +about. Well, thank Heaven that's over. Now we can get married again +quietly and nobody will be any the wiser. + +OLIVIA. Married again? + +GEORGE. Yes, dear. As you--er--(he laughs uneasily) said just now, you +are Mrs. Telworthy. Just for the moment. But we can soon put that +right. My idea was to go up this evening and--er--make arrangements, +and if you come up to-morrow morning, if we can manage it by then, we +could get quietly married at a Registry Office, and--er--nobody any +the wiser. + +OLIVIA. Yes, I see. You want me to marry you at a Registry Office +to-morrow? + +GEORGE. If we can arrange it by then. I don't know how long these +things take, but I should imagine there would be no difficulty. + +OLIVIA. Oh no, that part ought to be quite easy. But--(She hesitates.) + +GEORGE. But what? + +OLIVIA. Well, if you want to marry me to-morrow, George, oughtn't you +to propose to me first? + +GEORGE (amazed). Propose? + +OLIVIA. Yes. It is usual, isn't it, to propose to a person before you +marry her, and--and we want to do the usual thing, don't we? + +GEORGE (upset). But you--but we . . . + +OLIVIA. You see, dear, you're George Marden, and I'm Olivia Telworthy, +and you--you're attracted by me, and think I would make you a good +wife, and you want to marry me. Well, naturally you propose to me +first, and--tell me how much you are attracted by me, and what a good +wife you think I shall make, and how badly you want to marry me. + +GEORGE (falling into the humour of it, as he thinks). The baby! Did +she want to be proposed to all over again? + +OLIVIA. Well, she did rather. + +GEORGE (rather fancying himself as an actor). She shall then. (He +adopts what he considers to be an appropriate attitude) Mrs. +Telworthy, I have long admired you in silence, and the time has now +come to put my admiration into words. Er--(But apparently he finds a +difficulty.) + +OLIVIA (hopefully). Into words. + +GEORGE. Er-- + +OLIVIA (with the idea of helping). Oh, Mr. Marden! + +GEORGE. Er--may I call you Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Yes, George. + +GEORGE (taking her hand). Olivia--I--(He hesitates.) + +OLIVIA. I don't want to interrupt, but oughtn't you to be on your +knees? It is--usual, I believe. If one of the servants came in, you +could say you were looking for my scissors. + +GEORGE. Really, Olivia, you must allow me to manage my own proposal in +my own way. + +OLIVIA (meekly). I'm sorry. Do go on. + +GEORGE. Well, er--confound it, Olivia, I love you. Will you marry me? + +OLIVIA. Thank you, George, I will think it over. + +GEORGE (laughing). Silly girl! Well then, to-morrow morning. No +wedding-cake, I'm afraid, Olivia. (He laughs again) But we'll go and +have a good lunch somewhere. + +OLIVIA. I will think it over, George. + +GEORGE (good-humouredly). Well, give us a kiss while you're thinking. + +OLIVIA. I'm afraid you mustn't kiss me until we are actually engaged. + +GEORGE (laughing uneasily). Oh, we needn't take it as seriously as all +that. + +OLIVIA. But a woman must take a proposal seriously. + +GEORGE (alarmed at last). What do you mean? + +OLIVIA. I mean that the whole question, as I heard somebody say once, +demands much more anxious thought than either of us has given it. +These hasty marriages-- + +GEORGE. Hasty! + +OLIVIA. Well, you've only just proposed to me, and you want to marry +me to-morrow. + +GEORGE. Now you're talking perfect nonsense, Olivia. You know quite +well that our case is utterly different from--from any other. + +OLIVIA. All the same, one has to ask oneself questions. With a young +girl like--well, with a young girl, love may well seem to be all that +matters. But with a woman of my age, it is different. I have to ask +myself if you can afford to support a wife. + +GEORGE (coldly). Fortunately that is a question that you can very +easily answer for yourself. + +OLIVIA. Well, but I have been hearing rather bad reports lately. What +with taxes always going up, and rents always going down, some of our +landowners are getting into rather straitened circumstances. At least, +so I'm told. + +GEORGE. I don't know what you're talking about. + +OLIVIA (surprised). Oh, isn't it true? I heard of a case only this +morning--a landowner who always seemed to be very comfortably off, but +who couldn't afford an allowance for his only niece when she wanted to +get married. It made me think that one oughtn't to judge by +appearances. + +GEORGE. You know perfectly well that I can afford to support a wife as +my wife _should_ be supported. + +OLIVIA. I'm so glad, dear. Then your income--you aren't getting +anxious at all? + +GEORGE (stiffly). You know perfectly well what my income is. I see no +reason for anxiety in the future. + +OLIVIA. Ah, well, then we needn't think about that any more. Well, +then, there is another thing to be considered. + +GEORGE. I can't make out what you're up to. Don't you want to get +married; to--er--legalise this extraordinary situation in which we are +placed? + +OLIVIA. I want to be sure that I am going to be happy, George. I can't +just jump at the very first offer I have had since my husband died, +without considering the whole question very carefully. + +GEORGE. So I'm under consideration, eh? + +OLIVIA. Every suitor is. + +GEORGE (sarcastically, as he thinks). Well, go on. + +OLIVIA. Well, then, there's your niece. You have a niece who lives +with you. Of course Dinah is a delightful girl, but one doesn't like +marrying into a household in which there is another grown-up woman. +But perhaps she will be getting married herself soon? + +GEORGE. I see no prospect of it. + +OLIVIA. I think it would make it much easier if she did. + +GEORGE. Is this a threat, Olivia? Are you telling me that if I do not +allow young Strange to marry Dinah, you will not marry me? + +OLIVIA. A threat? Oh no, George. + +GEORGE. Then what does it mean? + +OLIVIA. I'm just wondering if you love me as much as Brian loves +Dinah. You _do_ love me? + +GEORGE (from his heart). You know I do, old girl. (He comes to her.) + +OLIVIA. You're not just attracted by my pretty face? . . . _Is_ it a +pretty face? + +GEORGE. It's an adorable one. (He tries to kiss it, but she turns +away.) + +OLIVIA. How can I be sure that it is not _only_ my face which makes +you think that you care for me? Love which rests upon a mere outward +attraction cannot lead to any lasting happiness--as one of our +thinkers has observed. + +GEORGE. What's come over you, Olivia? I don't understand what you're +driving at. Why should you doubt my love? + +OLIVIA. Ah!--Why? + +GEORGE. You can't pretend that we haven't been happy together. +I've--I've been a good pal to you, eh? We--we suit each other, old +girl. + +OLIVIA. Do we? + +GEORGE. Of course we do. + +OLIVIA. I wonder. When two people of our age think of getting married, +one wants to be very sure that there is real community of ideas +between them. Whether it is a comparatively trivial matter, like the +right colour for a curtain, or some very much more serious question of +conduct which arises, one wants to feel that there is some chance of +agreement between husband and wife. + +GEORGE. We--we love each other, old girl. + +OLIVIA. We do now, yes. But what shall we be like in five years' time? +Supposing that after we have been married five years, we found +ourselves estranged from each other upon such questions as Dinah's +future, or the decorations of the drawing-room, or even the advice to +give to a friend who had innocently contracted a bigamous marriage? +How bitterly we should regret then our hasty plunge into a matrimony +which was no true partnership, whether of tastes, or of ideas, or even +of consciences! (With a sigh) Ah me! + +GEORGE (nastily). Unfortunately for your argument, Olivia, I can +answer you out of your own mouth. You seem to have forgotten what you +said this morning in the case of--er--young Strange. + +OLIVIA (reproachfully). Is it quite fair, George, to drag up what was +said this morning? + +GEORGE. You've brought it on yourself. + +OLIVIA. I? . . . Well, and what did I say this morning? + +GEORGE. You said that it was quite enough that Strange was a gentleman +and in love with Dinah for me to let them marry each other. + +OLIVIA. Oh! . . . _Is_ that enough, George? + +GEORGE (triumphantly). You said so. + +OLIVIA (meekly). Well, if you think so, too, I--I don't mind risking +it. + +GEORGE (kindly). Aha, my dear! You see! + +OLIVIA. Then you do think it's enough? + +GEORGE. I--er--Yes, yes, I--I think so. + +OLIVIA (going to him). My darling one! Then we can have a double +wedding. How jolly! + +GEORGE (astounded). A double one! + +OLIVIA. Yes. You and me, Brian and Dinah. + +GEORGE (firmly). Now look here, Olivia, understand once and for all, I +am not to be blackmailed into giving my consent to Dinah's engagement. +Neither blackmailed nor tricked. Our marriage has nothing whatever to +do with Dinah's. + +OLIVIA. No, dear. I quite understand. They may take place about the +same time, but they have nothing to do with each other. + +GEORGE. I see no prospect of Dinah's marriage taking place for many +years. + +OLIVIA. No, dear, that was what I said. + +GEORGE (not understanding for the moment). You said. . . . ? I see. Now, +Olivia, let us have this perfectly clear. You apparently insist on +treating my--er--proposal as serious. + +OLIVIA (surprised). Wasn't it serious? Were you trifling with me? + +GEORGE. You know quite well what I mean. You treat it as an ordinary +proposal from a man to a woman who have never been more than +acquaintances before. Very well then. Will you tell me what you +propose to do, if you decide to--ah--refuse me? You do not suggest +that we should go on living together--unmarried? + +OLIVIA (shocked). Of course not, George! What would the County--I mean +Heaven--I mean the Law--I mean, of _course_ not! Besides, it's so +unnecessary. If I decide to accept you, of _course_ I shall marry you. + +GEORGE. Quite so. And if you--ah--decide to refuse me? What will you +do? + +OLIVIA. Nothing. + +GEORGE. Meaning by that? + +OLIVIA. Just that, George. I shall stay here--just as before. I like +this house. It wants a little re-decorating perhaps, but I do like it, +George. . . . Yes, I shall be quite happy here. + +GEORGE. I see. You will continue to live down here--in spite of what +you said just now about the immorality of it. + +OLIVIA (surprised). But there's nothing immoral in a widow living +alone in a big country house, with perhaps the niece of a friend of +hers staying with her, just to keep her company. + +GEORGE (sarcastic). And what shall _I_ be doing, when you've so very +kindly taken possession of my house for me? + +OLIVIA. I don't know, George. Travelling, I expect. You could come +down sometimes with a chaperone. I suppose there would be nothing +wrong in that. + +GEORGE (indignant). Thank you! And what if I refuse to be turned out +of my house? + +OLIVIA. Then, seeing that we can't _both_ be in it, it looks as though +you'd have to turn _me_ out. (Casually) I suppose there are legal ways +of doing these things. You'd have to consult your solicitor again. + +GEORGE (amazed). Legal ways? + +OLIVIA. Well, you couldn't _throw_ me out, could you? You'd have to +get an injunction against me--or prosecute me for trespass--or +something. It would make an awfully unusual case, wouldn't it? The +papers would be full of it. + +GEORGE. You must be mad! + +OLIVIA (dreamily). Widow of well-known ex-convict takes possession of +J.P.'s house. Popular country gentleman denied entrance to his own +home. Doomed to travel. + +GEORGE (angrily). I've had enough of this. Do you mean all this +nonsense? + +OLIVIA. I do mean, George, that I am in no hurry to go up to London +and get married. I love the country just now, and (with a sigh) after +this morning, I'm--rather tired of husbands. + +GEORGE (in a rage). I've never heard so much--damned nonsense in my +life. I will leave you to come to your senses. (He goes out +indignantly.) + +(OLIVIA, who has forgiven him already, throws a loving kiss after him, +and then turns triumphantly to her dear curtains. She takes them, +smiling, to the sofa, and has just got to work again, when MR. PIM +appears at the open windows.) + +PIM (in a whisper). Er, may I come in, Mrs. Marden? + +OLIVIA (turning round in surprise). Mr. Pim! + +PIM (anxiously). Mr. Marden is--er--not here? + +OLIVIA (getting up). Do you want to see him? I will tell him. + +PIM. No, no, no! Not for the world! (He comes in and looks anxiously +at the door) There is no immediate danger of his returning, Mrs. +Marden? + +OLIVIA (surprised). No, I don't think so. What is it? You-- + +PIM. I took the liberty of returning by the window in the hope +of--er--coming upon you alone, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Yes? + +PIM (still rather nervous). I--er--Mr. Marden will be very angry with +me. Quite rightly. I blame myself entirely. I do not know how I can +have been so stupid. + +OLIVIA. What is it, Mr. Pim? Has my husband come to life again? + +PIM. Mrs. Marden, I throw myself on your mercy entirely. The fact +is--his name was Polwittle. + +OLIVIA (at a loss). Whose? My husband's? + +PIM. Yes, yes. The name came back to me suddenly, just as I reached +the gate. Polwittle, poor fellow. + +OLIVIA. But, Mr. Pim, my husband's name was Telworthy. + +PIM. No, no, Polwittle. + +OLIVIA. But, really I ought to. . . . + +PIM (firmly). Polwittle. It came back to me suddenly just as I reached +the gate. For the moment, I had thoughts of conveying the news by +letter. I was naturally disinclined to return in person, +and--Polwittle. (Proudly) If you remember, I always said it was a +curious name. + +OLIVIA. But who _is_ Polwittle? + +PIM (in surprise at her stupidity). The man I have been telling you +about, who met with the sad fatality at Marseilles. Henry +Polwittle--or was it Ernest? No, Henry, I think. Poor fellow. + +OLIVIA (indignantly). But you said his name was Telworthy! How _could_ +you? + +PIM. Yes, yes, I blame myself entirely. + +OLIVIA. But how could you _think_ of a name like Telworthy, if it +wasn't Telworthy? + +PIM (eagerly). Ah, that is the really interesting thing about the +whole matter. + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, all your visits here to-day have been interesting. + +PIM. Yes, but you see, on my first appearance here this morning, I was +received by--er--Miss Diana. + +OLIVIA. Dinah. + +PIM. Miss Dinah, yes. She was in--er--rather a communicative mood, and +she happened to mention, by way of passing the time, that before your +marriage to Mr. Marden you had been a Mrs.--er-- + +OLIVIA. Telworthy. + +PIM. Yes, yes, Telworthy, of course. She mentioned also Australia. By +some process of the brain--which strikes me as decidedly curious--when +I was trying to recollect the name of the poor fellow on the boat, +whom you remember I had also met in Australia, the fact that this +other name was also stored in my memory, a name equally peculiar--this +fact I say . . . + +OLIVIA (seeing that the sentence is rapidly going to pieces). Yes, I +understand. + +PIM. I blame myself, I blame myself entirely. + +OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't do that, Mr. Pim. It was really Dinah's fault +for inflicting all our family history on you. + +PIM. Oh, but a charming young woman. I assure you I was very +much interested in all that she told me. (Getting up) Well, +Mrs.--er--Marden, I can only hope that you will forgive me for the +needless distress I have caused you to-day. + +OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't worry about that--please. + +PIM. And you will tell your husband--you will break the news to him? + +OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I will--break the news to him. + +PIM. You understand how it is that I thought it better to come to you +in the first place? + +OLIVIA. I am very glad you did. + +PIM (holding out his hand). Then I will say good-bye, and--er-- + +OLIVIA. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. Let us have it quite clear this time. +You never knew my husband, Jacob Telworthy, you never met him in +Australia, you never saw him on the boat, and nothing whatever +happened to him at Marseilles. Is that right? + +PIM. Yes, yes, that is so. + +OLIVIA. So that, since he was supposed to have died in Australia six +years ago, he is presumably still dead? + +PIM. Yes, yes, undoubtedly. + +OLIVIA (holding out her hand with a charming smile). Then good-bye, +Mr. Pim, and thank you so much for--for all your trouble. + +PIM. Not at all, Mrs. Marden. I can only assure you I-- + +DINAH (from the window). Hullo, here's Mr. Pim! (She comes in, +followed by BRIAN.) + +PIM (anxiously looking at the door in case MR. MARDEN should come in). +Yes, yes, I--er-- + +DINAH. Oh, Mr. Pim, you mustn't run away without even saying how do +you do! Such old friends as we are. Why, it is ages since I saw you! +Are you staying to tea? + +PIM. I'm afraid I-- + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim has to hurry away, Dinah. You mustn't keep him. + +DINAH. Well, but you'll come back again? + +PIM. I fear that I am only a passer-by, Miss--er--Dinah. + +OLIVIA. You can walk with him to the gate, dear. + +PIM (gratefully to OLIVIA). Thank you. (He edges towards the window) +If you would be so kind, Miss Dinah-- + +BRIAN. I'll catch you up. + +DINAH. Come along then, Mr. Pim. (As they go out) I want to hear all +about your _first_ wife. You haven't really told me anything yet. + +(OLIVIA resumes her work, and BRIAN sits on the back of the sofa +looking at her.) + +BRIAN (awkwardly). I just wanted to say, if you don't think it cheek, +that I'm--I'm on your side, if I may be, and if I can help you at all +I should be very proud of being allowed to. + +OLIVIA (looking up at him). Brian, you dear. That's sweet of you . . . +But it's quite all right now, you know. + +BRIAN. Oh, I'm so glad. + +OLIVIA. Yes, that's what Mr. Pim came back to say. He'd made a mistake +about the name. (Smiling) George is the only husband I have. + +BRIAN (surprised). What? You mean that the whole thing--that +Pim--(With conviction) Silly ass! + +OLIVIA (kindly). Oh, well, he didn't mean to be. (After a pause) +Brian, do you know anything about the Law? + +BRIAN. I'm afraid not. I hate the Law. Why? + +OLIVIA (casually). Oh, I just--I was wondering--thinking about all the +shocks we've been through to-day. Second marriages, and all that. + +BRIAN. Oh! It's a rotten business. + +OLIVIA. I suppose there's nothing wrong in getting married to the +_same_ person twice? + +BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think. + +OLIVIA. Oh? + +BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice, don't +they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in church. + +OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it's rather a +nice idea. They ought to do it in England more. + +BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can work it. +(Anxiously) D'you think there's any chance, Olivia? + +OLIVIA (smiling). Every chance, dear. + +BRIAN (jumping up). I say, do you really? Have you squared him? I +mean, has he-- + +OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later on. + +BRIAN. Bless you. Righto. + +(As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the door. GEORGE +stands looking after him, and then turns to OLIVIA, who is absorbed in +her curtains. He walks up and down the room, fidgeting with things, +waiting for her to speak. As she says nothing, he begins to talk +himself, but in an obviously unconcerned way. There is a pause after +each answer of hers, before he gets out his next remark.) + +GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange. + +OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian--yes, isn't he? And such a nice +boy . . . + +GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? Hey? + +OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . . + +GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what? + +OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's any +doubt about it . . . + +GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about painting. + +OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear. + +GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in this +new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint like--like +Rubens or--or Reynolds? + +OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find his +directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. . . . + +GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what? + +OLIVIA. Oh yes! + +GEORGE. H'm! . . . Good-looking fellow. (There is rather a longer silence +this time, GEORGE continues to hope that he is appearing casual and +unconcerned. He stands looking at OLIVIA'S work for a moment.) + +GEORGE. Nearly finished 'em? + +OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there? + +GEORGE (looking round). Scissors? + +OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . . + +GEORGE. Where are you going to put 'em? + +OLIVIA (as if really wondering). I don't quite know. . . . I _had_ +thought of this room, but--I'm not quite sure. + +GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit. + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . + +GEORGE (walking over to the present curtains). H'm. They _are_ a bit +faded. + +OLIVIA (shaking out hers, and looking at them critically). Sometimes I +think I love them, and sometimes I'm not quite sure. + +GEORGE. Best way is to hang 'em up and see how you like 'em then. +Always take 'em down again. + +OLIVIA. That's rather a good idea, George! + +GEORGE. Best way. + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . I think we might do that. . . . The only thing is--(she +hesitates). + +GEORGE. What? + +OLIVIA. Well, the carpet and the chairs, and the cushions and things-- + +GEORGE. What about 'em? + +OLIVIA. Well, if we had new curtains-- + +GEORGE. You'd want a new carpet, eh? + +OLIVIA (doubtfully). Y--yes. Well, new chair-covers anyhow. + +GEORGE. H'm. . . . Well, why not? + +OLIVIA. Oh, but-- + +GEORGE (with an awkward laugh). We're not so hard up as all that, you +know. + +OLIVIA. No, I suppose not. (Thoughtfully) I suppose it would mean that +I should have to go up to London for them. That's rather a nuisance. + +GEORGE (extremely casual). Oh, I don't know. We might go up together +one day. + +OLIVIA. Well, of course if we _were_ up--for anything else--we could +just look about us, and see if we could find what we want. + +GEORGE. That's what I meant. + +(There is another silence. GEORGE is wondering whether to come to +closer quarters with the great question.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, by the way, George-- + +GEORGE. Yes? + +OLIVIA (innocently). I told Brian, and I expect he'll tell Dinah, that +Mr. Pim had made a mistake about the name. + +GEORGE (astonished). You told Brian that Mr. Pim-- + +OLIVIA. Yes--I told him that the whole thing was a mistake. It seemed +the simplest way. + +GEORGE. Olivia! Then you mean that Brian and Dinah think that--that we +have been married all the time? + +OLIVIA. Yes . . . They both think so now. + +GEORGE (coming close to her). Olivia, does that mean that you _are_ +thinking of marrying me? + +OLIVIA. At your old Registry Office? + +GEORGE (eagerly). Yes! + +OLIVIA. To-morrow? + +GEORGE. Yes! + +OLIVIA. Do you want me to _very_ much? + +GEORGE. My darling, you know I do! + +OLIVIA (a little apprehensive). We should have to do it very quietly. + +GEORGE. Of course, darling. Nobody need know at all. We don't _want_ +anybody to know. And now that you've put Brian and Dinah off the +scent, by telling them that Mr. Pim made a mistake--(He breaks off, +and says admiringly) That was very clever of you, Olivia. I should +never have thought of that. + +OLIVIA (innocently). No, darling. . . . You don't think it was wrong, +George? + +GEORGE (his verdict). An innocent deception . . . perfectly harmless. + +OLIVIA. Yes, dear, that was what I thought about--about what I was +doing. + +GEORGE. Then you will come to-morrow? (She nods.) And if we happen to +see the carpet, or anything that you want-- + +OLIVIA. Oh, what fun! + +GEORGE (beaming). And a wedding lunch at the Carlton, what? (She nods +eagerly.) And--and a bit of a honeymoon in Paris? + +OLIVIA. Oh, George! + +GEORGE (hungrily). Give us a kiss, old girl. + +OLIVIA (lovingly). George! + +(She holds up her cheek to him. He kisses it, and then suddenly takes +her in his arms.) + +GEORGE. Don't ever leave me, old girl. + +OLIVIA (affectionately). Don't ever send me away, old boy. + +GEORGE (fervently). I won't. . . . (Awkwardly) I--I don't think I would +have, you know. I--I-- + +(DINAH and BRIAN appear at the windows, having seen MR. PIM safely +off.) + +DINAH (surprised). Oo, I say! + +(GEORGE hastily moves away.) + +GEORGE. Hallo! + +DINAH (going up impetuously to him). Give _me_ one, too, George; Brian +won't mind. + +BRIAN. Really, Dinah, you are the limit. + +GEORGE (formally, but enjoying it). Do you mind, Mr. Strange? + +BRIAN (a little uncomfortably). Oh, I say, sir-- + +GEORGE. We'll risk it, Dinah. (He kisses her.) + +DINAH (triumphantly to BRIAN). Did you notice that one? That +wasn't just an ordinary affectionate kiss. It was a special +bless--you--my--children one. (to GEORGE) Wasn't it? + +OLIVIA. You do talk nonsense, darling. + +DINAH. Well, I'm so happy, now that Mr. Pim has relented about your +first husband-- + +(GEORGE catches OLIVIA'S eye and smiles; she smiles back; but they are +different smiles.) + +GEORGE (the actor). Yes, yes, stupid fellow Pim, what? + +BRIAN. Absolute idiot. + +DINAH.--And now that George has relented about _my_ first husband. + +GEORGE. You get on much too quickly, young woman. (to BRIAN) So you +want to marry my Dinah, eh? + +BRIAN (with a smile). Well, I do rather, sir. + +DINAH (hastily). Not at once, of course, George. We want to be engaged +for a long time first, and write letters to each other, and tell each +other how much we love each other, and sit next to each other when we +go out to dinner. + +GEORGE (to OLIVIA). Well, _that_ sounds fairly harmless, I think. + +OLIVIA (smiling). I think so. . . . + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). Then you'd better have a talk with me--er--Brian. + +BRIAN. Thank you very much, sir. + +GEORGE. Well, come along then. (Looking at his watch) I am going up to +town after tea, so we'd better-- + +DINAH. I say! Are you going to London? + +GEORGE (with the smile of the conspirator). A little business. Never +you mind, young lady. + +DINAH (calmly). All right. Only, bring me back something nice. + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). Shall we walk down and look at the pigs? + +BRIAN. Righto! + +OLIVIA. Don't go far, dear. I may want you in a moment. + +GEORGE. All right, darling, we'll be on the terrace. + + [They go out together. + +DINAH. Brian and George always try to discuss me in front of the pigs. +So tactless of them. Are you going to London, too, darling? + +OLIVIA. To-morrow morning. + +DINAH. What are you going to do in London? + +OLIVIA. Oh, shopping, and--one or two little things. + +DINAH. With George? + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . + +DINAH. I say, wasn't it lovely about Pim? + +OLIVIA. Lovely? + +DINAH. Yes; he told me all about it. Making such a hash of things, I +mean. + +OLIVIA (innocently). Did he make a hash of things? + +DINAH. Well, I mean keeping on coming like that. And if you look at it +all round--well, for all he had to say, he needn't really have come at +all. + +OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I shouldn't quite say that, Dinah. (She +stands up and shakes out the curtains.) + +DINAH. I say, aren't they jolly? + +OLIVIA (demurely). I'm so glad everybody likes them. Tell George I'm +ready, will you? + +DINAH. I say, is _he_ going to hang them up for you? + +OLIVIA. Well, I thought he could reach best. + +DINAH. Righto! What fun! (At the windows) George! George! (to OLIVIA) +Brian is just telling George about the five shillings he's got in the +Post Office. . . . George! + +GEORGE (from the terrace). Coming! + +(He hurries in, the model husband, BRIAN follows.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, George, just hang these up for me, will you? + +GEORGE. Of course, darling. I'll get the steps from the library. + + [He hurries out. + +(BRIAN takes out his sketching block. It is obvious that his five +shillings has turned the scale. He bows to DINAH. He kisses OLIVIA'S +hand with an air. He motions to DINAH to be seated.) + +DINAH (impressed). What is it? + +BRIAN (beginning to draw). Portrait of Lady Strange. + +(GEORGE hurries in with the steps, and gets to work. There is a great +deal of curtain, and for the moment he becomes slightly involved in +it. However, by draping it over his head and shoulders, he manages to +get successfully up the steps. There we may leave him.) + +(But we have not quite finished with MR. PIM. It is a matter of honour +with him now that he should get his little story quite accurate before +passing out of the MARDENS' life for ever. So he comes back for the +last time; for the last time we see his head at the window. He +whispers to OLIVIA.) + +MR. PIM. Mrs. Marden! I've just remembered. His name was _Ernest_ +Polwittle--_not_ Henry. + +(He goes off happily. A curious family the MARDENS. Perhaps somebody +else would have committed bigamy if he had not remembered in time that +it was Ernest. . . . Ernest. . . . Yes. . . . Now he can go back with an +easy conscience to the Trevors.) + + + + + +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE + +A COMEDY IN ONE ACT + + + + +CHARACTERS + +KATE CAMBERLEY. +CYRIL NORWOOD (her lover). +DENNIS CAMBERLEY (her husband). + + * * * * * + +This play was first produced by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the Coliseum on +September 8, 1919, with the following cast: + +Dennis Camberley--GODFREY TEARLE. +Kate Camberley--MARY MALONE. +Cyril Norwood--EWAN BROOK. + + + + +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE + + +(It is an evening of 1919 in KATE'S drawing-room. She is expecting +him, and the Curtain goes up as he is announced.) + +MAID. Mr. Cyril Norwood. + +(He comes in.) + +NORWOOD (for the MAID'S benefit, but you may be sure she knows). Ah, +good evening, Mrs. Camberley! + +KATE. Good evening! + +(They shake hands. NORWOOD is sleek and prosperous, in a morning coat +with a white slip to his waistcoat. He is good-looking in rather an +obvious way with rather an obvious moustache. Most women like him--at +least, so he will tell you.) + +NORWOOD (as soon as they are alone). My darling! + +KATE. Cyril! + +(He takes her hands and kisses them. He would kiss her face, but she +is not quite ready for this.) + +NORWOOD. You let me yesterday. Why mayn't I kiss you to-day? + +KATE. Not just yet, dear. I want to talk to you. Come and sit down. + +(They sit on the sofa together.) + +NORWOOD. You aren't sorry for what you said yesterday? + +KATE (looking at him thoughtfully, and then shaking her head). No. + +NORWOOD. Then what's happened? + +KATE. I've just had a letter from Dennis. + +NORWOOD (anxiously). Dennis--your husband? + +KATE. Yes. + +NORWOOD. Where does he write from? + +KATE. India. + +NORWOOD. Oh, well! + +KATE. He says I may expect him home almost as soon as I get the +letter. + +NORWOOD. Good Heavens! + +KATE. Yes. . . . + +NORWOOD (always hopeful). Perhaps he didn't catch the boat that he +expected to. Wouldn't he have cabled from somewhere on the way? + +KATE. You can't depend on cables nowadays. _I_ don't know--What are we +to do, Cyril? + +NORWOOD. You know what I always wanted you to do. (He takes her hands) +Come away with me. + +KATE (doubtfully). And let Dennis come home and find--an empty house? + +NORWOOD (eagerly). You are nothing to him, and he is nothing to you. A +war-wedding!--after you'd been engaged to each other for a week! And +forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent out to India--and you haven't +seen him since. + +KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that. + +NORWOOD. The world may say that you're his wife and he's your husband, +but--what do you know of him? He won't even be the boy you married. +He'll be a stranger whom you'll hardly recognise. And you aren't the +girl _he_ married. You're a woman now, and you're just beginning to +learn what love is. Come with _me_. + +KATE. It's true, it's true. But he _has_ been fighting for us. And to +come home again after those four years of exile, and find-- + +NORWOOD. Exile--that's making much too much of it. He's come through +the war safely, and he's probably had what he'd call a topping good +time. Like enough he's been in love half-a-dozen times himself +since--on leave in India and that sort of thing. India! Well, you +should read Kipling. + +KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don't know him. But I feel +that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight about +it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing what you +say, he would understand--and perhaps be glad of it. + +NORWOOD (uneasily). Really, darling, it's hardly a thing you can talk +over calmly with a husband, even if he--We don't want any unpleasantness, +and--er--(Taking her hands again) Besides, I want you, Kate. It +may be weeks before he comes back. We can't go on like this . . . Kate! + +KATE. Do you love me so very much? + +NORWOOD. My darling! + +KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week--in case he comes. I +don't want to seem to be afraid of him. + +NORWOOD (eagerly). And then? + +KATE. Then I'll come with you. + +NORWOOD (taking her in his arms). My darling! . . . There! And now what +are you going to do? Ask me to stay to dinner or what? + +KATE. Certainly not, sir. I'm going _out_ to dinner to-night. + +NORWOOD (jealously). Who with? + +KATE. You. + +NORWOOD (eagerly). At our little restaurant? (She nods) Good girl! +Then go and put on a hat, while I ring 'em up and see if they've got a +table. + +KATE. What fun! I won't be a moment. (She goes to the door) Cyril, you +will _always_ love me? + +NORWOOD. Of course I will, darling. (She nods at him and goes out. He +is very well pleased with himself when he is left alone. He goes to +the telephone with a smile) Gerrard 11,001. Yes . . . I want a table for +two. To-night . . . Mr. Cyril Norwood . . . Oh, in about half an hour . . . +Yes, for two. Is that all right? . . . Thank you. + +(He puts the receiver back and turns round to see DENNIS CAMBERLEY, +who has just come in. DENNIS is certainly a man now; very easily and +pleasantly master of himself and of anybody else who gets in his way.) + +NORWOOD (surprised). Hallo! + +DENNIS (nodding pleasantly). Hallo! + +NORWOOD (wondering who he is). You--er----? + +DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood. + +NORWOOD. You know my name? + +DENNIS. Oh yes, I've heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril Norwood. + +NORWOOD (stiffly). I don't think I've had the pleasure of--er---- + +DENNIS (winningly). Oh, but I'm sure you must have heard a good deal +about _me_. + +NORWOOD. Good God, you don't mean---- + +DENNIS. I do, indeed. (With a bow) Dennis Camberley, the missing +husband. (Pleadingly) You _have_ heard about me, _haven't_ you? + +NORWOOD. I--er--Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So you're back? + +DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. Norwood, +and sometimes--they do. . . . Even after four years. . . . But you _did_ +talk about me sometimes? + +NORWOOD. How did you know my name? + +DENNIS. A little bird told me about you. + +NORWOOD (turning away in anger). Pooh! + +DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the backs of +crocodiles, searching for--well, let us say, breakfast. He said to me +one morning: "Talking of parasites," he said, "do you know Mr. Cyril +Norwood?" he said, "because I could tell you an interesting story +about him," he said, "if you care to--" + +NORWOOD (wheeling round furiously). Look here, sir, we'd better have +it out quite plainly. I don't want any veiled insults and sneers from +you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has arisen, but we must +look facts in the face. You may be Mrs. Camberley's husband, but she +has not seen you for four years, and--well, she and I love each other. +There you have it. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS (anxiously). You don't feel that I have neglected her, Mr. +Norwood? You see, I couldn't come home for week-ends very well, and-- + +NORWOOD. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS (pleasantly). Well, what do you suggest? + +NORWOOD (taken aback). Really, sir, I--er-- + +DENNIS. You see, I feel so out of it all. I've been leading such a +nasty, uncivilised life for the last four years, I really hardly know +what is--what is being done. Now _you_ have been mixing in Society . . . +making munitions . . . + +NORWOOD (stiffly). I have been engaged on important work for the +Government of a confidential nature-- + +DENNIS. You, as I was saying, have been mixing in Society, engaged on +important work for the Government of a confidential nature---- + +NORWOOD. It was my great regret that I had no opportunity of +enlisting---- + +DENNIS. With no opportunity, as I was about to say, of enlisting, but +with many opportunities, fortunately, of making love to my wife. + +NORWOOD. Now look here, Mr. Camberley, I've already told you---- + +DENNIS (soothing him). But, my dear Mr. Norwood, I'm only doing what +you said. I'm looking facts in the face. (Surprised) You aren't +ashamed of having made love to my wife, are you? + +NORWOOD (impatiently). What are you going to do? That's all that +matters between you and me. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS. Well, that was what I was going to ask you. You're so much +more in the swim than I am. (Earnestly) What _is_ being done in +Society just now? You must have heard a good deal of gossip about it. +All your friends, who were also engaged on important work of a +confidential nature, with no opportunity of enlisting--don't they tell +you their own experiences? What _have_ the husbands been doing lately +when they came back from the front? + +NORWOOD (advancing on him angrily). Now, once and for all, sir---- + +(KATE comes in, with a hat in each hand, calling to NORWOOD as she +comes.) + +KATE. Oh, Cyril--which of these two hats--(she sees her +husband)--Dennis! + +DENNIS (looking at her steadfastly). How are _you_, Kate? + +KATE (stammering). You've--you've come back? (She puts the hats down.) + +DENNIS. I've come back. As I was telling Mr. Norwood. + +KATE (looking from one to the other). You--? + +DENNIS (smiling). Oh, we're quite old friends. + +NORWOOD (going to her). I've told him, Kate. + +(He takes her hands, and tries to look defiantly at DENNIS, though he +is not feeling like that at all.) + +KATE (looking anxiously at DENNIS). What are you going to do? + +(She can hardly make him out. He is different from the husband who +left her four years ago.) + +DENNIS. Well, that's what Cyril keeps asking me. (to NORWOOD) You +don't mind my calling you Cyril?--such an old friend of my wife's-- + +KATE (unable to make him out). Dennis! (She is frightened.) + +NORWOOD (soothingly). It's all right, dear. + +DENNIS. Do let's sit down and talk it over in a friendly way. + +KATE (going to him). Dennis, can you ever forgive me? We never ought +to have got married--we knew each other so little--you had to go away +so soon--I--I was going to write and tell you--oh, I wish-- + +DENNIS. That's all right, Kate. (He will not let her come too close to +him. He steps back and looks at her from head to feet) You've altered. + +KATE. That's just it, Dennis. I'm not the girl who-- + +DENNIS. You've grown four years younger and four years prettier. + +KATE (dropping her eyes). Have I? + +DENNIS. Yes. . . . You do your hair a new way. + +KATE (surprised). Do you like it? + +DENNIS. I love it. + +NORWOOD (coughing). Yes, well, perhaps we'd better-- + +DENNIS (with a start). I beg your pardon, Cyril. I was forgetting you +for the moment. Well, now do sit down, (NORWOOD and KATE sit down +together on the sofa, but DENNIS remains standing) That's right. + +KATE. Well? + +DENNIS (to KATE). You want to marry him, eh? + +NORWOOD. We have already told you the circumstances, Mr. Camberley. I +need hardly say how regrettable it is that--er--but at the same time +these--er--things will happen, and since it--er--has happened-- + +KATE. I feel I hardly know you, Dennis. Did I love you when I married +you? I don't know. It was so sudden. We had no time to find out +anything about each other. And now you come back--a stranger-- + +DENNIS (jerking his head at NORWOOD). And he's not a stranger, eh? + +KATE (dropping her eyes). N-no. + +DENNIS. You feel you know all about _him_? + +KATE. I--we--(She is unhappy.) + +NORWOOD. We have discovered that we love each other. (Taking her +hands) My darling one, this is distressing for you. Let _me_-- + +DENNIS (sharply). It wouldn't be distressing for her, if you didn't +keep messing her about. Why the devil can't you sit on a chair by +yourself? + +NORWOOD (indignantly). Really! + +KATE (freeing herself from him, and moving to the extreme end of the +sofa). What are you going to do, Dennis? + +DENNIS (looking at them thoughtfully, his chin on his hand). I don't +know. . . . It's difficult. I don't want to do anything melodramatic. I +mean (to KATE) it wouldn't really help matters if I did shoot him, +would it? + +(KATE looks at him without saying anything, trying to understand this +new man who has come into her life. NORWOOD swallows, and tries very +hard to say something) + +NORWOOD. I--I-- + +DENNIS (turning to him). You_ don't think so, do you? + +NORWOOD. I--I-- + +DENNIS. No, I'm quite sure you're right. It wouldn't really help. It +is difficult, isn't it? You see (to KATE) _you_ love _him_--(he waits +a moment for her to say it if she will, but she only looks at +him)--and _he_ says _he_ loves _you_, but at the same time I _am_ your +husband. . . . (He walks up and down thoughtfully, and then says suddenly +to NORWOOD) I'll tell you what--I'll fight you for her. + +NORWOOD (trying to be firm). I think we'd better leave this +eighteenth-century nonsense out of it. + +DENNIS (pleasantly). They fight in the twentieth century, too, Mr. +Norwood. Perhaps you hadn't heard what we've been doing these last +four years? Oh, quite a lot of it. . . . Well? + +NORWOOD. You don't wish me to believe that you're serious? + +DENNIS. Perfectly. Swords, pistols, fists, catch-as-catch-can--what +would you like? + +NORWOOD. I do not propose to indulge in an undignified scuffle for +the--er--lady of my heart. + +DENNIS (cheerfully). Nothing doing in scuffles, eh? All right, then, +I'll toss you for her. + +NORWOOD. Now you're merely being vulgar. (to KATE) My dear-- + +(She motions him back with her hand, but does not take her eyes off +DENNIS.) + +DENNIS. Really, Mr. Norwood, you're a little hard to please. If you +don't like my suggestions, perhaps you will make one of your own. + +NORWOOD. This is obviously a matter in which it is for the--er--lady +to choose. + +DENNIS. You think Mrs. Camberley should choose between us? + +NORWOOD. Certainly. + +DENNIS. What do you say, Kate? + +KATE. You are very generous, Dennis. + +DENNIS (after a pause). Very well, you shall choose. + +NORWOOD (complacently). Ah! + +DENNIS. Wait a moment, Mr. Norwood. (to KATE) When did you first meet +him? + +KATE. A year ago. + +DENNIS. And he's been making love to you for a year? (KATE bends her +head) He's been making love to you for a year? + +NORWOOD. I think, sir, that the sooner the lady makes her choice, and +brings this distressing scene to a close--After all, is it fair to her +to--? + +DENNIS. Are you fair to _me_? You've been making love to her for a +year. _I_ made love to her for a fort-night--four years ago. And now +you want her to choose between us. Is _that_ fair? + +NORWOOD. You hardly expect us to wait a year before she is allowed to +make up her mind? + +DENNIS. I waited four years for her out there. . . . However, I won't ask +you to wait a year. I'll ask you to wait for five minutes. + +KATE. What is it you want us to do, Dennis? + +DENNIS. I want you to listen to both of us, for five minutes each; +that's all. After all, we're your suitors, aren't we? You're going to +choose between us. Very well, then, you must hear what we have to say. +Mr. Norwood shall have five minutes alone with you in which to present +his case; five minutes in which to tell you how beautiful you +are. . . . and how rich he is . . . and how happy you'll be together. +And I shall have _my_ five minutes. + +NORWOOD (sneering). Five minutes in which to tell her lies about _me_, +eh? + +DENNIS. Damn it, you've had a whole year in which to tell her lies +about yourself; you oughtn't to grudge me five minutes. (to KATE) +Well? + +KATE. I agree, Dennis. + +DENNIS. Good. (He spins a coin, puts it on the back of his hand, and +says to NORWOOD) Call! + +NORWOOD. What on _earth_-- + +DENNIS. Choice of innings. + +NORWOOD. I never heard of anything so--Tails. + +DENNIS (uncovering it). Heads. You shall have first knock. + +NORWOOD (bewildered). What do you--I don't-- + +DENNIS. You have five minutes in which to lay your case before Mrs. +Camberley. (He looks at his watch) Five minutes--and then I shall come +back. . . . Is there a fire in the dining-room, Kate? + +KATE (smiling in spite of herself). A gas-fire; it isn't lit. + +DENNIS. Then I shall light it. (to NORWOOD) That will make the room +nice and warm for you by the time you've finished. (He goes to the +door and says again) Five minutes. + +(There is an awkward silence after he is gone. KATE waits for NORWOOD +to say something, but NORWOOD doesn't know in the least what is +expected of him.) + +NORWOOD (looking anxiously at the door). What's the fellow's game, eh? + +KATE. Game? + +NORWOOD. Yes. What's he up to? + +KATE. Is he up to anything? + +NORWOOD. I don't like it. Why the devil did he choose to-day to come +back? If he'd waited another week, we'd have been safely away +together. What's his game, I wonder? + +(He walks up and down, worrying it out.) + +KATE. I don't think he's playing a game. He's just giving me my +chance. + +NORWOOD. What chance? + +KATE. A chance to decide between you. + +NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think about +it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming away with +me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he up to? + +KATE (sitting down and talking to herself). You're quite right about +my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage in those early +days of the war--knowing nothing about each other. And then they come +back, and even the little one thought one did know is different. . . . I +suppose he feels the same about me. + +NORWOOD (to himself). Damn him! + +KATE (after a pause). Well, Cyril? + +NORWOOD (looking sharply round at her). Well? + +KATE. We haven't got very long. + +NORWOOD (looking at his watch). He really means to come back--in five +minutes? + +KATE. You heard him say so. + +NORWOOD (going up to her and speaking eagerly). What's the matter with +slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can slip out quietly. He +won't hear us. He'll come back and find us gone--well, what can he do? +Probably he'll hang about for a bit and then go to his club. We'll +have a bit of dinner; ring up your maid; get her to meet you with some +things, and go off by the night mail. Scotland--anywhere you like. Let +the whole business simmer down a bit. We don't want any melodramatic +eighteenth-century nonsense. + +KATE. Go out now, and not wait for him to have _his_ five minutes? + +NORWOOD (impatiently). What does he _want_ with five minutes? What's +the _good_ of it to him? Just to take a pathetic farewell of you, and +pretend that you've ruined his life, when all the time he's chuckling +in his sleeve at having got rid of you so easily. _I_ know these young +fellows. Some Major's wife in India is what _he's_ got his eye on. . . . +Or else he'll try fooling around with the hands-up business. You don't +want to be mixed up with any scandal of _that_ sort. No, the best +thing we can do--I'm speaking for _your_ sake, Kate--is to slip off +quietly, while we've got the chance. We can _write_ and explain all +that we want to explain. + +KATE (looking wonderingly at him--another man whom she doesn't know). +Is that playing quite fair to Dennis? + +NORWOOD. Good Lord, this isn't a game! Camberley may think so with his +tossing-up and all the rest of it, but you and I aren't children. +Everything's fair in a case like this. Put your hat on--quickly--(he +gets it for her)--here you are-- + +KATE (standing up). I'm not sure, Cyril. + +NORWOOD. What d'you mean? + +KATE. He expects me to wait for him. + +NORWOOD. If it comes to that, he expected you to wait for him four +years ago. + +KATE. Yes. . . . (Quietly) Thank you for reminding me. + +NORWOOD. Kate, don't be stupid. What's happened to you? Of course, I +know it's been beastly upsetting for you, all this--but then, why do +you want to go on with it? Why do you want _more_ upsetting scenes? + +You've got a chance now of getting out of it all, and--(He looks at +his watch) Good Lord! + +KATE. Is the five minutes over? + +NORWOOD. Quick, quick! (He puts his fingers to his lips) Quietly. (He +walks on tiptoe to the door.) + +KATE. Cyril! + +NORWOOD. H'sh! + +KATE (sitting down again). It's no good, Cyril, I must wait for him. + +(The door opens, and NORWOOD starts back quickly as DENNIS comes in.) + +DENNIS (looking at his watch). Innings declared closed. (to NORWOOD) +The dining-room is nicely warmed now, and I've left you an evening +paper. + +NORWOOD (going to KATE). Look here, Mr. Camberley, Kate and I-- + +DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley, no doubt, will tell me. + +(He holds the door open and waits politely for NORWOOD to go.) + +NORWOOD. I don't know what your game is-- + +DENNIS. You've never been in Mesopotamia, Mr. Norwood? + +NORWOOD. Never. + +DENNIS. It's a very trying place for the temper. . . . I'm waiting for +you. + +NORWOOD (irresolute). Well, I---- (He comes sulkily to the door) Well, +I shall come back for Kate in five minutes. + +DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley and I will be ready for you. You know your way? + + [NORWOOD goes out. + +(DENNIS shuts the door. He comes into the room and stands looking at +KATE.) + +KATE (uncomfortably). Well? + +DENNIS. No, don't move. I just want to look at you. . . . I've seen you +like that for four years. Don't move. . . . I've been in some dreary +places, but you've been with me most of the time. Just let's have a +last look. + +KATE. A last look? + +DENNIS. Yes. + +KATE. You're saying good-bye to me? + +DENNIS. I don't know whether it's to you, Kate. To the girl who has +been with me these last four years. Was that you? + +KATE (dropping her eyes). I don't know, Dennis. + +DENNIS. I wish to God I wasn't your husband. + +KATE. What would you do if you weren't my husband? + +DENNIS. Make love to you. + +KATE. Can't you do that now? + +DENNIS. Being your husband rather handicaps me, you know. I never +really stood a chance against the other fellow. + +KATE. I was to choose between you, you said. You think that I have +already made up my mind? + +DENNIS (smiling). I think so. + +KATE. And chosen him? + +DENNIS (shaking his head). Oh, no! + +KATE (surprised). You think I have chosen _you_? + +DENNIS (nodding). M'm. + +KATE (indignantly). Really, Dennis! Considering that I had practically +arranged to run away with him twenty minutes ago! You must think me +very fickle. + +DENNIS. Not fickle. Imaginative. + +KATE. What do you mean? And why are you so certain that I am going to +choose you? And why in that case did you talk about taking a last look +at me? And what--? + +DENNIS. Of course, we've only got five minutes, but I think that if +you asked your questions one at a time---- + +KATE (smiling). Well, you needn't _answer_ them all together. + +DENNIS. All right then, one at a time. Why am I certain that you will +choose me? Because for the first time in your life you have just been +alone with Mr. Cyril Norwood. That's what I meant by saying you were +imaginative. The Norwood you've been thinking yourself in love with +doesn't exist. I'm certain that you've seen him for the first time in +these last few minutes. Why, the Archangel Gabriel would have made a +hash of a five minutes like that; it would have been impossible for +him to have said the right thing to you. Norwood? Good Lord, he didn't +stand a chance. You were judging him all the time, weren't you? + +KATE (thoughtfully). You're very clever, Dennis. + +DENNIS (cheerfully). Four years' study of the Turkish character. + +KATE. But how do you know I'm not judging _you_ all the time? + +DENNIS. Of course you are. But there's all the difference in the world +between judging a stranger like me, and judging the man you thought +you were in love with. + +KATE. You _are_ a stranger to me. + +DENNIS. I know. That's why I said good-bye to the girl who had been +with me these last four years, the girl I had married. Well, I've said +good-bye to her. You're not my wife any longer, Kate; but if you don't +mind pretending that I'm not your husband, and just give me a chance +of making love to you--well, that's all I want. + +KATE. You're very generous, Dennis. + +DENNIS. No, I'm not. I'm very much in love; and for a man very much in +love I'm being rather less of a silly ass than usual. Why should you +love me? You fell in love with my uniform at the beginning of the war. +I was ordered out, and you fell in love with the departing hero. After +that? Well, I had four years--alone--in which to think about _you_, +and you had four years--with other men--in which to forget _me_. Is it +any wonder that--? + +(NORWOOD comes in.) + +NORWOOD (roughly). Well? + +DENNIS. You arrive just in time, Mr. Norwood. I was talking too much. +(to KATE) Mrs. Camberley, we are both at your disposal. Will you +choose between us, which one is to have the happiness of--serving you? + +NORWOOD (holding out his hand to her, and speaking in the voice of the +proprietor). Kate! + +(KATE goes slowly up to him with her hand held out.) + +KATE (shaking NORWOOD'S hand). Good-bye, Mr. Norwood. + +NORWOOD (astounded). Kate! (to DENNIS) You devil! + +DENNIS. And only a moment ago I was comparing you to the Archangel +Gabriel. + +NORWOOD (sneeringly to KATE). So you're going to be a loving wife to +him after all? + +DENNIS (tapping him kindly on the shoulder). You'll remember what I +said about Mesopotamia? + +NORWOOD (pulling himself together hastily). Good-bye, Mrs. Camberley. +I can only hope that you will be happy. + +(He goes out with dignity.) + +DENNIS (closing the door). Well, there we agree. + +(He comes back to her.) + +KATE. What a stupid little fool I have been. (She holds out her arms +to him) Dennis! + +DENNIS (retreating in mock alarm). Oh no, you don't! (He shakes a +finger at her) We're not going to rush it _this_ time. + +KATE (reproachfully). Dennis! + +DENNIS. I think you should call me Mr. Camberley. + +KATE (with a smile). Mr. Camberley. + +DENNIS. That's better. Now our courtship begins. (Bowing low) Madam, +will you do me the great honour of dining with me this evening? + +KATE (curtseying). I shall be charmed. + +DENNIS. Then let us hasten. The carriage waits. + +KATE (holding up the two hats). Which of these two chapeaux do you +prefer, Mr. Camberley? + +DENNIS. Might I express a preference for the black one with the pink +roses? + +KATE. It is very elegant, is it not? (She puts it on.) + +DENNIS. Vastly becoming, upon my life. . . . I might mention that I am +staying at the club. Is your ladyship doing anything to-morrow? + +KATE. Nothing of any great importance. + +(He offers his arm and she takes it.) + +DENNIS (as they go to the door). Then perhaps I may be permitted to +call round to-morrow morning about eleven, and make inquiries as to +your ladyship's health. + +KATE. It would be very obliging of you, sir. + + [They go out together. + + + + + +THE ROMANTIC AGE + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + +CHARACTERS + +HENRY KNOWLE. +MARY KNOWLE (his wife). +MELISANDE (his daughter). +JANE BAGOT (his niece). +BOBBY COOTE. +GERVASE MALLORY. +ERN. +GENTLEMAN SUSAN. +ALICE. + + * * * * * + +ACT I +The hall of MR. KNOWLE'S house. Evening. + +ACT II +A glade in the wood. Morning. + +ACT III +The hall again. Afternoon. + + * * * * * + +This play was first produced by Mr. Arthur Wontner at the Comedy +Theatre on October 18, 1920, with the following cast: + +Henry Knowle--A. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT. +Mary Knowle--LOTTIE VENNE. +Melisande--BARBARA HOFFE. +Jane--DOROTHY TETLEY. +Bobby--JOHN WILLIAMS. +Gervase Mallory--ARTHUR WONTNER. +Ern--ROY LENNOL. +Gentleman Susan--H.O. NICHOLSON. +Alice--IRENE RATHBONE. + + + + +THE ROMANTIC AGE + +ACT I + + +(We are looking at the inner hall of MR. HENRY KNOWLE'S country house, +at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors R. and L.--on the +right leading to the drawing-room, on the left to the entrance hall, +the dining-room and the library. At the back are windows--French +windows on the right, then an interval of wall, then casement +windows.) + +(MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, her daughter, MELISANDE, and her niece, JANE +BAGOT, are waiting for their coffee, MRS. KNOWLE, short and stoutish, +is reclining on the sofa; JANE, pleasant-looking and rather obviously +pretty, is sitting in a chair near her, glancing at a book; MELISANDE, +the beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows, +gazing into the night.) + +(ALICE, the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands in front +of MRS. KNOWLE, a little embarrassed because MRS. KNOWLE'S eyes are +closed. She waits there until JANE looks up from her book.) + +JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee? + +MRS. KNOWLE (opening her eyes with a start). Coffee. Oh, yes, coffee. +Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr. Anderson is very firm +about that. "No sugar, Mrs. Knowle," he said. "Oh, Dr. Anderson!" I +said. + +(ALICE has taken the tray to JANE, who pours out her own and her +aunt's coffee, and takes her cup off the tray.) + +JANE. Thank you. + +(ALICE takes the tray to MRS. KNOWLE.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. + +(ALICE goes over to MELISANDE, who says nothing, but waves her away.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (as soon as ALICE is gone). Jane! + +JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open? + +JANE. Oh, _no_, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I'm glad of that. It's so bad for the servants. (She +finishes her coffee.) + +JANE (getting up). Shall I put it down for you? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. + +(JANE puts the two cups down and goes back to her book. MRS. KNOWLE +fidgets a little on her sofa.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (There is no answer) Sandy! + +JANE. Melisande! + +(MELISANDE turns round and comes slowly towards her mother.) + +MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn't you hear me? + +MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other things. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the great +poet tells us. "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." +Tennyson, wasn't it? I know I wrote it in your album for you when you +were a little girl. It's so true. + +MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson. + +JANE (nodding). Kingsley, that's right. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it's the same thing. I know when _my_ mother used +to call me I used to come running up, saying, "What is it, Mummy, +darling?" And even if it was anything upstairs, like a handkerchief or +a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off happily, saying to +myself, "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." + +MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want doing? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I've forgotten. If only you'd come at +once, dear-- + +MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It's a wonderful night. +Midsummer Night. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will start +drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know where we +are. All these changes of the seasons are very inconsiderate to an +invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted, dear. Can you find me +another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it most important that the +small of the back should be well supported after a meal. (Indicating +the place) Just here, dear. + +JANE (jumping up with the cushion from her chair). Let me, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. (JANE arranges it.) + +JANE. Is that right? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson's sake. + +(JANE goes back to her book and MELISANDE goes back to her Midsummer +Night. There is silence for a little.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy! + +JANE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE (coming patiently down to them). Yes, Mother? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I've just remembered--(MELISANDE shudders.) +What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That comes of standing by the +open window in a treacherous climate like this. Close the window and +come and sit down properly. + +MELISANDE. It's a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I'm not +cold. + +MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder. Didn't +you see her, Jane? + +JANE. I'm afraid I wasn't looking, Aunt Mary. + +MELISANDE. I didn't shudder because I was cold. I shuddered because +you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder every time I +hear it. + +MRS. KNOWLE (surprised). What name, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by such a +wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were going to +call me Sandy? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I've told you, that was a mistake +of your father's. I suppose he got it out of some book. I should +certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him distinctly. I +thought he said Millicent--after your Aunt Milly. And not being very +well at the time, and leaving it all to him, I never really knew about +it until it was too late to do anything. I did say to your father, +"Can't we christen her again?" But there was nothing in the prayer +book about it except "riper years," and nobody seemed to know when +riper years began. Besides, we were all calling you Sandy then. I +think Sandy is a very pretty name, don't you, Jane? + +JANE. Oh, but don't you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary? I +mean really beautiful. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not for a +nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes me think +of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to whom she has +never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest with her hair +coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a pool. Not at all +the thing one wants for one's daughter. + +JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with "Jane," dear. Your +mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child from +floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it is my +duty to do so. + +MELISANDE (to her self ecstatically). Melisande! + +MRS. KNOWLE (to MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about floating in a pool +reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner to-night. You heard what +your father said? You must give cook a good talking to in the morning. +She has been getting very careless lately. I don't know what's come +over her. + +MELISANDE. _I've_ come over her. When _you_ were over her, everything +was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you take an interest +in it. I don't. I hate it. How can you expect the house to be run +properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you ever give it up and +make me do it when you know how I hate it? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I'm sure Jane here +doesn't hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a great help +she is. + +MELISANDE (warningly). It's no good your saying you like it, Jane, +after what you told me yesterday. + +JANE. I don't like it, but it doesn't make me miserable doing it. But +then I'm different. I'm not romantic like Melisande. + +MELISANDE. One doesn't need to be very romantic not to want to talk +about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of myself. If +I thought about myself I should disregard all the warnings that Dr. +Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on doing the +housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to think of you. I +want to see you married to some nice, steady young man before I +die--my handkerchief, Jane--(JANE gets up and gives her her +handkerchief from the other end of the sofa)--before I die (she +touches her eyes with her handkerchief), and no nice young man will +want to marry you, if you haven't learnt how to look after his house +for him. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). If that's marriage, I shall never get +married. + +JANE (shocked). Melisande, darling! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to make +me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live another +hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't _want_ to live +another hundred years. I only want to live until my dear daughter, +Melisande"--I didn't say Sandy to him because it seemed rather +familiar--"I only want to live until my daughter Melisande is happily +married to some nice, steady young man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson," +I said, "and I shall be your lifelong debtor." He promised to do his +best. It was then that he mentioned about the cushion in the small of +the back after meals. And so don't forget to tell cook about the +bread-sauce, will you, dear? + +MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his food. +I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper interest +in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been married some +years, and told each other everything you did and saw before you met, +there isn't really anything to talk about at meals except food. And +you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. Nothing breaks up +the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, breakfast doesn't +matter, because he has his paper then; and after you have said, "Is +there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has said, "No," then he +doesn't expect anything more. I wonder sometimes why they go on +printing the newspapers. I've been married twenty years, and there has +never been anything in the paper yet. + +MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage like +that. Wasn't there ever _any_ kind of romance between you and Father? +Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one magic Midsummer +morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald twinkle in the +grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't there ever one +passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with one long kiss my +whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew"? Or did you talk +about bread-sauce _all_ the time? + +JANE (eagerly). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am quite +sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, as Sandy +suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at Surbiton. He used +to come down from London with his racquet and play tennis with us. And +then he would stay on to supper sometimes, and then after supper we +would go into the garden together--it was quite dark then, but +everything smelt so beautifully, I shall always remember it--and we +talked, oh, I don't know what about, but I knew somehow that I should +marry him one day. I don't think _he_ knew--he wasn't sure--and then +he came to a subscription dance one evening--I think Mother, your +grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because she +was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me +upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right pair +of shoes on--rather a tight pair--however, I put them on. And there +was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and +he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?" Well, of course, I was +only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round +Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don't know, but, +of course, I never told her. And when we got home after the dance, I +went up to her room--as soon as I'd got my shoes off--and said, +"Mother, I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "_Not_ Mr. +Knowle--Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, and +wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" and--Jane, +where's my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks +it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that's really all, +you know, except that--(she dabs her eyes again)--I'm afraid I'm +feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very +bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, dear, +why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and compose +myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't know what I +should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And +after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that +if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little +girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather +than cause either of them a moment's remorse. (She is up now) There! + +JANE. Shall I come with you? + +MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a little. +(She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the +men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your +Uncle Henry--if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of +course. + + [She goes. + +JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so +queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their +romances too. + +MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription +dances and wearing tight shoes? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you +know what I mean. + +MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has +just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history. +Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so +little? + +JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt Mary-- + +MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost everywhere +nowadays. There is no romance left. + +JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do +agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is no--(she searches for +the right word)--no _romance_ left. + +MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one shudder. + +JANE (doing her best). Positively shudder! + +MELISANDE. He meets Her at--(she shudders)--a subscription dance, or a +tennis party--(she shudders again) or--at _golf_. He calls upon her +mother--perhaps in a top hat--perhaps (tragically) even in a bowler +hat. + +JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders. + +MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his +income--discovers that he is a nice, steady young man--and decides +that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked to come again, he is +invited to parties; it is understood that he is falling in love with +the daughter. The rest of the family are encouraged to leave them +alone together--if the opportunity occurs, Jane. (Contemptuously) But, +of course, only if it occurs. + +JANE (awkwardly). Yes, dear. + +MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her. + +JANE (to herself ecstatically). Oh! + +MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she takes to +be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and tells Father. +They are engaged. They talk about each other as "my fiancé." Perhaps +they are engaged for months and months-- + +JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. For years and years--and wherever they go, people make +silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if they go into a +room where the two of them are. And then they get married at last, and +everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly +jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell +everybody--they shout it out in the newspapers--_where_ they are going +for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about +bread-sauce. Oh, Jane, it's horrible. + +JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you? + +MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I, +Jane? + +JANE. Because you see, Sandy--I mean Melisande--you see, darling, this +_is_ the twentieth century, and-- + +MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my +lattice window. + +All in the blue unclouded weather +Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather, +The helmet and the helmet feather +Burned like one burning flame together, + As he rode down to Camelot. + +And from his blazoned baldric slung +A mighty silver bugle hung, +And as he rode his armour rung + As he rode down to Camelot. + +JANE. I know, dear. But of course they _don't_ nowadays. + +MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave +one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage +for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose. + +JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him? +(She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather--_you_ know. Rather +forward. + +MELISANDE. Forward! + +JANE (upset). Well, I mean--Well, of course, I suppose it was +different in those days. + +MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he +wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle? + +JANE. Well, of course, there _is_ that. + +MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes +back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope--for I have +been immured in my room--and I let myself down to him. He places me on +the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the +world--together for always! + +JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get _married_, I suppose, +darling, or do you--er-- + +MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest +marries us. + +JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes. + +MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince from +Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a country +which is sorely troubled by a dragon. + +JANE. By a what, dear? + +MELISANDE. A dragon. + +JANE. Oh, yes, of course. + +MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his kingdom to +anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens to be passing +through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the dragon devours +him. + +JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't _the_ one? + +MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused no +emotion in my heart. + +JANE. Oh, I'm so glad. + +MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes upon +the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed. + +JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow + +MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in blue +and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be allowed +to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the great hall on +my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our eyes meet. . . . Oh, +Jane! + +JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, Melisande. +They would have suited you so well. + +MELISANDE. Will they never come back again? + +JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress in blue +and gold nowadays. I mean men. + +MELISANDE. No. (She sighs) Well, I suppose I shall never marry. + +JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't have +time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I quite +agree with everything you say, and of course it must have been +thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still here we +are, and (with a wave of the hand)--and what I mean is--here we are. + +MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and to +make the ordinary commonplace marriage? + +JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was the +right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't say +beautiful--pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not very clever +perhaps, but making enough money---- + +MELISANDE (carelessly). It sounds rather like Bobby. + +JANE (confused). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else particularly. +It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I was just +describing the sort of man without thinking of any one in---- + +MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right. + +JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to _you_. + +MELISANDE (firmly). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you solemnly that if +you think you are going to leave me and Bobby alone together this +evening---- (Voices are heard outside.) Well, I warn you. + +JANE (in a whisper). Of course not, darling. (With perfect tact) And, +as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the most----Ah, here you are +at last! We wondered what had happened to you! + +(Enter BOBBY and MR. KNOWLE. JANE has already described BOBBY for us. +MR. KNOWLE is a pleasant, middle-aged man with a sense of humour, +which he cultivates for his own amusement entirely.) + +BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (He goes towards them.) + +JANE (laughing). Very. + +(MELISANDE gets up as BOBBY comes, and moves away.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget what I +said about the bread-sauce, will you? + +MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What you +said? + +MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that you +should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between +bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there is +no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy chicken, +such as we had to-night, but that a properly made bread-sauce is a +necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to be obtained. + +MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A little +quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer Night. Why +aren't you two out in the garden looking for fairies? + +BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be out. +D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out. + +BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take _you_ out. If we meet any of +Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me. + +MELISANDE (looking across warningly at her). Jane---- + +JANE (awkwardly). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande and I--I +promised Sandy--we---- + +MR. KNOWLE (putting her arm firmly through his). Nonsense. I'm not +going to have my niece taken away from me, when she is only staying +with us for such a short time. Besides I insist upon being introduced +to Titania. I want to complain about the rings on the tennis-lawn. +They must dance somewhere else. + +JANE (looking anxiously at MELISANDE). You see, Uncle Henry, I'm not +feeling very---- + +MELISANDE (resigned) All right, Jane. + +JANE (brightly). All right, Uncle Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE (very brightly). It's all right, Bobby. + +JANE. Come along! (They go to the open windows together.) + +MR. KNOWLE (as they go). Any message for Oberon, if we meet him? + +MELISANDE (gravely). No, thank you, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose. + +(JANE laughs as they go out together.) + +(Left alone, MELISANDE takes up a book and goes to the sofa with it, +while BOBBY walks about the room unhappily, whistling to himself. He +keeps looking across at her, and at last their eyes meet.) + +MELISANDE (putting down her book). Well, Bobby? + +BOBBY (awkwardly). Well, Sandy? + +MELISANDE (angrily). Don't call me that; you know how I hate it. + +BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And your +father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say anything. + +MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes a time +when it is almost useless to say things to them. + +BOBBY (eagerly). I never mind your saying things to _me_, Sandy--I +mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, really I shan't. Of course, I +know I'm not worthy of you, and all that, but--I say, Melisande, isn't +there _any_ hope? + +MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that again. + +BOBBY (coming to her). I know you did, but I must. I can't believe +that you-- + +MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like that +again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that it +shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not even +Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they propose to a +girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of the country and +shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to do. But I did try +and make it easy for _you_, Bobby. (Sadly) And now you're beginning +all over again. + +BOBBY (awkwardly). I though perhaps you might have changed your mind. +Lots of girls do. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). Lots of girls! Is that how you think of +me? + +BOBBY. Well, your mother said--(He breaks off hurriedly.) + +MELISANDE (coldly). Have you been discussing me with my mother? + +BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on. + +BOBBY. Well, I didn't _discuss_ you with your mother. She just +happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and that they +always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be downhearted, +because-- + +MELISANDE. That _you_ needn't? You mean you _told_ her? + +BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out. + +MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, you went +and _told_ her! And then I suppose you went and told the cook, and +_she_ said that her brother's young woman was just the same, and then +you told the butcher, and _he_ said, "You stick to it, sir. All women +are alike. My missis said 'No' to me the first time." And then you +went and told the gardeners--I suppose you had all the gardeners +together in the potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it--and +when you had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go +and tell the postman," and then-- + +BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair. + +MELISANDE. Oh, what a world! + +BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair. + +MELISANDE (picking up her book). Father and Jane are outside, Bobby, +if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I suppose they know +already. (She pretends to read.) + +BOBBY. I say, you know--(He doesn't quite know what to say. There is +an awkward silence. Then he says humbly) I'm awfully sorry, Melisande. +Please forgive me. + +MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). That's nice of you, Bobby. Please +forgive _me_. I wasn't fair. + +BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your +mother. And it sort of came out with _her_. She began talking about +you-- + +MELISANDE. _I_ know. + +BOBBY. But I never told anybody else. + +MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother. + +BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should mind +so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't help +falling in love with you, and--well, it _is_ a sort of a compliment to +you, isn't it?--even if it's only me. + +MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the +compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so--so unromantic. +(After a pause) Sometimes I think I shall never marry. + +BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do _like_ me, don't you? + +MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't +say beautiful-- + +BOBBY. I should hope not! + +MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable--not very clever, +perhaps, but making enough money-- + +BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad. + +MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more! + +BOBBY. What sort of things? + +MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so--so ordinary! + +BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did you? + +MELISANDE. So--commonplace. So--unromantic. + +BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry and all +that, if that's what you mean by romantic, but--commonplace! I'm +blessed if I see how you make out that. + +MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings-- + +BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings. + +MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass! + +(BOBBY goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his clothes.) + +BOBBY (looking back at her). Well? + +MELISANDE. Well! + +BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong. + +MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give +myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my +prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how +can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like that! + +BOBBY (looking at it). What's the matter with it? It's what every +other fellow wears. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). What every other fellow wears! And you +think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what every other fellow +talks, and eat what every other--I suppose _you_ didn't like the +bread-sauce this evening? + +BOBBY (guardedly). Well, not as bread-sauce. + +MELISANDE (nodding her head). I thought so, I thought so. + +BOBBY (struck by an idea). I say, you didn't make it, did you? + +MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it? + +BOBBY. I thought perhaps--You know, I really don't know what you _do_ +want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean-- + +MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did. + +BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is _he_ going to do +the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I don't. + +MELISANDE (shaking her head gently at him). No, I'm sure you don't, +Bobby. + +BOBBY (still trying, however). I suppose it's because he's doing the +cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. He sounds a funny +sort of chap; I should like to see him. + +MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him. + +BOBBY (jealously). Have you seen him? + +MELISANDE. Only in my dreams. + +BOBBY (relieved). Oh, well. + +MELISANDE (dreamily to herself). Perhaps I shall never see him in this +world--and then I shall never marry. But if he ever comes for me, he +will come not like other men; and because he is so different from +everybody else, then I shall know him when he comes for me. He won't +talk about bread-sauce--billiards--and the money market. He won't wear +a little black suit, with a little black tie--all sideways. (BOBBY +hastily pulls his tie straight.) I don't know how he will be dressed, +but I know this, that when I see him, that when my eyes have looked +into his, when his eyes have looked into mine-- + +BOBBY. I say, steady! + +MELISANDE (waking from her dream). Yes? (She gives a little laugh) +Poor Bobby! + +BOBBY (appealingly). I say, Sandy! (He goes up to her.) + +(MRS. KNOWLE has seized this moment to come back for her handkerchief. +She sees them together, and begins to walk out on tiptoe.) + +(They hear her and turn round suddenly.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a whisper). Don't take any notice of me. I only just +came for my handkerchief. (She continues to walk on tiptoe towards the +opposite door.) + +MELISANDE (getting up). We were just wondering where you were, Mother. +Here's your handkerchief. (She picks it up from the sofa.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (still in the voice in which you speak to an invalid). +Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you--I was just going-- + +MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to +Bobby, won't you? + +MRS. KNOWLE (with a happy smile, hoping for the best). Yes, my +darling. + +MELISANDE (going to the windows). That's right. (She stops at the +windows and holds out her hands to the night)-- + +The moon shines bright: In such a night as this +When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees +And they did make no noise, in such a night +Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, +And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents, +Where Cressid lay that night. In such a night +Stood Dido with a willow in her hand, +Upon the wild sea banks, and waft her love +To come again to Carthage. + +(She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling voice) In such +a night! Ah! + + [She goes to it. + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a different voice). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. Coote? + +BOBBY (turning back to her with a start). Oh--er--yes? + +MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you Bobby, +mayn't I? + +BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle. + +MRS. KNOWLE (archly). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of a better +name? + +BOBBY (wondering if he ought to call her MARY). Er--I'm--I'm afraid I +don't quite-- + +MRS. KNOWLE. Mother. + +BOBBY. Oh, but I say-- + +MRS. KNOWLE (giving him her hand). And now come and sit on the sofa +with me, and tell me all about it. + +(They go to the sofa together.) + +BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle-- + +MRS. KNOWLE (shaking a finger playfully at him). Not Mrs. Knowle, +Bobby. + +BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think--I mean Sandy and I--we aren't-- + +MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has +refused you again. + +BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other day +was true. Girls don't know their own minds. + +BOBBY (ruefully). I think Sandy knows hers--about me, anyhow. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet +said--Shakespeare, or was it the other man?--"Faint heart never won +fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would never have +won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he came again--like +Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a revolver, and threatened to shoot +himself. I was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I +loved him. "Henry," I said, "I am yours." He took me in his +arms--putting down the revolver first, of course. I have never +regretted my surrender, Mr. Coote. (With a sigh) Ah, me! We women are +strange creatures. + +BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot myself. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very warm-hearted. +I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you are taking too +gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it. + +BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her again. +I know when I'm not wanted. + +MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and I-- + +BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I +practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to you this +time. + +MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how should +I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not? + +BOBBY. Well, of course--I mean I haven't really said anything, have I? +Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about things. + +MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she gets it +from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was all the +result of being christened in that irreligious way--I quite thought he +said Millicent--and reading all those books, instead of visiting the +sick as I used to do. I was quite a little Red Riding Hood until Henry +sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE and JANE come in by the window, +and she turns round towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was +wondering where you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all +about his prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get +your feet wet, I hope. + +JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary. + +MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been talking +to the fairies--haven't we, Jane? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see Sandy? + +MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania--and Peters. He had an +appointment, apparently--but not with Titania. + +JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the +morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an +unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a mistake. + +MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about it as +you. He is doing his best to remedy the error. + +MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I have been +through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know about. + +MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What's the matter, my love? Indigestion? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my lips +are sealed. I shall suffer my cross--my mental cross--in silence. + +JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary? + +MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (To Heaven) My only daughter has +left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece has offered to +help me out of my--to help me. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Mr. +Coote. + +BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (in a loud whisper) what +Shakespeare said. (She presses his hand and holds it) Good-night! +Good-night! . . . Good-night! + +MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he said, +"Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I could +say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE looks at him severely, +and then, without saying anything, goes over to him and holds up her +cheek.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well. + +MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane. + +JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary. + +(MRS. KNOWLE goes to the door, BOBBY hurrying in front to open it for +her.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (at the door). I shall _not_ sleep well. I shall lie awake +all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much distressed. "Dr. Anderson," +I shall say, "it is not your fault. I lay awake all night, thinking of +my loved ones." In five minutes, Jane. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the library, if +anybody wants to think of me--or say good-night to me--or anything +like that. + +JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now, Uncle Henry. (She +goes up to him.) + +MR. KNOWLE (kissing her). Good-night, dear. + +JANE. Good-night. + +MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss me--what about +you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library and have a smoke first? + +BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather tired +to-day, somehow. + +MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a business this +is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she should come back, +Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she will find it in the +library--just above the back of the armchair nearest the door. [He +goes out. + +JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden? + +BOBBY (gloomily). Yes--about five minutes ago. + +JANE (timidly). I'm so sorry, Bobby. + +BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (After a pause) Don't let's +talk about it. + +JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I _had_ to +say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did you? + +BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind. + +JANE (gently). I mind very much when my friends are unhappy. + +BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (He stands up, buttons his coat, and looks at +himself) I say, do _you_ see anything wrong with it? + +JANE. Wrong with what? + +BOBBY. My clothes. (He revolves slowly.) + +JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully. + +BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she means half +the time. + +JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what you +mean. She's so (searching for the right word)--so _romantic_. + +BOBBY (eagerly). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of living up to. +I say, have a cigarette, won't you? + +JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do +feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who marries her. + +BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that? + +JANE. Yes. She's too (getting the right word at last)--too _romantic_. + +BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about doing +deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but when one +marries and settles down--you know what I mean? + +JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to Melisande +only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I happen to +like the twentieth century. That's all. + +BOBBY. I see what you mean. + +JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen on +games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else wears--as long as +they fit well, of course--and to talk about the ordinary things that +everybody talks about. Of course, Melisande would say that that was +very stupid and unromantic of me---- + +BOBBY. I don't think it is at all. + +JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do understand so +wonderfully. + +BOBBY (with a laugh). I say, that's rather funny. I was just thinking +the same about you. + +JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that we are +really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't know +whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make friends very +easily. + +BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends? + +JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly think of +any--not what you call real friends. + +BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each other all +your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you? + +JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I could +never tell even her. (Impressively) I could never show her my inmost +heart. + +BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I bet +there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything. + +JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. That +sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be liked. + +BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit +horrid. + +JANE. How nice of you. (She gets up) Well, I must be going, I suppose. + +BOBBY. What's the hurry? + +JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes. + +BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down again, +won't you? + +JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. (Holding +out her hand) Good-night, Bobby. + +BOBBY (taking it). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light your candle +for you. + +JANE. How nice of you! + +(She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door +together.) + +BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself. + +JANE (at the door). Well, if you are, we'd better put the lights out. + +BOBBY. Righto. (He puts them out.) I say, what a night! (The moonlight +streams through the windows on them.) You'll hardly want a candle. + + [They go out together. + +(The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to ring. +After a little interval, ALICE comes in, turns on the light, and looks +round the hall. She is walking across the hall to the drawing-room +when MR. KNOWLE comes in from behind her, and she turns round.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice? + +ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it? + +ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he wondered +if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how very sorry he +was to trouble you---- + +MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all--particularly if Peters +is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if it's not +troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And ask the +gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the door-mat. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is about +to bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out, and returns a moment later) He says, +thank you very much, sir, but he really won't come in, and he's very +sorry indeed to trouble you about the petrol. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him. + +ALICE (hopefully). Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present Mr. +Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much honoured if he +will drink a glass of whiskey with me before proceeding on his +journey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out. In a little while she comes back +followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in a long +cloak.) Mr. Gervase Mallory. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see you. +(They shake hands.) + +GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for bothering +you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance. + +MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far? + +GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty miles +away. Do you know it? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as far +away as that. + +GERVASE (with a laugh). Well, perhaps only by the way I came. The fact +is I've lost myself rather. + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to have come +within five miles of us. + +GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now that you +_are_ here. + +GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you. + +(ALICE comes in.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE puts down the whiskey.) You've +told Peters? + +ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now. + +MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE goes out.) You'll have some whiskey, +won't you? + +GERVASE. Thanks very much. + +(He comes to the table.) + +MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make yourself +comfortable? + +GERVASE. Er--thanks. I don't think---- (He smiles to himself and keeps +his cloak on.) + +MR. KNOWLE (busy with the drinks). Say when. + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +MR. KNOWLE. And soda? + +GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks! + +(He takes the glass.) + +MR. KNOWLE (giving himself one). I'm so glad you came, because I have +a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives me cough-mixture, +I insist on somebody else in the house having cough-mixture too. A +glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just before going to bed---- +(He looks up) But do take your coat off, won't you, and sit down and +be comfortable? + +GERVASE. Er--thanks very much, but I don't think---- (With a shrug and +a smile) Oh, well! (He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. +He is in fancy dress--the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold of +MELISANDE'S dream.) + +(MR. KNOWLE turns round to him again just as he has put his cloak +down. He looks at GERVASE in amazement.) + +MR. KNOWLE (pointing to his whiskey glass). But I haven't even begun +it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port. + +GERVASE (laughing). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder what on earth +I'm doing. + +MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth _I'd_ been doing. + +GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at Collingham. + +MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably. + +GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in--or take my cloak off. + +MR. KNOWLE (inspecting him). It becomes you extraordinarily well, if I +may say so. + +GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it when +other people are in ordinary clothes. + +MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. I +don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but +(looking at himself) I am sure that I could have found something more +expressive of my emotions than this. + +GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, Davy." + +MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed. + +GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a whiskey and +soda. + +MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette, too? + +GERVASE. May I have one of my own? + +MR. KNOWLE. Do. + +GERVASE (feeling for it). If I can find it. They were very careless +about pockets in the old days. I had a special one put in somewhere, +only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, here it is. (He takes a +cigarette from his case, and after trying to put the case back in his +pocket again, places it on the table.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Match? + +GERVASE. Thanks. (Picking up his whiskey) Well, here's luck, and--my +most grateful thanks. + +MR. KNOWLE (raising his glass). May you slay all your dragons. + +GERVASE. Thank you. (They drink.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw a map +outside in the hall. + +GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was too much +interested in your prints. + +MR. KNOWLE (eagerly). You don't say that you are interested in prints? + +GERVASE. Very much--as an entire amateur. + +MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the art +began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I have +something in the library--but of course I mustn't take up your time +now. If you could bear to come over another day--after all, we are +neighbours---- + +GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it. + +MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it because +you seem to have lost your way so completely---- + +GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different in the +moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on +afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your +hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in +one afternoon. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea. + +GERVASE. That will be ripping. (Getting up) Well, I suppose I ought to +be getting on. (He picks up his cloak.) + +MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the way. + +GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's. + +(They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking at the +casement windows.) + +MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (He switches off the +lights, and the moon streams through the windows) Just look. + +GERVASE (with a deep sigh). Wonderful! + + [They go out together. + +(The hall is empty for a moment. Then GERVASE reappears. He has +forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and on his way out again +stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking through the casement +windows.) + +(MELISANDE comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and at the +same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. It is He! +The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each other. . . . Silently +he makes obeisance to her; silently she acknowledges it. . . . Then he is +gone.) + + + + +ACT II + +(It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The scene is a +glade in a wood a little way above the village of Hedgling.) + + +GERVASE MALLORY, still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak on, +comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He takes +off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns round, and, +seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While he is looking he +hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round with a start; the +whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries to get to his cloak. +It is too late. ERN, a very small boy, comes through the trees into +the glade. GERVASE gives a sigh of resignation and stands there. ERN +stops in the middle of his tune and gazes at him. + +ERN. Oo--er! Oo! (He circles slowly round GERVASE.) + +GERVASE. I quite agree with you. + +ERN. Oo! Look! + +GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the +back--take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . . Been all +round? Good! + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very difficult. +Do you mind if I sit down? + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE (sitting down on a log). I gather that I have your consent. I +thank you. + +ERN. Oo! Look! (He points at GERVASE'S legs.) + +GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed those +before? + +ERN (sitting down in front of GERVASE). Oo! + +GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a walk in +a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say "Oo." What +does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you don't walk +all round _him_ and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle George wear when +he's reaping? I suppose you don't--By the way, I wish you'd tell me +your name. (ERN gazes at him dumbly.) Oh, come! They must have told +you your name when you got up this moving. + +ERN (smiling sheepishly). Ern. + +GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? I am very glad to meet you, Mr. +Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN grins) Thank you. + +ERN (tapping himself). I'm Ern. + +GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory. + +ERN. Ern. + +GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, you +know, because then we never get any farther. Once an introduction is +over, Mr. Hearne, we are-- + +ERN. Ern. + +GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But now--Oh, I see +what you mean. Ern--short for Ernest? + +ERN (nodding). They calls me Ern. + +GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger I +shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest-- (getting up) Just excuse me a +moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree has. It must be a +Pomeranian. (He folds his cloak upon it and sits down again) That's +better. Now we can talk comfortably together. I don't know if there's +anything you particularly want to discuss--nothing?--well, then, I +will suggest the subject of breakfast. + +ERN (grinning). 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. You've _had_ yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of course, you're +wondering why I haven't had mine. + +ERN. Bacon fat. (He makes reminiscent noises.) + +GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what +happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a motor +car of your own. + +ERN. Don't like moty cars. + +GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree with +you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't broken +down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if you're +married or anything of that sort, but I think even your rough stern +heart would have been moved by that vision of loveliness which I saw +last night. (He is silent for a little, thinking of her.) Well, then, +I lost my way. There I was--ten miles from anywhere--in the middle of +what was supposed to be a short cut--late at night--Midsummer +Night--what would _you_ have done, Ernest? + +ERN. Gone 'ome. + +GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know where +home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen the +Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or any wise +man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of Her. + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . Have you +ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer Night--I don't mean just +for a minute or two, but all through the night until the dawn came? +You aren't really alone, you know. All round you there are little +whisperings going on, little breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is +out hunting; somebody stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt +of yesterday; somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, +and then, finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little +head back under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies +are out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in +them last night. I heard them whispering. + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE (coming out of his thoughts with a laugh). Well, of course, I +can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about thinking that +there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and bull's-eyes. Well, +then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up suddenly and it was +morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical morning--but, of course, +_you_ were just settling down to business then. + +ERN. Oo! (He makes more reminiscent noises.) + +GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, breakfast. + +ERN. 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old friend, +Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, has got an +estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his simple meal +with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you didn't do, +young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on a +pocket-handkerchief--one of my sister's, unfortunately--and then I +came out to look for breakfast. And suddenly, whom should I meet but +my old friend, Ernest, the same hearty fellow, the same inveterate +talker as when we shot dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay. +(Shaking his hand) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about +it? + +ERN. 'Ad my-- + +GERVASE. S'sh. (He gets up) Now then--to business. Do you mind looking +the other way while I try to find my purse. (Feeling for it.) Every +morning when you get up, you should say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big +boy now and I've got pockets in my trousers." And you should feel very +sorry for the poor people who lived in fairy books and had no trousers +to put pockets in. Ah, here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very +carefully. Where do you live? + +ERN. 'Ome. + +GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, how +far away is your home? (ERN grins and says nothing) A mile? (ERN +continues to grin) Half a mile? (ERN grins) Six inches? + +ERN (pointing). Down there. + +GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this-- (giving him +half-a-crown)-- + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you--and I want you to ask +your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, listen +very carefully, because we are coming to the important part. +Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk--and anything +else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because your old +friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is starving by +the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket quickly, I'll +give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a week. (Very +earnestly) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and emotion of which I am +capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you got that? + +ERN (nodding). Going 'ome. (He looks at the half-crown again.) + +GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But--returning with breakfast. Starving +man--lost in forest--return with basket--save life. (To himself) I +believe I could explain it better to a Chinaman. (to ERN) Now then, +off you go. + +ERN (as he goes off). 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine. + +(GERVASE walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as he goes +down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another stranger in the +distance.) + +GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (He walks towards the log) +Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (He puts on his +coat.) + +(A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of SUSAN, comes in singing. +He sees GERVASE sitting on the log.) + +SUSAN (with a bow). Good morning, sir. + +GERVASE. (looking round). Good morning. + +SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not +discommode you. + +GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on. + +SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there. + +GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again? + +SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (Taking off his hat) Would +it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few minutes? + +GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? Have you +come far this morning? + +SUSAN. Three or four miles--a mere nothing on a morning like this. +Besides, what does the great William say? + +GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say? + +SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way. + +GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes. + +SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry? + +GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you merry? + +SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say? + +GERVASE (trying hard). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've got me there. +I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he say? + +SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of Empires +ridiculous. + +GERVASE. Emerson, of course. Silly of me. + +SUSAN. So you see, sir--I am well, the day is well, all is well. + +GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great Percy--(to +himself) that's got him. + +SUSAN (at a loss). The--er--great Percy? + +GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! + +SUSAN (eagerly). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, there's a poet, +Mr.--er--I don't think I quite caught your name. + +GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory--to be referred to by +posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase. + +SUSAN. Not a poet, too? + +GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally. + +SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit--like myself. I am very glad +to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you to converse +with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE bows.) Generally called Master +Susan in these parts, or sometimes Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling +Peddler by profession. + +GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure. + +SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (He begins to undo his +pack,) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I may so far +venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, or +collar-studs? + +GERVASE (smiling). Well, no, not at this actual moment. On almost any +other day perhaps--but no, not this morning. + +SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing--_en passant_, as the +French say. (He brings out a paper bag from his pack.) Would the fact +of my eating my breakfast in this pleasant resting place detract at +all from your appreciation of the beautiful day which Heaven has sent +us? + +GERVASE. Eating your _what_? + +SUSAN. My simple breakfast. + +GERVASE (shaking his head). I'm very sorry, but I really don't think I +could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest--I don't know if you know +Ernest? + +SUSAN. The great Ernest? + +GERVASE (indicating with his hand). No, the very small one--Well, +_he_ was telling me all about the breakfast he'd just had, and now +_you're_ showing me the breakfast you're just going to have--no, I +can't bear it. + +SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do me the +honour of joining me at my simple repast? + +GERVASE (jumping up excitedly). The honour of joining you!--the +_honour_! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why they call you Gentleman +Susan. (Shaking his head sadly) But no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I +should eat too much. Besides, Ernest may come back. No, I will wait. +It wouldn't be fair. + +SUSAN (unpacking his breakfast). Bacon or cheese? + +GERVASE. Cheese--I mean bacon--I mean--I say, you aren't serious? + +SUSAN (handing him bread and cheese). I trust you will find it up to +your expectations. + +GERVASE (taking it). I say, you really--(Solemnly) Master Susan, with +all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I +say "Thank you." (He takes a bite) Thank you. + +SUSAN (eating also). Please do not mention it. I am more than repaid +by your company. + +GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to be +your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful +cheese. + +SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it. + +GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for this +delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your boot-laces. Nay, +more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your buttons. Your +profession would then be gone. + +SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence? + +GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, nothing +less than half-a-crown will satisfy me. + +SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more. + +GERVASE (with a sigh). Very well, then. (He begins to feel in his +pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress. SUSAN opens his +eyes at it, and then goes on eating. GERVASE finds his purse and +produces sixpence, which he gives to SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (He +resumes his breakfast.) + +SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but you are not +by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road? + +GERVASE. Do you mean professionally? + +SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and +sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human +Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I +wondered-- + +(He glances at GERVASE's legs, which are uncovered. GERVASE hastily +wraps his coat round them.) + +GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . . . +Er--my costume-- + +SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to have +inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free world. + +GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe. + +SUSAN (with a bow). I congratulate you on your bathing costume. + +GERVASE. Not at all. + +SUSAN. You live near here then? + +GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car. + +SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away. + +GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely. + +SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there. + +GERVASE (surprised). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have lost my +way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. And I never +knew! + +SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No. Not yet. + +SUSAN. Get married. + +GERVASE. What? + +SUSAN. Take my advice and get married. + +GERVASE. You recommend it? + +SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you marry the +right woman. + +GERVASE. Oh? + +SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of happiness. + +GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife a good +deal. + +SUSAN (smiling). But then I come back to her a good deal. + +GERVASE (thoughtfully). Yes, that must be rather jolly. + +SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I came +upon you here this morning? + +GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well---- + +SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. When +you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You have your +adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have your adventure +again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second time. You can say +the things which you didn't quite say the first time, and do the +things which you didn't quite do. When my week's travels are ever, and +I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole week's happenings to tell +her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. Mallory. Our little breakfast +here this morning--she will love to hear about that. I can see her +happy excited face as I tell her all that I said to you, and--if I +can remember it--all that you said to me. + +GERVASE (eagerly). I say, how jolly! (Thoughtfully) You won't forget +what I said about the Great Percy? I thought that was rather good. + +SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I shall find +myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. That's why I say +"Get married." Then you can make things fair for yourself. You can +tell her all the good things of mine which _you_ said. + +GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that. + +SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship is at +the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship means? + +GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally? + +SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art of +having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of +sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible to +_them_, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not impossible to +two people who have found what love is. + +GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic. + +SUSAN (solemnly). It is the most romantic thing in the whole world. . . . +Some more cheese? + +GERVASE (taking it). Thank you. . . . (Thoughtfully) Do you believe in +love at first sight, Master Susan? + +SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not only +the face. + +GERVASE. I see. (After a pause) It's rather hard to tell, you know. I +suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have breakfast with +you, and see how you get on. + +SUSAN. Well, you might do worse. + +GERVASE (laughing). And propose to her after breakfast? + +SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball as +some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss in the +moonlight. + +GERVASE (shaking his head). Nothing like that happened last night. + +SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss? + +GERVASE. I never read the _Daily Mail_. + +SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson. + +GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon. + +SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem but to +be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have found in +thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the art of having +breakfast with a person. (Getting up) Well, I must be moving on. _We_ +have been companions for a short time; I thank you for it. I wish you +well. + +GERVASE (getting up). I say, I've been awfully glad to meet you. And I +shall never forget the breakfast you gave me. + +SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so. + +GERVASE (hesitatingly). You won't mind my having another one when +Ernest comes back--I mean, if Ernest comes back? You won't think I'm +slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor bathe, you know, one +does---- + +SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an appetite. + +GERVASE (holding out his hand). Well, good-bye, Mr. Susan, (SUSAN +looks at his hand doubtfully, and GERVASE says with a laugh) Oh, come +on! + +SUSAN (shaking it). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said. + +SUSAN (smiling). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. Good-bye. + + [He goes off. + +GERVASE (calling after him). Because it wasn't the moonlight, it +wasn't really. It was just _Her_. (To himself) It was just _Her_. . . . I +suppose the great Whatsisname would say, "It was just She," but then, +that isn't what I mean. + +(GERVASE watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to the other +side, says, "Hallo!" suddenly in great astonishment, and withdraws a +few steps.) + +GERVASE. It can't be! (He goes cautiously forward and looks again) It +is! + +(He comes back, and walks gently off through the trees.) + +(MELISANDE comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two plaits to her +waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to any century. She +stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, holds out her hands +to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a sigh of happiness. . . .) + +(GERVASE, his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a moment he +is half-hidden by the trees.) + +GERVASE (very softly). Princess! + +(She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a little.) + +GERVASE (a little more loudly). Princess! + +(She listens and nods to herself, GERVASE steps out into the open.) + +GERVASE. Princess! + +(She turns round.) + +MELISANDE (looking at him wonderingly). You! + +GERVASE. At your service, Princess. + +MELISANDE. It was you who came last night. + +GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You +looked at me. + +MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I +thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a +dream? + +GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming. + +MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland? + +GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest. + +MELISANDE (with a sigh of happiness). Ah! + +GERVASE. You have been looking for it? + +MELISANDE. For so long. (She is silent for a little, and then says +with a smile) May one sit down in an enchanted forest? + +GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (He spreads his cloak over the log.) + +MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too? + +GERVASE (shaking his head). I haven't finished looking at you yet. . . . +You are very lovely, Princess. + +MELISANDE. Am I? + +GERVASE. Haven't they told you? + +MELISANDE. Perhaps I wondered sometimes. + +GERVASE. Very lovely. . . . Have you a name which goes with it? + +MELISANDE. My name is Melisande. + +GERVASE (his whole heart in it). Melisande! + +MELISANDE (content at last). Ah! + +GERVASE (solemnly). Now the Princess Melisande was very beautiful. (He +lies down on the grass near her, looks up at her and is silent for a +little.) + +MELISANDE (smiling shyly). May we talk about _you_, now? + +GERVASE. It is for the Princess to say what we shall talk about. If +your Royal Highness commands, then I will even talk about myself. + +MELISANDE. You see, I don't know your name yet. + +GERVASE. I am called Gervase. + +MELISANDE. Gervase. It is a pretty name. + +GERVASE. I have been keeping it for this morning. + +MELISANDE. It will be Prince Gervase, will it not, if this is +Fairyland? + +GERVASE. Alas, no. For I am only a humble woodcutter's son. One of +seven. + +MELISANDE. Of seven? I thought that humble woodcutters always had +three sons, and that it was the youngest who went into the world to +seek his fortune. + +GERVASE. Three--that's right. I said "one of several." Now that I +count them up, three. (Counting on his fingers) Er--Bowshanks, +er--Mulberry-face and myself. Three. I am the youngest. + +MELISANDE. And the fairies came to your christening? + +GERVASE. Now for the first time I think that they did. + +MELISANDE (nodding). They always come to the christening of the third +and youngest son, and they make him the tallest and the bravest and +the most handsome. + +GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well. + +MELISANDE. You _are_ the tallest and the bravest and the most +handsome, aren't you? + +GERVASE (with a modest smile). Well, of course, Mulberry-face is +hardly a starter, and then Bowshanks-- (he indicates the curve of his +legs)--I mean, there's not much competition. + +MELISANDE. I have no sisters. + +GERVASE. The Princess never has sisters. She has suitors. + +MELISANDE (with a sigh). Yes, she has suitors. + +GERVASE (taking out his dagger). Tell me their names that I may remove +them for you. + +MELISANDE. There is one dressed in black and white who seeks to win my +hand. + +GERVASE (feeling the point). He bites the dust to-morrow. + +MELISANDE. To-morrow? + +GERVASE. Unless it rains in the night. Perhaps it would be safer if we +arranged for him to bite it this afternoon. + +MELISANDE. How brave you are! + +GERVASE. Say no more. It will be a pleasure. + +MELISANDE. Ah, but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for me. + +GERVASE. The sacrifice will be his. + +MELISANDE. But are you so certain that _you_ will kill him? Suppose he +were to kill _you_? + +GERVASE (getting up). Madam, when the third son of a humble woodcutter +engages in mortal combat with one upon whom the beautiful Princess has +frowned, there can be but one end to the struggle. To doubt this would +be to let Romance go. + +MELISANDE. You are right. I should never have doubted. + +GERVASE. At the same time, it would perhaps be as well to ask the help +of my Uncle Otto. + +MELISANDE. But is it fair to seek the assistance of an uncle in order +to kill one small black and white suitor? + +GERVASE. Ah, but he is a wizard. One is always allowed to ask the help +of a wizard. My idea was that he should cast a spell upon the +presumptuous youth who seeks to woo you, so that to those who gazed +upon him he should have the outward semblance of a rabbit. He would +then realise the hopelessness of his suit and . . . go away. + +MELISANDE (with dignity). I should certainly never marry a small black +and white rabbit. + +GERVASE. No, you couldn't, could you? + +MELISANDE (gravely). No. (Then their eyes meet. There is a twinkle in +his; hers respond; and suddenly they are laughing together.) What +nonsense you talk! + +GERVASE. Well, it's such an absurdly fine morning, isn't it? There's a +sort of sparkle in the air. I'm really trying to be quite sensible. + +MELISANDE (making room for him at her feet). Go on talking nonsense. +(He sits down on the ground and leans against the log at her side.) +Tell me about yourself. You have told me nothing yet, but that (she +smiles at him) your father is a woodcutter. + +GERVASE. Yes. He--er--cuts wood. + +MELISANDE. And you resolved to go out into the world and seek your +fortune? + +GERVASE. Yes. You see if you are a third son of a humble woodcutter, +nobody thinks very much of you at home, and they never take you out +with them; and when you are cutting wood, they always put you where +the sawdust gets into your mouth. Because, you see, they have never +read history, and so they don't know that the third and youngest son +is always the nicest of the family. + +MELISANDE. And the tallest and the bravest and the most handsome. + +GERVASE. _And_ all the other things you mention. + +MELISANDE. So you ran away? + +GERVASE. So I ran away--to seek my fortune. + +MELISANDE. But your uncle the wizard, or your godmother or somebody, +gave you a magic ring to take with you on your travels? (Nodding) They +always do, you know. + +GERVASE (showing the ring on his finger). Yes, my fairy godmother gave +me a magic ring. Here it is. + +MELISANDE (looking at it). What does it do? + +GERVASE. You turn it round once and think very hard of anybody you +want, and suddenly the person you are thinking of appears before you. + +MELISANDE. How wonderful! Have you tried it yet? + +GERVASE. Once. . . . That's why you are here. + +MELISANDE. Oh! (Softly) Have you been thinking of me? + +GERVASE. All night. + +MELISANDE. I dreamed of you all night. + +GERVASE (happily). Did you, Melisande? How dear of you to dream of me! +(Anxiously) Was I--was I all right? + +MELISANDE. Oh, yes! + +GERVASE (pleased). Ah! (He spreads himself a little and removes a +speck of dust from his sleeve) + +MELISANDE (thinking of it still). You were so brave. + +GERVASE. Yes, I expect I'm pretty brave in other people's dreams--I'm +so cowardly in my own. Did I kill anybody? + +MELISANDE. You were engaged in a terrible fight with a dragon when I +woke up. + +GERVASE. Leaving me and the dragon still asleep--I mean, still +fighting? Oh, Melisande, how could you leave us until you knew who had +won? + +MELISANDE. I tried so hard to get back to you. + +GERVASE. I expect I was winning, you know. I wish you could have got +back for the finish. . . . Melisande, let me come into your dreams again +to-night. + +MELISANDE. You never asked me last night. You just came. + +GERVASE. Thank you for letting me come. + +MELISANDE. And then when I woke up early this morning, the world was +so young, so beautiful, so fresh that I had to be with it. It called +to me so clearly--to come out and find its secret. So I came up here, +to this enchanted place, and all the way it whispered to me--wonderful +things. + +GERVASE. What did it whisper, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. The secret of happiness. + +GERVASE. Ah, what is it, Melisande? (She smiles and shakes her +head). . . . I met a magician in the woods this morning. + +MELISANDE. Did he speak to you? + +GERVASE. _He_ told _me_ the secret of happiness. + +MELISANDE. What did he tell you? + +GERVASE. He said it was marriage. + +MELISANDE. Ah, but he didn't mean by marriage what so many people +mean. + +GERVASE. He seemed a very potent magician. + +MELISANDE. Marriage to many people means just food. Housekeeping. _He_ +didn't mean that. + +GERVASE. A very wise and reverend magician. + +MELISANDE. Love is romance. Is there anything romantic in +breakfast--or lunch? + +GERVASE. Well, not so much in lunch, of course, but--- + +MELISANDE. How well you understand! Why do the others not understand? + +GERVASE (smiling at her). Perhaps because they have not seen +Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Oh no, no, that isn't it. All the others--- + +GERVASE. Do you mean your suitors? + +MELISANDE. Yes. They are so unromantic, so material. The clothes they +wear; the things they talk about. But you are so different. Why is it? + +GERVASE. I don't know. Perhaps because I am the third son of a +woodcutter. Perhaps because they don't know that you are the Princess. +Perhaps because they have never been in the enchanted forest. + +MELISANDE. What would the forest tell them? + +GERVASE. All the birds in the forest are singing "Melisande"; the +little brook runs through the forest murmuring "Melisande"; the tall +trees bend their heads and whisper to each other "Melisande." All the +flowers have put on their gay dresses for her. Oh, Melisande! + +MELISANDE (awed). Is it true? (They are silent for a little, happy to +be together. . . . He looks back at her and gives a sudden little laugh.) +What is it? + +GERVASE. Just you and I--together--on the top of the world like this. + +MELISANDE. Yes, that's what I feel, too. (After a pause) Go on +pretending. + +GERVASE. Pretending? + +MELISANDE. That the world is very young. + +GERVASE. _We_ are very young, Melisande. + +MELISANDE (timidly). It is only a dream, isn't it? + +GERVASE. Who knows what a dream is? Perhaps we fell asleep in +Fairyland a thousand years ago, and all that we thought real was a +dream, until now at last we are awake again. + +MELISANDE. How wonderful that would be. + +GERVASE. Perhaps we are dreaming now. But is it your dream or my +dream, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (after thinking it out). I think I would rather it were your +dream, Gervase. For then I should be in it, and that would mean that +you had been thinking of me. + +GERVASE. Then it shall be _my_ dream, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Let it be a long one, my dear. + +GERVASE. For ever and for ever. + +MELISANDE (dreamily). Oh, I know that it is only a dream, and that +presently we shall wake up; or else that you will go away and I will +go away, too, and we shall never meet again; for in the real world, +what could I be to you, or you to me? So go on pretending. + +(He stands up and faces her.) + +GERVASE. Melisande, if this were Fairyland, or if we were knights and +ladies in some old romance, would you trust yourself to me? + +MELISANDE. So very proudly. + +GERVASE. You would let me come to your father's court and claim you +over all your other suitors, and fight for you, and take you away with +me? + +MELISANDE. If this were Fairyland, yes. + +GERVASE. You would trust me? + +MELISANDE. I would trust my lord. + +GERVASE (smiling at her). Then I will come for the Princess this +afternoon. (With sudden feeling) Ah, how can I keep away now that I +have seen the Princess? + +MELISANDE (shyly--happily). When you saw me last night, did you know +that you would see me again? + +GERVASE. I have been waiting for you here. + +MELISANDE. How did you know that I would come? + +GERVASE. On such a morning--in such a place--how could the loved one +not be here? + +MELISANDE (looking away). The loved one? + +GERVASE. I saw you last night. + +MELISANDE (softly). Was that enough? + +GERVASE. Enough, yes. Enough? Oh no, no, no! + +MELISANDE (nodding). I will wait for you this afternoon. + +GERVASE. And you will come away with me? Out into the world with me? +Over the hills and far away with me? + +MELISANDE (softly). Over the hills and far away. + +GERVASE (going to her). Princess! + +MELISANDE. Not Princess. + +GERVASE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE (holding out her hand to him). Ah! + +GERVASE. May I kiss your hands, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. They are my lord's to kiss. + +GERVASE (kissing them). Dear hands. + +MELISANDE. Now I shall love them, too. + +GERVASE. May I kiss your lips, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (proudly). Who shall, if not my lord? + +GERVASE. Melisande! (He touches her lips with his.) + +MELISANDE (breaking away from him). Oh! + +GERVASE (triumphantly). I love you, Melisande! I love you! + +MELISANDE (wonderingly). Why didn't I wake up when you kissed me? We +are still here. The dream goes on. + +GERVASE. It is no dream, Melisande. Or if it is a dream, then in my +dream I love you, and if we are awake, then awake I love you. I love +you if this is Fairyland, and if there is no Fairyland, then my love +will make a faery land of the world for you. For I love you, +Melisande. + +MELISANDE (timidly). Are we pretending still? + +GERVASE. No, no, no! + +(She looks at him gravely for a moment and then nods her head.) + +MELISANDE (pointing). I live down there. You will come for me? + +GERVASE. I will come. + +MELISANDE. I am my lord's servant. I will wait for him. (She moves +away from him. Then she curtsies and says) This afternoon, my lord. + +(She goes down the hill.) + +(He stands looking after her. While he is standing there, ERN comes +through the trees with breakfast.) + + + + +ACT III + + +(It is about four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. JANE is +sitting on the sofa in the hall, glancing at a paper, but evidently +rather bored with it, and hoping that somebody--BOBBY, did you +say?--will appear presently. However, it is MR. KNOWLE who comes in.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Jane! + +JANE (looking up). Hallo, Uncle Henry. Did you have a good day? + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, Peters and I had a very enjoyable drive. + +JANE. But you found nothing at the sale? What a pity! + +MR. KNOWLE (taking a catalogue from his pocket). Nothing which I +wanted myself, but there were several very interesting lots. Peters +was strongly tempted by Lot 29--"Two hip-baths and a stuffed +crocodile." Very useful things to have by you if you think of getting +married, Jane, and setting up house for yourself. I don't know if you +have any thoughts in that direction? + +JANE (a little embarrassed). Well, I suppose I shall some day. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Where's Bobby? + +JANE (carelessly). Bobby? Oh, he's about somewhere. + +MR. KNOWLE. I think Bobby would like to hear about Lot 29. (Returning +to his catalogue) Or perhaps Lot 42. "Lot 42--Twelve aspidistras, +towel-horse, and 'The Maiden's Prayer.'" All for seven and sixpence. I +ought to have had Bobby with me. He could have made a firm offer of +eight shillings. . . . By the way, I have a daughter, haven't I? How was +Sandy this morning? + +JANE. I didn't see her. Aunt Mary is rather anxious about her. + +MR. KNOWLE. Has she left us for ever? + +JANE. There's nothing to be frightened about really. + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm not frightened. + +JANE. She had breakfast before any of us were up, and went out with +some sandwiches afterwards, and she hasn't come back yet. + +MR. KNOWLE. A very healthy way of spending the day. (MRS. KNOWLE comes +in) Well, Mary, I hear that we have no daughter now. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, there you are, Henry. Thank Heaven that _you_ are +back safely. + +MR. KNOWLE. My dear, I always meant to come back safely. Didn't you +expect me? + +MRS. KNOWLE. I had given up hope. Jane here will tell you what a +terrible morning I have had; prostrate on the sofa, mourning for my +loved ones. My only child torn from me, my husband--dead. + +MR. KNOWLE (surprised). Oh, I was dead? + +MRS. KNOWLE. I pictured the car smashed to atoms, and you lying in the +road, dead, with Peters by your side. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! How was Peters? + +MRS. KNOWLE (with a shrug). I didn't look. What is a chauffeur to one +who has lost her husband and her only child in the same morning? + +MR. KNOWLE. Still, I think you might have looked. + +JANE. Sandy's all right, Aunt Mary. You know she often goes out alone +all day like this. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, _is_ she alone? Jane, did you count the gardeners as +I asked you? + +MR. KNOWLE. Count the gardeners? + +MRS. KNOWLE. To make sure that none of them is missing too. + +JANE. It's quite all right, Aunt Mary. Sandy will be back by tea-time. + +MRS. KNOWLE (resigned). It all comes of christening her Melisande. You +know, Henry, I quite thought you said Millicent. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, talking about tea, my dear--at which happy meal our +long-lost daughter will be restored to us--we have a visitor coming, a +nice young fellow who takes an interest in prints. + +MRS. KNOWLE. I've heard nothing of this, Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE. No, my dear, that's why I'm telling you now. + +MRS. KNOWLE. A young man? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Nice-looking? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Rich? + +MR. KNOWLE. I forgot to ask him, Mary. However, we can remedy that +omission as soon as he arrives. + +MRS. KNOWLE. It's a very unfortunate day for him to have chosen. +Here's Sandy lost, and I'm not fit to be seen, and--Jane, your hair +wants tidying---- + +MR. KNOWLE. He is not coming to see you or Sandy or Jane, my dear; he +is coming to see me. Fortunately, I am looking very beautiful this +afternoon. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, you had better be in the garden, dear, and see if +you can stop Sandy before she comes in, and just give her a warning. I +don't know _what_ she'll look like after roaming the fields all day, +and falling into pools---- + +MR. KNOWLE. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a +wantonness. + +MRS. KNOWLE. I will go and tidy myself. Jane, I think your mother +would like you to--but, after all, one must think of one's own child +first. You will tell Sandy, won't you? We had better have tea in +here. . . . Henry, your trousers--(she looks to see that JANE is not +listening, and then says in a loud whisper) your trousers---- + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear, Mary. It's a young +fellow who is coming to see my prints; not the Prince of Wales who is +coming to see my trousers. + +MRS. KNOWLE (turning to JANE). You'll remember, Jane? + +JANE (smiling). Yes, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's a good girl. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Your aunt wasn't very lucid, Jane. Which one of you +is it who is going to marry the gentleman? + +JANE. Don't be so absurd, Uncle Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE (taking out his catalogue again). Perhaps _he_ would be +interested in Lot 29. (BOBBY comes in through the windows.) Ah, here's +Bobby. Bobby, they tell me that you think of setting up house. + +BOBBY (looking quickly at JANE). Who told you that? + +MR. KNOWLE. Now, starting with two hip-baths and a stuffed crocodile +for nine shillings and sixpence, and working up to twelve aspidistras, +a towel-horse and "The Maiden's Prayer" for eight shillings, you +practically have the spare room furnished for seventeen and six. But +perhaps I had better leave the catalogue with you. (He presses it into +the bewildered BOBBY'S hands) I must go and tidy myself up. Somebody +is coming to propose to me this afternoon. + + [He hurries out. + +(BOBBY looks after him blankly, and then turns to JANE.) + +BOBBY. I say, what's happened? + +JANE. Happened? + +BOBBY. Yes, why did he say that about my setting up house? + +JANE. I think he was just being funny. He is sometimes, you know. + +BOBBY. You don't think he guessed---- + +JANE. Guessed what? About you and Melisande? + +BOBBY. I say, shut up, Jane. I thought we agreed not to say anything +more about that. + +JANE. But what else could he have guessed? + +BOBBY. _You_ know well enough. + +JANE (shaking her head). No, I don't. + +BOBBY. I told you this morning. + +JANE. What did you tell me? + +BOBBY. _You_ know. + +JANE. No, I don't. + +BOBBY. Yes, you do. + +JANE. No, I don't. + +BOBBY (coming closer). All right, shall I tell you again? + +JANE (edging away). I don't want to hear it. + +BOBBY. How do you know you don't want to hear it, if you don't know +what it is? + +JANE. I can guess what it is. + +BOBBY. There you are! + +JANE. It's what you say to everybody, isn't it? + +BOBBY (loftily). If you want to know, Miss Bagot, I have only said it +to one other person in my life, and that was in mistake for you. + +JANE (coldly). Melisande and I are not very much alike, Mr. Coote. + +BOBBY. No. You're much prettier. + +JANE (turning her head away). You don't really think so. Anyhow, it +isn't true. + +BOBBY. It is true, Jane. I swear it. + +JANE. Well, you didn't think so yesterday. + +BOBBY. Why do you keep talking about yesterday? I'm talking about +to-day. + +JANE. A girl has her pride, Bobby. + +BOBBY. So has a man. I'm awfully proud of being in love with _you_. + +JANE. That isn't what I mean. + +BOBBY. What do you mean? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well--well--well, what it comes to is that you get +refused by Sandy, and then you immediately come to me and expect me to +jump at you. + +BOBBY. Suppose I had waited a year and then come to you, would that +have been better? + +JANE. Of course it would. + +BOBBY. Well, really I can't follow you, darling. + +JANE (indignantly). You mustn't call me darling. + +BOBBY. Mustn't call you what? + +JANE (awkwardly). Darling. + +BOBBY. Did I call you darling? + +JANE (shortly). Yes. + +BOBBY (to himself). "Darling." No, I suppose I mustn't. But it suits +you so awfully well--darling. (She stamps her foot) I'm sorry, +darl---- I mean Jane, but really I can't follow you. Because you're so +frightfully fascinating, that after twenty-four hours of it, I simply +have to tell you how much I love you, then your pride is hurt. But if +you had been so frightfully unattractive that it took me a whole year +to see anything in you at all, then apparently you'd have been awfully +proud. + +JANE. You _have_ known me a whole year, Bobby. + +BOBBY. Not really, you know. Directly I saw you and Sandy together I +knew I was in love with one of you, but--well, love is a dashed rummy +thing, and I thought it was Sandy. And so I didn't really see you till +last night, when you were so awfully decent to me. + +JANE (wistfully). It sounds very well, but the trouble is that it will +sound just as well to the next girl. + +BOBBY. What next girl? + +JANE. The one you propose to to-morrow. + +BOBBY. You know, Jane, when you talk like that I feel that you don't +deserve to be proposed to at all. + +JANE (loftily). I'm sure I don't want to be. + +BOBBY (coming closer). Are you? + +JANE. Am I what? + +BOBBY. Quite sure. + +JANE. I should have thought it was pretty obvious seeing that I've +just refused you. + +BOBBY. Have you? + +JANE. Have I what? + +BOBBY. Refused me. + +JANE. I thought I had. + +BOBBY. And would you be glad if I went away and never saw you again? +(She hesitates) Honest, Jane. Would you? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well, of course, I _like_ you, Bobby. I always have. + +BOBBY. But you feel that you would like me better if I were somebody +else's husband? + +JANE (indignantly). Oh, I _never_ said that. + +BOBBY. Dash it, you've been saying it all this afternoon. + +JANE (weakly). Bobby, don't; I can't argue with you. But really, dear, +I can't say now that I will marry you. Oh, you _must_ understand. Oh, +_think_ what Sandy---- + +BOBBY. We won't tell Sandy. + +JANE (surprised). But she's bound to know. + +BOBBY. We won't tell anybody. + +JANE (eagerly). Bobby! + +BOBBY (nodding). Just you and me. Nobody else for a long time. A +little private secret. + +JANE. Bobby! + +BOBBY (coming to her). Is it a bargain, Jane? Because if it's a +bargain---- + +JANE (going away from him). No, no, Bobby. Not now. I must go upstairs +and tidy myself--no, I mustn't, I must wait for Melisande--no, Bobby, +don't. Not yet. I mean it, really. Do go, dear, anybody might come in. + +(BOBBY, who has been following her round the hall, as she retreats +nervously, stops and nods to her.) + +BOBBY. All right, darling, I'll go. + +JANE. You mustn't say "darling." You might say it accidentally in +front of them all. + +BOBBY (grinning). All right, Miss Bagot . . . I am going now, Miss +Bagot. (At the windows) Good-bye, Miss Bagot. (JANE blows him a kiss. +He bows) Your favour to hand, Miss Bagot. (He turns and sees MELISANDE +coming through the garden) Hallo, here's Sandy! (He hurries off in the +opposite direction.) + +MELISANDE. Oh, Jane, Jane! (She sinks into a chair.) + +JANE. What, dear? + +MELISANDE. Everything. + +JANE. Yes, but that's so vague, darling. Do you mean that---- + +MELISANDE (dreamily). I have seen him; I have talked to him; he has +kissed me. + +JANE (amazed). _Kissed_ you? Do you mean that he has--kissed you? + +MELISANDE. I have looked into his eyes, and he has looked into mine. + +JANE. Yes, but who? + +MELISANDE. The true knight, the prince, for whom I have been waiting +so long. + +JANE. But _who_ is he? + +MELISANDE. They call him Gervase. + +JANE. Gervase _who_? + +MELISANDE (scornfully). Did Elaine say, "Lancelot who" when they told +her his name was Lancelot? + +JANE. Yes, dear, but this is the twentieth century. He must have a +name. + +MELISANDE (dreamily). Through the forest he came to me, dressed in +blue and gold. + +JANE (sharply). Sandy! (Struck with an idea) Have you been out all day +without your hat, darling? + +MELISANDE (vaguely). Have I? + +JANE. I mean--blue and gold. They don't do it nowadays. + +MELISANDE (nodding to her). _He_ did, Jane. + +JANE. But how?--Why? Who can he be? + +MELISANDE. He said he was a humble woodcutter's son. That means he was +a prince in disguise. He called me his princess. + +JANE. Darling, how could he be a prince? + +MELISANDE. I have read stories sometimes of men who went to sleep and +woke up thousands of years afterwards and found themselves in a +different world. Perhaps, Jane, _he_ lived in those old days, and---- + +JANE. Did he _talk_ like an ordinary person? + +MELISANDE. Oh no, no! + +JANE. Well, it's really extraordinary. . . . Was he a gentleman? + +MELISANDE (smiling at her). I didn't ask him, Jane. + +JANE (crossly). You know what I mean. + +MELISANDE. He is coming this afternoon to take me away. + +JANE (amazed). To take you away? But what about Aunt Mary? + +MELISANDE (vaguely). Aunt Mary? What has _she_ got to do with it? + +JANE (impatiently). Oh, but---- (With a shrug of resignation) I don't +understand. Do you mean he's coming _here_? (MELISANDE nods gravely) +Melisande, you'll let me see him? + +MELISANDE. Yes. I've thought it all out. I wanted you here, Jane. He +will come in; I will present you; and then you must leave us alone. +But I should like you to see him. Just to see how different, how +utterly different he is from every other man. . . . But you will promise +to go when you have seen him, won't you? + +JANE (nodding). I'll say, "I'm afraid I must leave you now, and----" +Sandy, how _can_ he be a prince? + +MELISANDE. When you see him, Jane, you will say, "How can he not be a +prince?" + +JANE. But one has to leave princes backward. I mean--he won't +expect--_you_ know---- + +MELISANDE. I don't think so. Besides, after all, you are my cousin. + +JANE. Yes. I think I shall get that in; just to be on the safe side. +"Well, cousin, I must leave you now, as I have to attend my aunt." And +then a sort of--not exactly a curtsey, but--(she practises, murmuring +the words to herself). I suppose you didn't happen to mention _me_ to +him this morning? + +MELISANDE (half smiling). Oh no! + +JANE (hurt). I don't see why you shouldn't have. What did you talk +about? + +MELISANDE. I don't know. (She grips JANE'S arm suddenly) Jane, I +didn't dream it all this morning, did I? It did happen? I saw him--he +kissed me--he is coming for me--he---- + +(Enter ALICE) + +ALICE. Mr. Gervase Mallory. + +MELISANDE (happily). Ah! + +(GERVASE comes in, an apparently ordinary young man in a loud golfing +suit.) + +GERVASE. How do you do? + +MELISANDE (looking at him with growing amazement and horror). Oh! + +(JANE looks from one to the other in bewilderment.) + +GERVASE. I ought to explain. Mr. Knowle was kind enough to lend me +some petrol last night; my car broke down; he was good enough to say I +might come this afternoon and see his prints. I am hoping to be +allowed to thank him again for his kindness last night. And--er--I've +brought back the petrol. + +MELISANDE (still with her eyes on him). My father will no doubt be +here directly. This is my cousin, Miss Bagot. + +GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? + +JANE (nervously). How do you do? (After a pause) Well, I'm afraid I +must leave you now, as---- + +MELISANDE (with her eyes still on GERVASE, putting out a hand and +clutching at JANE). No! + +JANE (startled). What? + +MELISANDE. Don't go, Jane. Do sit down, won't you, Mr.--er---- + +GERVASE. Mallory. + +MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +MELISANDE. Where will you sit, Mr. Mallory? (She is still talking in +an utterly expressionless voice.) + +GERVASE. Thank you. Where are you---- (he indicates the sofa.) + +MELISANDE (moving to it, but still holding JANE). Thank _you_. + +(MELISANDE and JANE sit down together on the sofa. GERVASE sits on a +chair near. There is an awkward silence.) + +JANE (half getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must---- + +(MELISANDE pulls her down. She subsides.) + +MELISANDE. Charming weather we are having, are we not, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE (enthusiastically). Oh, rather. Absolutely top-hole. + +MELISANDE (to JANE). Absolutely top-hole weather, is it not, Jane? + +JANE. Oh, I love it. + +MELISANDE. You play golf, I expect, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh, rather. I've been playing this morning. (With a smile) +Pretty rotten, too, I'm afraid. + +MELISANDE. Jane plays golf. (to JANE) You're pretty rotten, too, +aren't you, Jane? + +JANE. Bobby and I were both very bad to-day. + +MELISANDE. I think you will like Bobby, Mr. Mallory. He is staying +with us just now. I expect you will have a good deal in common. He is +on the Stock Exchange. + +GERVASE (smiling). So am I. + +MELISANDE (valiantly repressing a shudder). Jane, Mr. Mallory is on +the Stock Exchange. Isn't that curious? I felt sure that he must be +directly I saw him. + +(There is another awkward silence.) + +JANE (getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must---- + +MELISANDE (pulling her down). Don't go, Jane. I suppose there are a +great many of you on the Stock Exchange, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh, quite a lot. + +MELISANDE. Quite a lot, Jane. . . . You don't know Bobby--Mr. Coote? + +GERVASE. N--no, I don't think so. + +MELISANDE. I suppose there are so many of you, and you dress so much +alike, and look so much alike, that it's difficult to be quite sure +whom you do know. + +GERVASE. Yes, of course, that makes it more difficult. + +MELISANDE. Yes. You see that, don't you, Jane? . . . You play billiards +and bridge, of course, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh yes. + +MELISANDE. They are absolutely top-hole games, aren't they? Are +you--pretty rotten at them? + +GERVASE. Well---- + +MELISANDE (getting up). Ah, here's my father. + +(Enter MR. KNOWLE) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Mr. Mallory, delighted to see you. And Sandy and Jane +to entertain you. That's right. + +(They shake hands) + +GERVASE. How do you do? + +(ALICE comes in with tea) + +MR. KNOWLE. I've been wasting my day at a sale. I hope you spent yours +more profitably, (GERVASE laughs pleasantly) And what have you been +doing, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. Wasting mine, too, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. Well, they say that the wasted hours are the +best. + +MELISANDE (moving to the door). I think I will go and---- (MRS. KNOWLE +comes in with outstretched hands) + +MR. KNOWLE. My dear, this is Mr. Mallory. + +MRS. KNOWLE. My dear Mr. Mallory! (Turning round) Sandy, dear! +(MELISANDE comes slowly back) How do you do? + +GERVASE (shaking hands). How do you do? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy, dear! (to GERVASE) My daughter, Melisande, Mr. +Mallory. My only child. + +GERVASE. Oh--er--we---- + +MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory and I have met, Mother. + +MRS. KNOWLE (indicating JANE). And our dear Jane. + +My dear sister's only daughter. But dear Jane has a brother. Dear +Harold! In the Civil Service. Sandy, dear, will you pour out tea? + +MELISANDE (resigned). Yes, Mother. (She goes to the tea-table.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (going to the sofa). I am such an invalid now, Mr. +Mallory---- + +GERVASE (helping her). Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I----? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. Dr. Anderson insists on my resting as much as +possible. So my dear Melisande looks after the house for me. Such a +comfort. You are not married yourself, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No. Oh no. + +MRS. KNOWLE (smiling to herself). Ah! + +MELISANDE. Jane, Mother's tea. (JANE takes it.) + +GERVASE (coming forward). Oh, I beg your pardon. Let me---- + +JANE. It's all right. + +(GERVASE takes up a cake-stand.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Where's Bobby? Bobby is the real expert at this. + +MELISANDE. I expect Mr. Mallory is an expert, too, Father. You enjoy +tea-parties, I expect, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. I enjoy most things, Miss Knowle. (To MRS. KNOWLE) What will +you have? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. I have to be careful. Dr. Anderson insists on +my being careful, Mr. Mallory. (Confidentially) Nothing organic, you +understand. Both my husband and I--Melisande has an absolutely sound +constitution. + +MELISANDE (indicating cup). Jane . . . Sugar and milk, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Please. (To MR. KNOWLE) Won't _you_ have this, sir? + +MR. KNOWLE. No thank you. I have a special cup. + +(He takes a large cup from MELISANDE). A family tradition, Mr. +Mallory. But whether it is that I am supposed to require more +nourishment than the others, or that I can't be trusted with anything +breakable, History does not relate. + +GERVASE (laughing). Well, I think you're lucky. I like a big cup. + +MR. KNOWLE. Have mine. + +GERVASE. No, thanks. + +BOBBY (coming in). Hallo! Tea? + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Bobby, you're just in time. (to GERVASE) This is Mr. +Coote. Bobby, this is Mr. Mallory. (They nod to each other and say, +"How do you do?") + +MELISANDE (indicating a seat next to her). Come and sit here, Bobby. + +BOBBY (who was making for JANE). Oh--er--righto. (He sits down.) + +MR. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). And how did the dance go last night? + +JANE. Oh, were you at a dance? How lovely! + +MELISANDE. Dance? + +MR. KNOWLE. And a fancy dress dance, too, Sandy. _You_ ought to have +been there. + +MELISANDE (understanding). Ah! + +MRS. KNOWLE. My daughter is devoted to dancing, Mr. Mallory. Dances so +beautifully, they all say. + +BOBBY. Where was it? + +GERVASE. Collingham. + +MR. KNOWLE. And did they all fall in love with you? You ought to have +seen him, Sandy. + +GERVASE. Well, I'm afraid I never got there. + +MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. . . . Peters is in love just now. . . . I hope he +didn't give you cider in mistake for petrol. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You have a car, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah! (to MELISANDE) Won't Mr. Mallory have some more tea, +Sandy? + +MELISANDE. Will you have some more tea, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Thank you. (to MRS. KNOWLE) Won't you---- + +(He begins to get up.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. _Please_ don't trouble. I never have more than one cup. +Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. Only one cup, Mrs. Knowle. + +BOBBY (to MELISANDE). Sandwich? Oh, you're busy. Sandwich, Jane? + +JANE (taking one). Thank you. + +BOBBY (to GERVASE). Sandwich? + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +BOBBY (to MR. KNOWLE). Sandwich? + +MR. KNOWLE. Thank you, Bobby. Fortunately nobody minds what _I_ eat or +drink. + +BOBBY (to himself). Sandwich, Mr. Coote? Thank you. (He takes one.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). Being such an invalid, Mr. Mallory, it is a +great comfort to me to have Melisande to look after the house. + +GERVASE. I am sure it is. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Of course, I can't expect to keep her for ever. + +MELISANDE (coldly). More tea, Jane? + +JANE. Thank you, dear. + +MRS. KNOWLE. It's extraordinary how she has taken to it. I must say +that I do like a girl to be a good housekeeper. Don't you agree, Mr. +Mallory? + +GERVASE. Well, of course, all that sort of thing _is_ rather +important. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's what I always tell Sandy. "Happiness begins in the +kitchen, Sandy." + +MELISANDE. I'm sure Mr. Mallory agrees with you, Mother. + +GERVASE (laughing). Well, one must eat. + +BOBBY (passing plate). Have another sandwich? + +GERVASE (taking one). Thanks. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Do you live in the neighbourhood, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. About twenty miles away. Little Malling. + +JANE (helpfully). Oh, yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I hope we shall see you here again. + +GERVASE. That's very kind of you indeed. I shall love to come. + +MELISANDE. More tea, Father? + +MR. KNOWLE. No, thank you, my love. + +MELISANDE. More tea, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No, thank you. + +MR. KNOWLE (getting up). I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Mallory, but +if you have really finished---- + +GERVASE (getting up). Right. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You won't go without seeing the garden, Mr. Mallory? +Sandy, when your father has finished with Mr. Mallory, you must show +him the garden. We are very proud of our roses, Mr. Mallory. Melisande +takes a great interest in the roses. + +GERVASE. I should like very much to see the garden. (Going to her) +Shall I see you again, Mrs. Knowle. . . . Don't get up, _please_. + +MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). In case we don't--(she holds out her hand). + +GERVASE (shaking it). Good-bye. And thank you so much. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Not good-bye. _Au revoir_. + +GERVASE (smiling). Thank you. (With a bow to JANE and BOBBY) Good-bye, +in case---- + +BOBBY. Cheero. + +JANE. Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, come along. (As they go out) It is curious how much +time one has to spend in saying "How do you do" and "Good-bye." I once +calculated that a man of seventy. . . . + + [MR. KNOWLE and GERVASE go out. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, dear, would you mind coming with me to the +drawing-room, and helping me to--er---- + +JANE (resigned). Of course, Aunt Mary. + + [They go towards the door. + +BOBBY (with his mouth full). May I come too, Mrs. Knowle? + +MELISANDE. You haven't finished your tea, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I shan't be a moment. (He picks up his cup.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Please come, dear Mr. Coote, when you have finished. + + [MRS. KNOWLE goes out. + +(JANE turns at the door, sees that MELISANDE is not looking, and blows +a hasty kiss to BOBBY.) + +MELISANDE. More tea, Bobby? + +BOBBY. No thanks. + +MELISANDE. Something more to eat? + +BOBBY. No thanks. (He gets up and walks towards the door.) + +MELISANDE. Bobby! + +BOBBY (turning). Yes? + +MELISANDE. There's something I want to say to you. Don't go. + +BOBBY. Oh! Righto. (He comes slowly back.) + +MELISANDE (with difficulty, after a pause). I made a mistake +yesterday. + +BOBBY (not understating). A mistake? Yesterday? + +MELISANDE. Yes. . . . You were quite right. + +BOBBY. How do you mean? When? + +MELISANDE. When you said that girls didn't know their own minds. + +BOBBY. Oh! (With an awkward laugh) Yes. Well--er--I don't expect any +of us do, really, you know. I mean--er--that is to say---- + +MELISANDE. I'm sorry I said what I did say to you last night, Bobby. I +oughtn't to have said all those things. + +BOBBY. I say, that's all right + +MELISANDE. I didn't mean them. And--and Bobby--I _will_ marry you if +you like. + +BOBBY (staggered). Sandy! + +MELISANDE. And it was silly of me to mind your calling me Sandy, and +to say what I did about your clothes, and I _will_ marry you, Bobby. +And--and thank you for wanting it so much. + +BOBBY. I say, Sandy. I say! I say---- + +MELISANDE (offering her cheek). You may kiss me if you like, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I say! . . . Er--er--(he kisses her gingerly) thanks! . . . Er--I +say---- + +MELISANDE. What is it, Bobby? + +BOBBY. I say, you know--(he tries again) I don't want you to--to feel +that--I mean, just because I asked you twice--I mean I don't want you +to feel that--well, I mean you mustn't do it just for _my_ sake, +Sandy. I mean Melisande. + +MELISANDE. You may call me Sandy. + +BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy. + +MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that. + +BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last night--afterwards, you +know--and I began to see, I began to see that perhaps you were right. +I mean about my not being romantic and--and all that. I mean, I'm +rather an ordinary sort of chap, and---- + +MELISANDE (sadly). We are all rather ordinary sort of chaps. + +BOBBY (eagerly). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, Sandy. I mean +Melisande. You _aren't_ ordinary. I don't say you'd be throwing +yourself away on me, but--but I think you could find somebody more +suitable. (Earnestly). I'm sure you could. I mean somebody who would +remember to call you Melisande, and who would read poetry with you +and--and all that. I mean, there are lots of fellows---- + +MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you _want_ to marry me now? + +BOBBY (with dignity). I don't want to be married out of pity. + +MELISANDE (coldly). I have told you that it isn't out of pity. + +BOBBY. Well, what _is_ it out of? I mean, after what you said +yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved me---- + +MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to you? + +BOBBY (taken aback). W-what? + +MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing me? + +BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all. + +MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (Carelessly) It _is_ +Jane, isn't it? + +BOBBY. I say, look here---- (She doesn't) Of course, I know you think +I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . well--oh, _damn_! + +MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you. + +(MRS. KNOWLE comes in.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you. + +BOBBY. Oh--er---- + +MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you. + +BOBBY (realising that he is not quite at his best). Er--oh--er, +righto. (He goes to the door and hesitates there) Er--(Now if he can +only think of something really good, he may yet carry it off.) +Er--(something really witty)--er--er, righto! (He goes out--to join +JANE, who is waiting for him.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a soft gentle voice). Where is your father, dear? In +the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to speak to him. Just on a +little matter of business. . . . Dear child! + + [She goes to the library. + +MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible! + +(She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling herself that +she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and she goes to the +open windows, and stands for a moment looking out, trying to recover +herself) + +(GERVASE comes in.) + +GERVASE (gently). Princess! (She hears; her hand closes and tightens; +but she says nothing.) Princess! + +(With an effort she controls herself, turns round and speaks coldly) + +MELISANDE. Please don't call me by that ridiculous name. + +GERVASE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE. Nor by that one. + +GERVASE. Miss Knowle. + +MELISANDE. Yes? What do you want, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. I want to marry you. + +MELISANDE (taken by surprise). Oh! . . . How dare you! + +GERVASE. But I told you this morning. + +MELISANDE. I think you had better leave this morning out of it. + +GERVASE. But if I leave this morning out of it, then I have only just +met you. + +MELISANDE. That is what I would prefer. + +GERVASE. Oh! . . . Then if I have only just met you, perhaps I oughtn't +to have said straight off that I want to marry you. + +MELISANDE. It is unusual. + +GERVASE. Yes. But not unusual to _want_ to marry you. + +MELISANDE. I am not interested in your wants. + +GERVASE. Oh! (Gently) I'm sorry that we've got to forget about this +morning. (Going closer to her) Is it so easy to forget, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. Very easy for you, I should think. + +GERVASE. But not for you? + +MELISANDE (bitterly). You dress up and amuse yourself, and then laugh +and go back to your ordinary life again--you don't want to remember +_that_, do you, every time you do it? + +GERVASE. You let your hair down and flirt with me and laugh and go +home again, but _you_ can't forget. Why should I? + +MELISANDE (furiously). How dare you say I flirted with you? + +GERVASE. How dare you say I laughed at you? + +MELISANDE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up to +the wood? + +GERVASE. Do you think _I_ knew you would be there when _I_ went up? + +MELISANDE. Then why were you there all dressed up like that? + +GERVASE. My car broke down and I spent the night in it. I went up the +hill to look for breakfast. + +MELISANDE. Breakfast! That's all you think about. + +GERVASE (cheerfully). Well, it's always cropping up. + +MELISANDE (in disgust). Oh! (She moves away from him and then turns +round holding out her hand) Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE (taking it). Good-bye, Miss Knowle. . . . (Gently) May I kiss +your hands, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (pathetically). Oh, don't! (She hides her face in them.) + +GERVASE. Dear hands. . . . May I kiss your lips, Melisande? (She says +nothing. He comes closer to her) Melisande! + +(He is about to put his arms round her, but she breaks away from him.) + +MELISANDE. Oh, don't, don't! What's the good of pretending? It was +only pretence this morning--what's the good of going on with it? I +thought you were so different from other men, but you're just the +same, just the same. You talk about the things they talk about, you +wear the clothes they wear. You were my true knight, my fairy Prince, +this morning, and this afternoon you come down dressed like that (she +waves her hand at it) and tell me that you are on the Stock Exchange! +Oh, can't you see what you've done? All the beautiful world that I had +built up for you and me--shattered, shattered. + +GERVASE (going to her). Melisande! + +MELISANDE. No, no! + +GERVASE (stopping). All right. + +MELISANDE (recovering herself). Please go. + +GERVASE (with a smile). Well, that's not quite fair, you know. + +MELISANDE. What do you mean? + +GERVASE. Well, what about _my_ beautiful world--the world that _I_ had +built up? + +MELISANDE. I don't understand. + +GERVASE. What about _your_ pretence this morning? I thought you were +so different from other women, but you're just the same, just the +same. You were my true lady, my fairy Princess, this morning; and this +afternoon the Queen, your mother, disabled herself by indigestion, +tells me that you do all the housekeeping for her just like any +ordinary commonplace girl. Your father, the King, has obviously never +had a battle-axe in his hand in his life; your suitor, Prince Robert +of Coote, is much more at home with a niblick than with a lance; and +your cousin, the Lady Jane---- + +MELISANDE (sinking on to the sofa and hiding her face). Oh, cruel, +cruel! + +GERVASE (remorsefully). Oh, forgive me, Melisande. It was horrible of +me. + +MELISANDE. No, but it's true. How could any romance come into this +house? Now you know why I wanted you to take me away--away to the ends +of the earth with you. + +GERVASE. Well, that's what I want to do. + +MELISANDE. Ah, don't! When you're on the Stock Exchange! + +GERVASE. But there's plenty of romance on the Stock Exchange. (Nodding +his head) Oh yes, you want to look out for it. + +MELISANDE (reproachfully). Now you're laughing at me again. + +GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am +laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can be +happy together, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want jokes. + +GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers. + +MELISANDE (bewildered). Did you expect me to? + +GERVASE. No. (After a pause) I think that's why I put 'em on. (She +looks at him in surprise.) You see, we had to come back to the +twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on pretending for ever. +Well, here we are--(indicating his clothes)--back. But I feel just as +romantic, Melisande. I want beauty--your beauty--just as much. (He +goes to her.) + +MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to you this +morning in the wood, or the one who--(bitterly) does all the +housekeeping for her mother? (Violently) And badly, badly, badly! + +GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her mother--and +badly, badly, badly, _bless_ her, because she has never realised what +a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping is. + +MELISANDE (amazed). Romantic! + +GERVASE (with enthusiasm). Most gloriously romantic. . . . Did you ever +long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert island? + +MELISANDE (clasping her hands). Oh yes! + +GERVASE. You imagined yourself there--alone or with a companion? + +MELISANDE. Often! + +GERVASE. And what were you doing? What is the romance of the desert +island which draws us all? Climbing the bread-fruit tree, following +the turtle to see where it deposits its eggs, discovering the spring +of water, building the hut--_housekeeping_, Melisande. . . . Or take +Robinson Crusoe. When Man Friday came along and left his footprint in +the sand, why did Robinson Crusoe stagger back in amazement? Because +he said to himself, like a good housekeeper, "By Jove, I'm on the +track of a servant at last." There's romance for you! + +MELISANDE (smiling and shaking her head at him). What nonsense you +talk! + +GERVASE. It isn't nonsense; indeed, indeed it isn't. There's romance +everywhere if you look for it. _You_ look for it in the old +fairy-stories, but did _they_ find it there? Did the gentleman who had +just been given a new pair of seven-league boots think it romantic to +be changed into a fish? He probably thought it a confounded nuisance, +and wondered what on earth to do with his boots. Did Cinderella and +the Prince find the world romantic after they were married? Think of +the endless silent evenings which they spent together, with nothing in +common but an admiration for Cinderella's feet--do you think _they_ +didn't long for the romantic days of old? And in two thousand or two +hundred thousand years, people will read stories about _us_, and sigh +and say, "Will those romantic days never come back again?" Ah, they +are here now, Melisande, for _us_; for the people with imagination; +for you and for me. + +MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were! + +GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this morning. +Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. Look at +yourself in the glass--how can you help being a princess? But if we +could be companions, Melisande! That's difficult; that's worth trying. + +MELISANDE (gently). What do you want me to do? + +GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat--see me in a bowler-hat. +Help me with my work; play games with me--I'll teach you if you don't +know how. I want to share the world with you for all our lives. That's +a long time, you know; we can't do it on one twenty-minutes' practice +before breakfast. We can be lovers so easily--can we be friends? + +MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). You are very wise. + +GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've been +thinking over what he said. (Suddenly) But when you look at me like +that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away with me now, now, +now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, you adorable child, +you funny foolish little girl. (Holding up a finger) Smile, Melisande. +Smile! (Slowly, reluctantly, she gives him a smile.) I suppose the +fairies taught you that. Keep it for _me_, will you--but give it to me +often. Do you ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together +sometimes--that makes life so easy. + +MELISANDE (with a happy little laugh). Oh, what can I say to you? + +GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase." + +MELISANDE (shyly). I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase. + +GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase." + +MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase. + +GERVASE (Jumping up and waving his hand) Say, "Hooray for things!" + +MELISANDE (standing up, but shyly still). Hooray for things! + +GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (He presses her hand and +goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes back, bends on one +knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it) My Princess! + + [Then GERVASE goes out. + +(MELISANDE stays there, looking after him, her hand to her cheek. . . . +But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must begin. With a +little smile at herself, at GERVASE, at things, she fetches out the +Great Book from its hiding-place, where she had buried it many weeks +ago in disgust. Now it comes into its own. She settles down with it in +her favourite chair. . . .) + +MELISANDE (reading). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an onion, peel and +quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . . + +(But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with it, +curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish little +girl.) + + + + +THE STEPMOTHER + +A PLAY IN ONE ACT + + + +CHARACTERS + +SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. +LADY PEMBURY. +PERKINS. +THE STRANGER. + + * * * * * + +The first performance of this play was given at the Alhambra Theatre +on November 16, 1920, with the following cast: + +Sir John Pembury--GILBERT HARE. +Lady Pembury--WINIFRED EMERY. +Perkins--C.M. LOWNE. +The Stranger--GERALD DU MAURIER. + + + + +THE STEPMOTHER + + +(A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest room in +the London house of SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. For this reason LADY +PEMBURY uses it a good deal, although it is not officially hers. It is +plainly furnished, and probably set out to be a sort of waiting-room +for SIR JOHN'S many callers, but LADY PEMBURY has left her mark upon +it.) + +(PERKINS, the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past his +prime, leads the may in, followed by THE STRANGER, PERKINS has already +placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the intelligent person +in the pit perceives that he is something better than that, though +whether he is in the process of falling from a higher estate, or of +rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty odd, shabbily dressed (but +then, so are most of us nowadays), and ill at ease; not because he is +shabby, but because he is ashamed of himself. To make up for this, he +adopts a blustering manner, as if to persuade himself that he is a +fine fellow after all. There is a touch of commonness about his voice, +but he is not uneducated.) + +PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll see +you, mind. + +STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right enough. + +PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well---- (He looks at THE STRANGER +doubtfully.) + +STRANGER (bitterly). I suppose you think I've got no business in a +gentleman's house. Is that it? + +PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a constituent? +Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty queer ones at times. +All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps you're a deputation? + +STRANGER (violently). What the hell's it got to do with you who I am. +You go and tell your master I'm here--that's all you've got to do. +See? + +PERKINS (unruffled). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even told me your +name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. Bottomley? + +STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, "Somebody +from Lambeth"--_he'll_ know what I mean. + +PERKINS (humorously). Ah, I beg your pardon--the Archbishop of +Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace. + +STRANGER (angrily). It's people like you who make one sick of the +world. Parasites--servile flunkeys, bolstering up an effete +aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to do? + +PERKINS (good-naturedly). Now, look here, young man, this isn't the +time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you want to get off +your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever it may be, keep it +till Sunday afternoon--when I'm off duty. (He comes a little closer to +THE STRANGER) Four o'clock Sunday afternoon--(jerking his thumb over +his shoulder)--just round the corner--in the Bolton Mews. See? Nobody +there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and secluded, and a +friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (He edges closer as he talks.) + +STRANGER (retreating nervously). No offence meant, mate. We're in the +same boat--you and me; we don't want to get fighting. My quarrel isn't +with you. You go and tell Sir John that there's a gentleman come to +see him--wants a few minutes of his valuable time--from Lambeth way. +_He'll_ know. That's all right. + +PERKINS (drawing back, disappointedly). Then I shan't be seeing you +Sunday afternoon? + +STRANGER (laughing awkwardly). There, that's all right. No offence +meant. Somebody from Lambeth--that's what _you've_ got to say. And +tell 'im I'm in a hurry. _He'll_ know what I mean. + +PERKINS (going slowly to the door). Well, it's a queer game, but being +in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be surprised. All sorts, as +you might say, _all_ sorts. + + [Exit PERKINS. + +(THE STRANGER, left alone, walks up and down the room, nervously +impatient.) + +(LADY PEMBURY comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married life, +she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has never had +a son--her only sorrow. Her motto might be, "It is just as easy to be +kind"; and whether you go to her for comfort or congratulation, you +will come away feeling that she is the only person who really +understands.) + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh! (She stops and then comes towards THE STRANGER) How +do you do? Are you waiting to see my husband? + +STRANGER (taken aback at seeing her). Yes. + +(He is not sure for the moment if this upsets his plans or forwards +them.) + +LADY PEMBURY. I think he's engaged just now. But he won't be long. +Perkins will tell him as soon as he is free. + +STRANGER (contemptuously). His name is Perkins, is it? + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Yes. + +STRANGER (contemptuously). Mister Perkins, the Butler. + +LADY PEMBURY (with a friendly smile). You don't _mind_ our having a +butler? (She picks up some work from the table and takes it to the +sofa) + +STRANGER (shrugging his shoulders). One more parasite. + +LADY PEMBURY (interested). I always thought parasites were much +smaller than Perkins. (Sitting down) Do sit down, won't you? (He sits +down reluctantly.) You mustn't mind my being here. This is really my +work-room. I expect my husband will take you into his own room when +he's ready. + +STRANGER. Your work-room? + +LADY PEMBURY (looking up at him with a smile). You don't seem to like +our domestic arrangements. + +STRANGER (waving his hand at her embroidery). You call that work? + +LADY PEMBURY (pleasantly). Other people's work always seems so +contemptible, doesn't it? Now I expect if you tried to do this, you +would find it very difficult indeed, and if I tried to do yours--what +_is_ your work, Mr.--er--Dear me, I don't even know your name. + +STRANGER (bitterly). Never mind my name. Take it that I haven't got a +name. + +LADY PEMBURY. But your friends must call you something. + +STRANGER. Take it that I haven't got any friends. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, _don't_ say that! How _can_ you? + +STRANGER (surly). What's it matter to you whether anybody cares about +me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, never mind whether anybody cares about _you_; don't +_you_ care about anybody? + +STRANGER. Nobody. + +LADY PEMBURY. Poor, poor man! (Going on with her work) If you can't +tell me your name, I wish you would tell me what work you do. +(Winningly) You don't mind my asking, do you? + +STRANGER. I can tell you what work I'm going to do after to-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, do! + +STRANGER (violently). None! + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). None? + +STRANGER. No more work after to-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. Won't that be rather dull? + +STRANGER. Well, _you_ ought to know. I'm going to be one of the idle +rich--like you and Sir John--and let other people work for me. + +LADY PEMBURY (thoughtfully). I shouldn't have said my husband was +idle. But there it is. No two people ever agree as to what is work and +what isn't. + +STRANGER. What do you know about work--you aristocrats? + +LADY PEMBURY (mildly). My husband is only a K.B.E., you know. Quite a +recent creation. + +STRANGER (not heeding her). You, who've been brought up in the lap of +luxury--never known a day's discomfort in your life---- + +LADY PEMBURY. My dear young man, you really mustn't tell a woman who +has had five children that she has never known a day's discomfort in +her life. . . . Ask any woman. + +STRANGER (upset). What's that? . . . I didn't come here to argue with +you. You began it. Why can't you let me alone? + +LADY PEMBURY (going to a side-table and taking up a photograph). Five +children--all girls--and now I'm a grandmother. (Showing him the +photograph) There! That's my eldest daughter with her eldest son and +my eldest grandchild. Isn't he a duck? He's supposed to be like me. . . . +I never had a son of my own. (THE STRANGER has taken the photograph in +his hand and is holding it awkwardly.) Oh, let me take it away from +you. Other's people's relations are so uninteresting, aren't they? +(She takes it away and puts it back in its place. Then she returns to +her seat and goes on with her work.) So you've made a lot of money? +How exciting for you! + +STRANGER (grimly). I haven't got it yet, but it's coming. + +LADY PEMBURY. Soon? + +STRANGER. To-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. You're not married, are you? + +STRANGER. You want to know a lot, don't you? Well, I'm not married. + +LADY PEMBURY. I was thinking how much nicer it is when you can share +that sort of news with somebody else, somebody you love. It makes good +news so much better, and bad news so much more bearable. + +STRANGER. That's what you and your husband do, is it? + +LADY PEMBURY (nodding). Always. For eight-and-twenty years. + +STRANGER. He tells you everything, eh? + +LADY PEMBURY. Well, not his official secrets, of course. Everything +else. + +STRANGER. Ha! I wonder. + +LADY PEMBURY. But you have nobody, you say. Well, you must share your +good news with _me_. Will you? + +STRANGER. Oh yes, you shall hear about it all right. + +LADY PEMBURY. That's nice of you. Well then, first question. How much +money is it going to be? + +STRANGER (thoughtfully). Well, I don't quite know yet. What do you say +to a thousand a year? + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, but what a lot! + +STRANGER. You think a thousand a year would be all right. Enough to +live on? + +LADY PEMBURY. For a bachelor, ample. + +STRANGER. For a bachelor. + +LADY PEMBURY. There's no one dependent on you? + +STRANGER. Not a soul. Only got one relation living. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh? + +STRANGER (enjoying a joke of his own). A father. But I shall not be +supporting _him_. Oh no. Far from it. + +LADY PEMBURY (a little puzzled by this, though the is not going to +show it) Then I think you will be very rich with a thousand a year. + +STRANGER. Yes, that's what _I_ thought. I should think it would stand +a thousand. + +LADY PEMBURY. What is it? An invention of some sort? + +STRANGER. Oh no, not an invention. . . . A discovery. + +LADY PEMBURY. How proud she would have been! + +STRANGER. Who? + +LADY PEMBURY. Your wife if you had had one; your mother if she had +been alive. + +STRANGER (violently). Look here, you leave my mother out of it. My +business is with Sir John---- (sneeringly) Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. If +I want to talk about my mother, he and I will have a nice little talk +together about her. Yes, and about my father, too. + +(LADY PEMBURY understands at last. She stands up slowly, and looks at +him, horrified.) + +LADY PEMBURY. What do you mean? + +STRANGER. A thousand a year. You said so yourself. Yes, I think it's +worth a thousand a year. + +LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name? + +STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? (Bitterly) And if you +want to know why, ask Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. + +LADY PEMBURY (in a whisper). He's your father. + +STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son--come to see him at last, after +all these years. + +LADY PEMBURY (hardly able to ask it). How--how old are you? + +STRANGER. Thirty. + +LADY PEMBURY (sitting down on the sofa). Oh, thank God! Thank God! + +STRANGER (upset by her emotion). Look here, I didn't want all this. I +ask you--did I begin it? It was you who kept asking questions. I just +came for a quiet talk with Sir John--Father and Son talking together +quietly--talking about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did +you want to come into it for? + +(LADY PEMBURY is quiet again now. She wipes away a tear or two, and +sits up, looking at him thoughtfully.) + +LADY PEMBURY. So _you_ are the son that I never had. + +STRANGER. What d'you mean? + +LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). The son whom I wanted so. Five +girls--never a boy. Let me look at you. (She goes up to him.) + +STRANGER (edging away). Here, none of that. + +LADY PEMBURY (looking at him earnestly to see if she can see a +likeness). No--and yet--(shaking her head sadly) Poor boy! What an +unhappy life you must have had! + +STRANGER. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to get my rightful +allowance--same as any other son. + +LADY PEMBURY (to herself). Poor boy! (She goes back to her seat and +then says) You don't mind my asking you questions _now_, do you? + +STRANGER. Go on. There's no mistake about it. I can promise you that. + +LADY PEMBURY. How did you find out? Did your Mother tell you? + +STRANGER. Never a word. "Don't ask questions, sonny----" "Father's +dead"--all that sort of thing. + +LADY PEMBURY. Does Sir John know? Did he ever know? + +STRANGER (feeling in his pocket). _He_ knew right enough. (Bringing +out letters) Look here--here you are. This was how I found out. +(Selecting one) There--read that one. + +LADY PEMBURY (taking it). Yes--that's John's writing. (She holds it +out to him.) + +STRANGER. Aren't you going to read it? + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head pathetically). He didn't write it to +_me_. + +STRANGER. He didn't write it to _me_, if it comes to that. + +LADY PEMBURY. You're her son--you have a right. I'm--nobody. + +STRANGER (putting it back in his pocket). Oh well, please yourself. + +LADY PEMBURY. Did Sir John provide for your mother? + +STRANGER. Well, why shouldn't he? He was a rich man. + +LADY PEMBURY. Not in those days. . . . But indeed--why shouldn't he? What +else could he do? I'm glad he did. + +STRANGER. And now he's going to provide for his loving son. He's rich +enough for that in these days. + +LADY PEMBURY. He's never seen you? + +STRANGER. Never. The historic meeting of Father and Son will take +place this afternoon. (With a feeble attempt at what he thinks is the +aristocratic manner) Afraid the Governor will be in the deuce of a +rage. Been exceedin' my allowance--what? Make it a thousand, dear old +Gov. + +LADY PEMBURY. Don't they call that blackmail? + +STRANGER (violently). Now look here, I'd better tell you straight that +there's no blackmail about this at all. He's my father, isn't he? +Well, can't a son come to his father if he's hard up? Where are your +threatening letters? Where's the blackmail? Anyway, what's he going to +do about it? Put his son in prison? + +LADY PEMBURY (following her own thoughts). You're thirty. Thank God +for that. We hadn't met then. . . . Ah, but he ought to have told me. He +ought to have told me. + +STRANGER. P'raps he thought you wouldn't marry him, if he did. + +LADY PEMBURY. Do you think that was it? (Earnestly to him, as if he +were an old friend) You know men--young men. I never had a son; I +never had any brothers. Do they tell? They ought to, oughtn't they? + +STRANGER. Well--well, if you ask _me_--I say, look here, this isn't +the sort of thing one discusses with a lady. + +LADY PEMBURY. Isn't it? But one can talk to a friend. + +STRANGER (scornfully). You and me look like friends, don't we? + +LADY PEMBURY (smiling). Well, we do, rather. + +(He gets up hastily and moves further away from her.) + +STRANGER. I know what _your_ game is. Don't think I don't see it. + +LADY PEMBURY. What is it? + +STRANGER. Falling on your knees, and saying with tears in your eyes: +"Oh, kind friend, spare me poor husband!" _I_ know the sort of thing. +And trying to work me up friendly before you begin. + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head). No, if I went on my knees to you, I +shouldn't say that. How can you hurt my husband now? + +STRANGER. Well, I don't suppose the scandal will do him much good. Not +an important Member of Parliament like _him_. + +LADY PEMBURY. Ah, but it isn't the outside things that really hurt +you, the things which are done to you, but the things which you do to +yourself. And so if I went on my knees to you, it would not be for my +husband's sake. For I should go on my knees, and I should say: "Oh, my +son that might have been, think before you give up everything that a +man should have. Ambition, hope, pride, self-respect--are not these +worth keeping? Is your life to end now? Have you done all that you +came into the world to do, so that now you can look back and say, 'It +is finished; I have given all that I had to give; henceforward I will +spend'?" (Very gently) Oh, my son that might have been! + +STRANGER (very uncomfortable). Here, I say, that isn't fair. + +LADY PEMBURY (gently). When did your mother die? + +STRANGER. Look here, I wish you wouldn't keep on about mothers. + +LADY PEMBURY. When did she die, proud mother? + +STRANGER (sulkily). Well, why shouldn't she be proud? (After a pause) +Two years ago, if you want to know. + +LADY PEMBURY. It was then that you found out who your father was? + +STRANGER. That's right. I found these old letters. She'd kept them +locked up all those years. Bit of luck for me. + +LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). And that was two years ago. And for +two years you had your hopes, your ambitions, for two years you were +proud and independent. . . . Why did you not come to us then? + +STRANGER (with a touch of vanity). Well, I was getting on all right, +you know--and---- + +LADY PEMBURY. And then suddenly, after two years, you lost hope. + +STRANGER. I lost my job. + +LADY PEMBURY. Poor boy! And couldn't get another. + +STRANGER (bitterly). It's a beast of a world if you're down. He's in +the gutter--kick him down--trample on him. Nobody wants him. That's +the way to treat them when they're down. Trample on 'em. + +LADY PEMBURY. And so you came to your father to help you up again. To +help you out of the gutter. + +STRANGER. That's right. + +LADY PEMBURY (pleadingly). Ah, but give him a chance! + +STRANGER. Now, look here, I've told you already that I'm not going to +have any of _that_ game. + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head sadly). Foolish boy! You don't +understand. Give him a chance to help you out of the gutter. + +STRANGER. Well, I'm----! Isn't that what I am doing? + +LADY PEMBURY. No, no. You're asking him to trample you right down into +it, deeper and deeper into the mud and slime. I want you to let him +help you back to where you were two years ago--when you were proud and +hopeful. + +STRANGER (looking at her in a puzzled way). I can't make out what your +game is. It's no good pretending you don't hate the sight of me--it +stands to reason you must. + +LADY PEMBURY (smiling). But then women _are_ unreasonable, aren't +they? And I think it is only in fairy-stories that stepmothers are +always so unkind. + +STRANGER (surprised). Stepmother! + +LADY PEMBURY. Well, that's practically what I am, isn't it? +(Whimsically) I've never been a stepmother before. (Persuasively) +Couldn't you let me be proud of my stepson? + +STRANGER. Well, you _are_ a one! . . . Do you mean to say that you and +your husband aren't going to have a row about this? + +LADY PEMBURY. It's rather late to begin a row, isn't it, thirty years +after it's happened? . . . Besides, perhaps you aren't going to tell him +anything about it. + +STRANGER. But what else have I come for except to tell him? + +LADY PEMBURY. To tell _me_. . . . I asked you to give him a chance of +helping you out of your troubles, but I'd rather you gave _me_ the +chance. . . . You see, John would be very unhappy if he knew that I knew +this; and he would have to tell me, because when a man has been +happily married to anybody for twenty-eight years, he can't really +keep a secret from the other one. He pretends to himself that he can, +but he knows all the time what a miserable pretence it is. And so John +would tell me, and say he was sorry, and I would say: "It's all right, +darling, I knew," but it would make him ashamed, and he would be +afraid that perhaps I wasn't thinking him such a wonderful man as I +did before. And it's very bad for a public man like John when he +begins to lose faith in what his wife is thinking about him. . . . So let +_me_ be your friend, will you? (There is a silence between them for a +little. He looks at her wonderingly. Suddenly she stands up, her +finger to her lips) H'sh! It's John. (She moves away from him) + +(SIR JOHN PEMBURY comes in quickly; big, good-looking, decisive, +friendly; a man who wears very naturally, and without any +self-consciousness, an air of being somebody.) + +PEMBURY (walking hastily past his wife to her writing-desk). Hallo, +darling! Did I leave a cheque-book in here? I was writing a cheque for +you this morning. Ah, here we are. (As he comes back, he sees THE +STRANGER) I beg your pardon, Kate. I didn't see---- (He is making for +the door with the cheque-book in his hand, and then stops and says +with a pleasant smile to THE STRANGER) But, perhaps you are waiting to +see _me_? Perkins said something---- + +STRANGER (coming forward). Yes, I came to see you, Sir John. + +(He stands close in front of SIR JOHN, looking at him. LADY PEMBURY +watches them steadfastly.) + +PEMBURY (tapping his cheque-book against his hand). Important? + +STRANGER. I came to ask your help. + +PEMBURY (looking at his cheque-book and then back with a smile at THE +STRANGER). A good many people do that. Have you any special claim on +me? + +STRANGER (after a long pause). No. + +(PEMBURY looks at him, undecided, LADY PEMBURY comes forward.) + +LADY PEMBURY. All right, dear. (Meaning that she will look after THE +STRANGER till he comes back.) + +PEMBURY. I'll be back in a moment. (He nods and hurries out) + +(There is silence for a little, and then LADY PEMBURY claps her hands +gently.) + +LADY PEMBURY (with shining eyes). Oh, brave, brave! Ah, but I am a +proud stepmother to-day. (She holds out her hand to him) Thank you, +son. + +STRANGER (not seeing it, and speaking in a hard voice). I'd better go. + +LADY PEMBURY. Mayn't I help you? + +STRANGER. I'd better go. + +LADY PEMBURY (distressed). You can't go like this. I don't even know +your name, nor where you live. + +STRANGER. Don't be afraid--you shan't hear from _me_ again. + +LADY PEMBURY (gently). Not even when you've got back to where you were +two years ago? Mayn't I then? + +STRANGER (looking at her, and then nodding slowly). Yes, you shall +then. + +LADY PEMBURY. Thank you. I shall wait. I shall hope. I shall pray. +(She holds out her hand again) Good-bye! + +STRANGER (shaking his head). Wait till you hear from me. (He goes to +the door, and then stops and comes slowly back. He says awkwardly) +Wish you'd do one thing for me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Yes? + +STRANGER. That fellow--what did you say his name was--Perkins? + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Perkins--yes? + +STRANGER. Would you give him a message from me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Of course. + +STRANGER (still awkwardly). Just to say--I'll _be_ there--at the +Mews--on Sunday afternoon. _He'll_ know. Tell him I'll be there. (He +squares his shoulders and walks out defiantly--ready to take the world +on again--beginning with PERKINS on Sunday afternoon) + +(LADY PEMBURY stands watching him as he goes. She waits after he has +gone, thinking her own thoughts, out of which she comes with something +of a shock as the door opens and SIR JOHN comes in.) + +PEMBURY. Hallo! Has he gone? + +LADY PEMBURY. Yes. + +PEMBURY. What did he want? Five pounds--or a place in the Cabinet? + +LADY PEMBURY. He came for--a subscription. + +PEMBURY. And got it, if I know my Kate. (Carelessly) What did he take +from you? + +LADY PEMBURY (with a wistful little sigh). Yes; he took something from +me. Not very much, I think. But just--something. (She takes his arm, +leads him to the sofa, and says affectionately) And now tell me all +that you've been doing this morning. + +(So he begins to tell her--just as he has told her a thousand times +before. . . . But it isn't quite the same) + + + + + +Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Plays, by A. A. Milne + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 14734-8.txt or 14734-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/7/3/14734/ + +Produced by Rick Niles, John Hagerson, Karen Cotton and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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A. Milne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Second Plays + +Author: A. A. Milne + +Release Date: January 19, 2005 [EBook #14734] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Rick Niles, John Hagerson, Karen Cotton and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<center> +<p><b><font size="+1">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</font></b></p> +</center> +<div align="center"> +<p>FIRST PLAYS</p> +<p>THE DAY'S PLAY</p> +<p>THE HOLIDAY ROUND</p> +<p>ONCE A WEEK</p> +<p>ONCE ON A TIME</p> +<p>NOT THAT IT MATTERS</p> +<p>IF I MAY</p> +<p>MR. PIM</p> +<p>THE SUNNY SIDE</p> +</div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h1>SECOND PLAYS</h1> +<p> </p> +<center> +<h3>by A.A. MILNE</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +</center> +<div align="center"> +<h5>New York</h5> +<h5>ALFRED A. KNOPF</h5> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h6><i>Printed in Great Britain by</i> R. & R. Clark, Limited, +<i>Edinburgh</i>.</h6> +</div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h6>TO</h6> +<center> +<h4>D.M.</h4> +<h5>SO LITTLE IN RETURN FOR SO MUCH</h5> +</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<div align="center"> +<p> </p> +<b>CONTENTS</b><br> +<br> +<a href="#RULE4_2">MAKE-BELIEVE</a><br> +<a href="#RULE4_4">MR. PIM PASSES BY</a><br> +<a href="#BOLD_3">THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE</a><br> +<a href="#RULE4_1">THE ROMANTIC AGE</a><br> +<a href="#RULE4_14">THE STEPMOTHER</a></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p>Encouraged by the reviewer who announced that the Introduction +to my previous collection of plays was the best part of the book, I +venture to introduce this collection in a similar manner. But I +shall be careful not to overdo it this time, in the hope that I may +win from my critic some such tribute as, "Mr. Milne has certainly +improved as a dramatist, in that his plays are now slightly better +than his Introduction."</p> +<p>Since, then, I am trying to make this preface as distasteful as +possible, in order that the plays may shine out the more +pleasantly, I shall begin (how better?) with an attack on the +dramatic critics. I will relate a little conversation which took +place, shortly after the publication of "First Plays," between +myself and a very much more eminent dramatist.</p> +<p>EMINENT DRAMATIST (<i>kindly</i>) Your book seems to have been +well reviewed.</p> +<p>MYSELF (<i>ungratefully</i>). Not bad—by those who +reviewed it. But I doubt if it was noticed by more than three +regular dramatic critics. And considering that two of the plays in +it had never been produced—</p> +<p>EMINENT DRAMATIST (<i>amused by my innocence</i>). My dear +fellow, <i>you</i> needn't complain. I published an unproduced play +a little while ago, and it didn't get a single notice from +anybody.</p> +<p>Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays +which follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be +disturbed by this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in +the theatre are accustomed to read, and sometimes to make, +ridiculous accusations against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn +the mercenary fellow because he will not risk a loss of two or +three thousand pounds on the intellectual masterpiece of a +promising young dramatist, preferring to put on some contemptible +but popular rubbish which is certain to fill his theatre. But now +we see that the dramatic critic, that stern upholder of the best +interests of the British Drama, will not himself risk six shillings +(and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in order to read the +intellectual masterpiece of the promising young dramatist, and so +to be able to tell us with authority whether the Manager really +<i>is</i> refusing masterpieces or no. He will not risk six +shillings in order to encourage that promising young +dramatist—discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his +hopes of fame and fortune—by telling him that he <i>is</i> +right, and that his plays are worth something, or (alternatively) +to prevent him from wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form +to which he is not suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but +he will write an important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) +article, informing us that the British Drama is going to the dogs, +and that no promising young dramatist is ever given a fair +chance.</p> +<p>Absurd, isn't it?</p> +<p>Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask +ourselves why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three +reasons—in their order of importance.</p> +<p>(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of +not writing. He gets this anyhow.</p> +<p>(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the +criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank, +<i>réclame</i>—call it what you will. But it is +obvious that he cannot have it unless the masterpiece is given to +the world, either by manager or publisher.</p> +<p>(3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if +produced, possibly a great deal.</p> +<p>As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest +with ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a +desert island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps +all of us; for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves, +our manuscripts—written on bark with a burnt +stick—clutched in a skeleton hand—might be recovered +later by some literary sea-captain. (As it might be, Conrad.) But +how many of us would write masterpieces if we had to burn them +immediately afterwards, or if we were alone upon the world, the +last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to write? Could we +bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we can admit this +much without reserve; it is the second reward which tears at us, +and, lacking it, we should lose courage.</p> +<p>So when the promising young dramatist has his play refused by +the Managers—after what weeks, months, years of hope and +fear, uncertainty and bitter disappointment—he has this great +consolation: "Anyway, I can always publish it." Perhaps, after a +dozen refusals, a Manager offers to put on his play, on condition +that he alters the obviously right (and unhappy) ending into the +obviously foolish, but happy, ending which will charm the public. +Does he, the artist, succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must +get his play before the public somehow, and that, even if it is not +<i>his</i> play now, yet the first two acts are as he wrote them, +and that, if only to feel the thrill of the audience at that great +scene between the Burglar and the Bishop (his creations!) he must +deaden his conscience to the absurdity of a happy ending. But does +he succumb? No. Heroically he tells himself: "Anyway, I can publish +it; and I'm certain that the critics will agree with me +that——" But the critics are too busy to bother about +him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is +going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets +a fair chance.</p> +<p>Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt +if any dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the +critics, the managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever +right I have I renounce, in return for the good things which I have +received from them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our +craft. I say that, in the case of all dramatists, it is the +business of the dramatic critics to review their unacted plays when +published. Some of them do; most of them do not. It is ridiculous +for those who do not to pretend that they take any real interest in +the British Drama. But I say "review," not "praise." Let them damn, +by all means, if the plays are unworthy; and, by damning, do so +much of justice to the Managers who refused them.</p> +<p>We can now pass on safely to the plays in this volume.</p> +<p>We begin with a children's play. The difficulty in the way of +writing a children's play is that Barrie was born too soon. Many +people must have felt the same about Shakespeare. We who came later +have no chance. What fun to have been Adam, and to have had the +whole world of plots and jokes and stories at one's disposal. +Possibly, however, one would never have thought of the things. Of +course, there are still others to come after us, but our works are +not immortal, and they will plagiarise us without protest. Yet I +have hopes of <i>Make-Believe</i>, for it had the honour of +inaugurating Mr. Nigel Playfair's management at the Lyric, +Hammersmith. It is possible that the historians will remember this, +long after they have forgotten my plays; more likely (alas!) that +their history will be dated A.D. (After Drinkwater) and that the +honour will be given to "Abraham Lincoln." I like to think that in +this event my ghost will haunt them. <i>Make-Believe</i> appeared +with a Prologue by the Manager, lyrics by C.E. Burton, and music by +Georges Dorlay. As the title-page states that this book is, in the +language of children's competitions, "my own unaided work," I print +the play with a new Prologue, and without the charming lyrics. But +the reader is told when he may burst into an improvisation of his +own, though I warn him that he will not make such a good show of it +as did my collaborators.</p> +<p><i>Mr. Pim Passes By</i> appeared at several theatres. Let us +admit cheerfully that it was a success—in spite of the +warning of an important gentleman in the theatrical world, who told +me, while I was writing it, that the public wouldn't stand any talk +of bigamy, and suggested that George and Olivia should be engaged +only, not married. (Hence the line, "Bigamy! . . . It <i>is</i> an +ugly word," in the Second Act.) But, of course, nobody sees more +clearly than I how largely its success was due to Mr. Dion +Boucicault and Miss Irene Vanbrugh.</p> +<p><i>The Romantic Age</i> appeared first at the Comedy, and (like +<i>Mr. Pim</i>) found, in its need, a home at The Playhouse. Miss +Gladys Cooper has a charming way of withdrawing into a nursing home +whenever I want a theatre, but I beg her not to make a habit of it. +My plays can be spared so much more easily than she. By the way, a +word about Melisande. Many of the critics said that nobody behaved +like that nowadays. I am terrified at the thought of arguing with +them, for they can always reduce me to blushes with a scornful, "My +dear man, you <i>can't</i> do that in a <i>play</i>!" And when they +tell me to remember what Strindberg said in '93 (if he were alive +then; I really don't know) or what Aristotle wrote in—no, I +shan't even guess at Aristotle, well, then, I want to burst into +tears, my ignorance is so profound. So, very humbly, I just say now +that, when Melisande talks and behaves in a certain way, I do not +mean that a particular girl exists (Miss Jones, of 999 Bedford +Park) who talks and behaves like this, but I do mean that there is +a type of girl who, in her heart, secretly, <i>thinks</i> like +this. If, from your great knowledge of the most secret places of a +young girl's heart, you tell me that there is no such type, then I +shall only smile. But if you inform me sternly that a dramatist has +no business to express an attitude in terms of an actress, then you +reduce me to blushes again. For I really know nothing about +play-writing, and I am only sustained by two beliefs. The first is +that rules are always made for the other people; the second is +that, if a play by me is not obviously by me, and as obviously not +by anybody else, then (obviously) I had no business to write +it.</p> +<p>Of the one-act plays, <i>The Camberley Triangle</i> and <i>The +Stepmother</i>, nothing much need be said. The former was played at +the Coliseum; the latter, written for Miss Winifred Emery, was +deemed by the management too serious for that place of amusement. +This, however, was to the great advantage of the play, for now it +has appeared only at Charity <i>matinées</i> with an +"all-star" cast.</p> +<p>As before, the plays are printed in the order in which they were +written; in this case between October 1918 and June 1920. May the +reader get as much enjoyment from them as I had in their writing. +But no; that is plainly impossible.</p> +<center>A.A. MILNE.</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_2"><!-- RULE4 2 --></a> +<h2>MAKE-BELIEVE</h2> +<center>A CHILDREN'S PLAY IN A PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS</center> +<p><i>Make-Believe</i> was first produced at the Lyric Theatre, +Hammersmith, on December 24, 1918. The chief parts were played by +Marjory Holman, Jean Cadell, Rosa Lynd, Betty Chester, Roy Lennol, +John Barclay, Kinsey Peile, Stanley Drewitt, Ivan Berlyn, and +Herbert Marshall—several parts each.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>MAKE-BELIEVE</h2> +<p> </p> +<h3>PROLOGUE</h3> +<p><i>The playroom of the</i> HUBBARD FAMILY—<i>nine of them. +Counting</i> MR. <i>and</i> MRS. HUBBARD, <i>we realize that there +are eleven</i> HUBBARDS <i>in all, and you would think that one at +least of the two people we see in the room would be a</i> HUBBARD +<i>of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is</i> JAMES, <i>the</i> +HUBBARDS' <i>butler, for the</i> HUBBARDS <i>are able to afford a +butler now. How different from the time when Old Mother +Hubbard—called "old" because she was at least twenty-two, and +"mother" because she had a passion for children—could not +even find a bone for her faithful terrier; but, of course, that was +before</i> HENRY <i>went into work. Well, the tall figure is</i> +JAMES, <i>the butler, and the little one is</i> ROSEMARY, <i>a +friend of the</i> HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY <i>is going in for +literature this afternoon, as it's raining, and</i> JAMES <i>is +making her quite comfortable first with pens and ink and +blotting-paper—always so important when one wants to write. +He has even thought of a stick of violet sealing-wax; after that +there can be no excuse</i>.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (<i>She sits down</i>.) If any one +calls I am not at home.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my +auto—autobiography.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James?</p> +<p>JAMES. I believe so, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you. (<i>He goes to the door</i>.) Oh, +James?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss?</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. What <i>is</i> an autobiography?</p> +<p>JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss—not to explain +it properly.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>dismayed</i>). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew +everything.</p> +<p>JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and +then——</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead? +Very easy work, they tell me.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>nodding</i>). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a +play. Thank you, James.</p> +<p>JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(ROSEMARY <i>bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the +inspiration comes</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>as she writes</i>). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen +B-e-l—— (<i>she stops and frowns</i>) Now which way +<i>is</i> it? (<i>She tries it on the blotting-paper) That</i> +looks wrong. (<i>She tries it again</i>) So does that. Oh, dear! +(<i>She rings the bell</i> . . . JAMES <i>returns</i>.)</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss?</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play +Make-Believe.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>carelessly</i>). When you spell "believe," it is +"i-e," isn't it?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i."</p> +<p>JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>reproachfully</i>). Oh, James! Aren't you +certain?</p> +<p>JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l—— (<i>He stops and +scratches his whiskers</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Yes. <i>I</i> got as far as that.</p> +<p>JAMES. B-e-l——</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an +accident to the very first word of it.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l——I've noticed sometimes that +if one writes a word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then +looks at it with the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct +comes over one, as makes one say (<i>with a shake of the head</i>) +"Rotten." One can then write it the other way more hopeful.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. I've tried that.</p> +<p>JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name +altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy +words to spell, or "Red Revenge," or——</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. I <i>must</i> call it Make-Believe, because it's all +of the play I've thought of so far.</p> +<p>JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on +purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Does it?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which <i>is</i> the wrong way?</p> +<p>JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>inspired</i>). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it +"i-e"; and if it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then +I'm funny.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you, James.</p> +<p>JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>writing</i>). Make-Believe. A Christmas +Entertainment—— (<i>She stops and thinks, and then +shakes her head</i>.) No, play—a Christmas Play in three +acts. Er—— (<i>She is stuck</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> JAMES.</p> +<p>JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are +without, and crave admittance.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. All nine of them?</p> +<p>JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the +majority of them were present.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home?</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and +you being a visitor, if you <i>had</i> been at home, then you +wouldn't have been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram, +Miss.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting when you're writing a play.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more +the merrier, as you might say.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them.</p> +<p>JAMES. Yes, Miss. (<i>He opens the door and says very +rapidly</i>) The Misses Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and +Isabel Hubbard, The Masters Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold +Hubbard. (<i>They come in</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. How do you do?</p> +<p>ADA. Rosemary, darling, what <i>are</i> you doing?</p> +<p>BERTRAM. It's like your cheek, bagging our room.</p> +<p>CAROLINE (<i>primly</i>). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be +polite to our visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if +Rosemary wants our room——</p> +<p>DENNIS. Oh, chuck it!</p> +<p>ADA (<i>at</i> ROSEMARY'S <i>shoulder</i>). Oh, I say, she's +writing a play!</p> +<p>(<i>Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at</i> ROSEMARY.)</p> +<p>{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What's it about? Bet +it's awful rot. }</p> +<p>{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am <i>I</i> in it? Do tell us about +it. Is it for Christmas? }</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>in alarm</i>). James, could you——?</p> +<p>JAMES (<i>firmly</i>). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis, +down! Miss Gwendoline, if you wouldn't mind—— (<i>He +picks her up and places her on the floor</i>.) Thank you. (<i>Order +is restored</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. . . . Yes, it's a play for +Christmas, and it is called "Make-Believe," and that's all I'm +certain about yet, except that we're all going to be in it.</p> +<p>BERTRAM. Then I vote we have a desert island——</p> +<p>DENNIS. And pirates——</p> +<p>FRANK. And cannibals——</p> +<p>HAROLD (<i>gloatingly</i>). Cannibals eating +people—Oo!</p> +<p>CAROLINE (<i>shocked</i>). Harold! How would <i>you</i> like to +be eaten by a cannibal?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! How would <i>you</i> like to be a cannibal +and have nobody to eat? (CAROLINE <i>is silent, never having +thought of this before</i>.)</p> +<p>ADA. Let it be a fairy-story, Rosemary, darling. It's so much +<i>prettier</i>.</p> +<p>ELSIE. With a lovely princess——</p> +<p>GWENDOLINE. And a humble woodcutter who marries +her——</p> +<p>ISABEL (<i>her only contribution</i>). P'itty P'incess.</p> +<p>BERTRAM. Princesses are rot.</p> +<p>ELSIE (<i>with spirit</i>). So are pirates! +(<i>Deadlock</i>.)</p> +<p>CAROLINE. <i>I</i> should like something about Father Christmas, +and snow, and waits, and a lovely ball, and everybody getting nice +presents and things.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>selfishly, I'm afraid</i>). Bags I all the +presents.</p> +<p>(<i>Of course, the others aren't going to have that. They all +say so together</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>above the turmoil</i>). James, I <i>must</i> have +silence.</p> +<p>JAMES. Silence, all!</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Thank you. . . . You will be interested to hear that I +have decided to have a Fairy Story <i>and</i> a Desert Island +<i>and</i> a Father Christmas.</p> +<p>ALL. Good! (<i>Or words to that effect</i>)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>biting her pen</i>). I shall begin with the Fairy +Story. (<i>There is an anxious silence. None of them has ever seen +anybody writing a play before. How does one do it? Alas</i>, +ROSEMARY <i>herself doesn't know. She appeals to</i> JAMES.) James, +how <i>do</i> you begin a play? I mean when you've <i>got</i> the +title.</p> +<p>JAMES (<i>a man of genius</i>). Well, Miss Rosemary, seeing that +it's to be called "Make-Believe," why not make-believe as it's +written already?</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James!</p> +<p>JAMES. All that is necessary is for the company to think very +hard of what they want, and—there we are! Saves all the +bother of writing and spelling and what not.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY (<i>admiringly</i>.) James, how clever you are!</p> +<p>JAMES. So-so, Miss Rosemary.</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Now then, let's all think together. Are you all +ready?</p> +<p>ALL. Yes! (<i>They clench their hands</i>.)</p> +<p>ROSEMARY. Then one, two, three—Go!</p> +<p>(<i>They think. . . . The truth is that</i> JAMES, <i>who wasn't +really meant to be in it, thinks too. If there is anything in the +play which you don't like, it is</i> JAMES <i>thinking</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3><b><font size="+1">ACT I</font>.—THE PRINCESS AND THE +WOODCUTTER</b></h3> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>is discovered singing at his work, in +a glade of the forest outside his hut. He is tall and strong, and +brave and handsome; all that a woodcutter ought to be. Now it +happened that the</i> PRINCESS <i>was passing, and as soon as his +song is finished, sure enough, on she comes</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Good morning, Woodcutter.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Good morning. (<i>But he goes on with his +work</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>after a pause</i>). Good morning, Woodcutter.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Good morning.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Don't you ever say anything except good morning?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Sometimes I say good-bye.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. You <i>are</i> a cross woodcutter to-day.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I have work to do.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. You are still cutting wood? Don't you ever do anything +else?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Well, you are still a Princess; don't <i>you</i> +ever do anything else?</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>reproachfully</i>). Now, that's not fair, +Woodcutter. You can't say I was a Princess yesterday, when I came +and helped you stack your wood. Or the day before, when I tied up +your hand where you had cut it. Or the day before that, when we had +our meal together on the grass. Was I a Princess then?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Somehow I think you were. Somehow I think you were +saying to yourself, "Isn't it sweet of a Princess to treat a mere +woodcutter like this?"</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I think you're perfectly horrid. I've a good mind +never to speak to you again. And—and I would, if only I could +be sure that you would notice I wasn't speaking to you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. After all, I'm just as bad as you. Only yesterday I +was thinking to myself how unselfish I was to interrupt my work in +order to talk to a mere Princess.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes, but the trouble is that you <i>don't</i> +interrupt your work.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>interrupting it and going up to her with a +smile</i>). Madam, I am at your service.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I wish I thought you were.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Surely you have enough people at your service +already. Princes and Chancellors and Chamberlains and Waiting +Maids.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes, that's just it. That's why I want your help. +Particularly in the matter of the Princes.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Why, has a suitor come for the hand of her Royal +Highness?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Three suitors. And I hate them all.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. And which are you going to marry?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I don't know. Father hasn't made up his mind yet.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. And this is a matter which father—which His +Majesty decides for himself?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Why, of course! You should read the History Books, +Woodcutter. The suitors to the hand of a Princess are always set +some trial of strength or test of quality by the King, and the +winner marries his daughter.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Well, I don't live in a Palace, and I think my own +thoughts about these things. I'd better get back to my work. (He +<i>goes on with his chopping</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>gently, after a pause</i>). Woodcutter!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>looking up</i>). Oh, are you there? I thought you +were married by this time.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>meekly</i>). I don't want to be married. +(<i>Hastily</i>) I mean, not to any of those three.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. You can't help yourself.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I know. That's why I wanted <i>you</i> to help me.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>going up to her</i>). Can a simple woodcutter +help a Princess?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, perhaps a simple one couldn't, but a clever one +might.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What would his reward be?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. His reward would be that the Princess, not being +married to any of her three suitors, would still be able to help +him chop his wood in the mornings. . . . I <i>am</i> helping you, +aren't I?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>smiling</i>). Oh, decidedly.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>nodding</i>). I thought I was.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. It is kind of a great lady like yourself to help so +humble a fellow as I.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>meekly</i>). I'm not <i>very</i> great. (<i>And she +isn't. She is the smallest, daintiest little Princess that ever you +saw</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. There's enough of you to make a hundred men +unhappy.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. And one man happy?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. And one man very, very happy.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>innocently</i>). I wonder who he'll be. . . . +Woodcutter, if <i>you</i> were a Prince, would you be my +suitor?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>scornfully</i>). One of three?</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>excitedly</i>). Oo, would you kill the others? With +that axe?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I would not kill them, in order to help His Majesty +make up his mind about his son-in-law. But if the Princess had made +up her mind—and wanted me——</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Then I would marry her, however many suitors she +had.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, she's only got three at present.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What is that to me?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Oh, I just thought you might want to be doing +something to your axe.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. My axe?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Yes. You see, she <i>has</i> made up her mind.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>amazed</i>). You mean—But—but I'm +only a woodcutter.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. That's where you'll have the advantage of them, when +it comes to axes.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Princess! (<i>He takes her in his arms</i>) My +Princess!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Woodcutter! My woodcutter! My, oh so very slow and +uncomprehending, but entirely adorable woodcutter!</p> +<p>(<i>They sing together. They just happen to feel like +that</i>)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>the song finished</i>). But what will His Majesty +say?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. All sorts of things. . . . Do you really love me, +woodcutter, or have I proposed to you under a misapprehension?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I adore you!</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>nodding</i>). I thought you did. But I wanted to +hear you say it. If I had been a simple peasant, I suppose you +would have said it a long time ago?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I expect so.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>nodding</i>). Yes. . . . Well, now we must think of +a plan for making Mother like you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Might I just kiss you again before we begin?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, I don't quite see how I am to stop you.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>picks her up in his arms and kisses +her</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. There!</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>in his arms</i>). Oh, Woodcutter, woodcutter, why +didn't you do that the first day I saw you? Then I needn't have had +the bother of proposing to you. (<i>He puts her down suddenly</i>) +What is it?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>listening</i>). Somebody coming. (<i>He peers +through the trees and then says in surprise</i>) The King!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Oh! I must fly!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. But you'll come back?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Perhaps.</p> +<p>[<i>She disappears quickly through the trees</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>goes on with his work and is +discovered at it a minute later by the</i> KING <i>and</i> +QUEEN.)</p> +<p>KING (<i>puffing</i>). Ah! and a seat all ready for us. How +satisfying. (<i>They sit down, a distinguished couple—reading +from left to right,</i> "KING, QUEEN"—<i>on a bench outside +the</i> WOODCUTTER'S <i>hut</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>crossly—she was like that</i>). I don't know why +you dragged me here.</p> +<p>KING. As I told you, my love, to be alone.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Well, you aren't alone. (<i>She indicates the</i> +WOODCUTTER.)</p> +<p>KING. Pooh, he doesn't matter. . . . Well now, about these three +Princes. They are getting on my mind rather. It is time we decided +which one of them is to marry our beloved child. The trouble is to +choose between them.</p> +<p>QUEEN. As regards appetite, there is nothing to choose between +them. They are three of the heartiest eaters I have met for some +time.</p> +<p>KING. You are right. The sooner we choose one of them, and send +the other two about their business, the better. +(<i>Reflectively</i>) There were six peaches on the breakfast-table +this morning. Did I get one? No.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Did <i>I</i> get one? No.</p> +<p>KING. Did our darling child get one—not that it matters? +No.</p> +<p>QUEEN. It is a pity that the seven-headed bull died last +year.</p> +<p>KING. Yes, he had a way of sorting out competitors for the hand +of our beloved one that was beyond all praise. One could have felt +quite sure that, had the three competitors been introduced to him, +only one of them would have taken any further interest in the +matter.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>always the housekeeper</i>). And even he mightn't have +taken any interest in his meals.</p> +<p>KING (<i>with a sigh</i>). However, those days are over. We must +think of a new test. Somehow I think that, in a son-in-law, moral +worth is even more to be desired than mere brute strength. Now my +suggestion is this: that you should disguise yourself as a beggar +woman and approach each of the three princes in turn, supplicating +their charity. In this way we shall discover which of the three has +the kindest heart. What do you say, my dear?</p> +<p>QUEEN. An excellent plan. If you remember, I suggested it myself +yesterday.</p> +<p>KING (<i>annoyed</i>). Well, of course, it had been in my mind +for some time. I don't claim that the idea is original; it has +often been done in our family. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well then, if +you will get ready, my dear, I will go and find our three friends +and see that they come this way. [<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>As soon as they are out of sight the</i> PRINCESS <i>comes +back</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, Woodcutter, what did I tell you?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What did you tell me?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Didn't you listen to what they said?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I didn't listen, but I couldn't help hearing.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Well, <i>I</i> couldn't help listening. And unless you +stop it somehow, I shall be married to one of them to-night.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Which one?</p> +<p>PRINCESS. The one with the kindest heart—whichever that +is.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Supposing they all three have kind hearts?</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>confidently</i>). They won't. They never have. In +our circles when three Princes come together, one of them has a +kind heart and the other two haven't. (<i>Surprised</i>) Haven't +you read any History at all?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I have no time for reading. But I think it's time +History was altered a little. We'll alter it this afternoon.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. What do you mean?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Leave this to me. I've got an idea.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>clapping her hands</i>). Oh, how clever of you! But +what do you want me to do?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>pointing</i>). You know the glade over there +where the brook runs through it? Wait for me there.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I obey my lord's commands.</p> +<p>[<i>She blows him a kiss and runs off</i></p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>resumes his work. By and by the</i> +RED PRINCE <i>comes along. He is a—well, you will see for +yourself what he is like</i>.)</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Ah, fellow. . . . Fellow! . . . I said fellow! +(<i>Yes, that sort of man.)</i></p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>looking up</i>.) Were you speaking to me, my +lord?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. There is no other fellow here that I can see.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>looks round to make sure, peers behind +a tree or two, and comes back to the</i> PRINCE.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Yes, you must have meant me.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Yes, of course I meant you, fellow. Have you seen +the Princess come past this way? I was told she was waiting for me +here.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. She is not here, my lord. (<i>Looking round to see +that they are alone</i>) My lord, are you one of the Princes who is +seeking the hand of the Princess.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>complacently</i>). I am, fellow.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. His Majesty the King was here a while ago. He is to +make his decision between you this afternoon. (<i>Meaningly</i>) I +think I can help you to be the lucky one, my lord.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. You suggest that I take an unfair advantage over my +fellow-competitors?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I suggest nothing, my lord. I only say that I can +help you.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>magnanimously</i>). Well, I will allow you to +help me.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Thank you. Then I will give you this advice. If a +beggar woman asks you for a crust of bread this afternoon, +remember—it is the test!</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>staggered</i>). The test! But I haven't +<i>got</i> a crust of bread!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Wait here and I will get you one.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes into the hut</i>)</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>speaking after him as he goes</i>). My good +fellow, I am extremely obliged to you, and if ever I can do +anything for you, such as returning a crust to you of similar size, +or even lending you another slightly smaller one, or—— +(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>comes back with the</i> <i>crust</i>.) +Ah, thank you, my man, thank you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I would suggest, my lord, that you should take a +short walk in this direction (<i>pointing to the opposite direction +to that which the</i> PRINCESS <i>has taken</i>), and stroll back +casually in a few minutes' time when the Queen is here.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Thank you, my man, thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He puts the crust in his pocket and goes off</i>.) +(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>goes on with his work. The</i> BLUE +PRINCE <i>comes in and stands watching him in silence for some +moments</i>.) WOODCUTTER (<i>looking up</i>). Hullo!</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Hullo!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. What do you want?</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. The Princess.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. She's not here.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Oh!</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>goes on with his work and the</i> +PRINCE <i>goes on looking at him</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>struck with an idea</i>). Are you one of the +Princes who is wooing the Princess?</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Yes.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>coming towards him</i>). I believe I could help +your Royal Highness.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Do.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>doubtfully</i>). It would perhaps be not Quite +fair to the others.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Don't mind.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Well then, listen. (<i>He pauses a moment and looks +round to see that they are alone</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. I'm listening.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. If you come back in five minutes, you will see a +beggar woman sitting here. She will ask you for a crust of bread. +You must give it to her, for it is the way His Majesty has chosen +of testing your kindness of heart.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE (<i>feeling in his pockets</i>). No bread.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. I will give you some.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Do.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>taking a piece from his pocket</i>). Here you +are.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Thanks.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Not at all, I'm very glad to have been able to help +you.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes on with his work. The</i> BLUE PRINCE <i>remains +looking at him</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE (<i>with a great effort</i>). Thanks.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes slowly away. A moment later the</i> YELLOW PRINCE +<i>makes a graceful and languid entry</i>.)</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, come hither, my man, come hither.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>stopping his work and looking up</i>). You want +me, sir?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Come hither, my man. Tell me, has her Royal +Highness the Princess passed this way lately?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. The Princess?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, the Princess, my bumpkin. But perhaps you +have been too much concerned in your own earthy affairs to have +noticed her. You—ah—cut wood, I see.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Yes, sir, I am a woodcutter.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. A most absorbing life. Some day we must have a +long talk about it. But just now I have other business waiting for +me. With your permission, good friend, I will leave you to your +faggots. (<i>He starts to go</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Beg your pardon, sir, but are you one of those +Princes that want to marry our Princess?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. I had hoped, good friend, to obtain your +permission to do so. I beg you not to refuse it.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. You are making fun of me, sir.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Discerning creature.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. All the same, I <i>can</i> help you.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Then pray do so, log-chopper, and earn my +everlasting gratitude.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. The King has decided that whichever of you three +Princes has the kindest heart shall marry his daughter.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Then you will be able to bear witness to him that +I have already wasted several minutes of my valuable time in +condescending to a mere faggot-splitter. Tell him this and the +prize is mine. (<i>Kissing the tips of his fingers</i>) Princess, I +embrace you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. The King will not listen to me. But if you return +here in five minutes, you will find an old woman begging for bread. +It is the test which their Majesties have arranged for you. If you +share your last crust with her—</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, but do I look as if I carried a last crust +about with me?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. But see, I will give you one.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE (<i>taking it between the tips of his +fingers</i>). Yes, but—</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Put it in your pocket, and when—</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. But, my dear bark-scraper, have you no feeling +for clothes at all? How can I put a thing like this in my pocket? +(<i>Handing it back to him</i>) I beg you to wrap it up. Here take +this. (<i>Gives him a scarf</i>) Neatly, I pray you. (<i>Taking an +orange ribbon out of his pocket</i>) Perhaps a little of this round +it would make it more tolerable. You think so? I leave it to you. I +trust your taste entirely. . . . Leaving a loop for the little +finger, I entreat you . . . so. (<i>He hangs it on his little +finger</i>) In about five minutes, you said? We will be there. +(<i>With a bow</i>) We thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He departs delicately. The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>smiles to +himself, puts down his axe and goes off to the</i> PRINCESS. <i>And +just in time. For behold! the</i> KING <i>and</i> QUEEN <i>return. +At least we think it is the</i> QUEEN, <i>but she is so heavily +disguised by a cloak which she wears over her court dress, that for +a moment we are not quite sure</i>.)</p> +<p>KING. Now then, my love, if you will sit down on that log +there—(<i>placing her</i>)—excellent—I think +perhaps you should remove the crown. (<i>Removes it</i>) There! Now +the disguise is perfect.</p> +<p>QUEEN. You're sure they are coming? It's a very uncomfortable +seat.</p> +<p>KING. I told them that the Princess was waiting for them here. +Their natural disappointment at finding I was mistaken will make +the test of their good nature an even more exacting one. My own +impression is that the Yellow Prince will be the victor.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Oh, I hate that man.</p> +<p>KING (<i>soothingly</i>). Well, well, perhaps it will be the +Blue one.</p> +<p>QUEEN. If anything, I dislike him <i>more</i> intensely.</p> +<p>KING. Or even the Red.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Ugh! I can't bear him.</p> +<p>KING. Fortunately, dear, you are not called upon to marry any of +them. It is for our darling that we are making the great decision. +Listen! I hear one coming. I will hide in the cottage and take note +of what happens.</p> +<p>(<i>He disappears into the cottage as the</i> BLUE PRINCE +<i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN. Oh, sir, can you kindly spare a crust of bread for a poor +old woman! Please, pretty gentleman!</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE (<i>standing stolidly in front of her and feeling in +his pocket</i>). Bread . . . Bread . . . Ah! Bread! (<i>He offers +it</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN. Oh, thank you, sir. May you be rewarded for your gentle +heart.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He stands gazing at her. There is an awkward pause</i>.)</p> +<p>QUEEN. A blessing on you, sir.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. (<i>He indicates the crust</i>) +Bread.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Ah, you have saved the life of a poor old +woman——</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Eat it.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>embarrassed</i>). +I—er—you—er——(<i>She takes a bite and +mumbles something</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. What?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>swallowing with great difficulty</i>). I'm almost too +happy to eat, sir. Leave a poor old woman alone with her happiness, +and——</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Not too happy. Too weak. Help you eat. (<i>He +breaks off a piece and holds it to her mouth. With a great effort +the</i> QUEEN <i>disposes of it</i>.) Good! . . . Again! (<i>She +does it again</i>.) Now! (<i>She swallows another piece</i>.) Last +piece! (<i>She takes it in. He pats her kindly on the back, and she +nearly chokes</i>.) Good. . . . Better now?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>weakly</i>). Much.</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Good day.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with an effort</i>). Good day, kind gentleman.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> KING <i>is just coming from the cottage, when he +returns suddenly. The</i> KING <i>slips back again</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUE PRINCE. Small piece left over. (<i>He gives it to her. She +looks hopelessly at him</i>.) Good-bye.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes</i>.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>throwing the piece down violently</i>). Ugh! What a +man!</p> +<p>KING (<i>coming out</i>). Well, well, my dear, we have +discovered the winner.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>from the heart</i>). Detestable person!</p> +<p>KING. The rest of the competition is of course more in the +nature of a formality—</p> +<p>QUEEN. Thank goodness.</p> +<p>KING. However, I think that it will prevent unnecessary +discussion afterwards if we—Take care, here is another one. +(<i>He hurries back</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Enter the</i> RED PRINCE.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with not nearly so much conviction</i>). Could you +spare a crust of bread, sir, for a poor hungry old woman?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. A crust of bread, madam? Certainly. As luck will +have it, I have a crust on me. My last one, but—your need is +greater than mine. Eat, I pray.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Not at all. Come, eat. Let me have the pleasure of +seeing you eating.</p> +<p>QUEEN. M-might I take it home with me, pretty gentleman?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE (<i>firmly</i>). No, no. I must see you eating. Come! +I will take no denial.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. (<i>Hopefully</i>) Won't you share it +with me?</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. No, I insist on your having it all. I am in the mood +to be generous. Oblige me by eating it now for I am in a hurry; yet +I will not go until you have eaten. (<i>She does her best</i>.) You +eat but slowly. (<i>Sternly</i>) Did you deceive me when you said +you were hungry?</p> +<p>QUEEN. N-no. I'm very hungry. (<i>She eats</i>)</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. That's better. Now understand—however poor I +am, I can always find a crust of bread for an old woman. Always! +Remember this when next you are hungry. . . . You spoke? (<i>She +shakes her head and goes on eating</i>.) Finished?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with great difficulty</i>). Yes, thank you, pretty +gentleman.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. There's a piece on the ground there that you +dropped. (<i>She eats it in dumb agony</i>) Finished?</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>huskily</i>). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman.</p> +<p>RED PRINCE. Then I will leave you, madam. Good morning.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> QUEEN <i>rises in fury. The</i> KING <i>is about +to</i> <i>come out of the cottage, when the</i> YELLOW PRINCE +<i>enters. The</i> QUEEN <i>sits down again and</i> <i>mumbles +something. It is certainly not an</i> <i>appeal for bread, but +the</i> YELLOW PRINCE <i>is not</i> <i>to be denied</i>.)</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE (<i>gallantly</i>). My poor woman, you are in +distress. It pains me to see it, madam, it pains me terribly. Can +it be that you are hungry? I thought so, I thought so. Give me the +great pleasure, madam, of relieving your hunger. See (<i>holding up +his finger</i>), my own poor meal. Take it! It is yours.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>with difficulty</i>). I am not hungry.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, madam, I see what it is. You do not wish to +deprive me. You tell yourself, perchance, that it is not fitting +that one in your station of life should partake of the meals of the +highly born. You are not used, you say, to the food of Princes. +Your rougher palate——</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>hopefully</i>). Did you say food of princes?</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Where was I, madam? You interrupted me. No +matter—eat. (<i>She takes the scarf and unties the +ribbon</i>.) Ah, now I remember. I was saying that your rougher +palate——</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>discovering the worst</i>). No! No! Not bread!</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. Bread, madam, the staff of life. Come, madam, +will you not eat? (<i>She tries desperately</i>.) What can be more +delightful than a crust of bread by the wayside?</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> QUEEN <i>shrieks and falls back in a swoon. The</i> +KING <i>rushes out to her</i>.)</p> +<p>KING (<i>to</i> YELLOW PRINCE). Quick, quick, find the +Princess.</p> +<p>YELLOW PRINCE. The Princess—find the Princess! (<i>He goes +vaguely off and we shall not see him again. But the</i> WOODCUTTER +<i>and the</i> PRINCESS <i>do not need to be found. They are +here</i>.)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>to</i> PRINCESS). Go to her, but don't show that +you know me.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes into the cottage, and the</i> PRINCESS <i>hastens to +her father</i>.)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Father!</p> +<p>KING. Ah, my dear, you're just in time. Your +mother——</p> +<p>PRINCESS. My mother?</p> +<p>KING. Yes, yes. A little plan of mine—of hers—your +poor mother. Dear, dear!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. But what's the matter?</p> +<p>KING. She is suffering from a surfeit of bread, +and——</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> WOODCUTTER <i>comes up with a flagon of +wine</i>)</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Poor old woman! She has fainted from exhaustion. Let +me give her some——</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>shrieking</i>). No, no, not bread! I will <i>not</i> +have any more bread.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Drink this, my poor woman.</p> +<p>QUEEN (<i>opening her eyes</i>). Did you say drink? (<i>She +seizes the flagon and drinks</i>)</p> +<p>PRINCESS. Oh, sir, you have saved my mother's life!</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER. Not at all.</p> +<p>KING. I thank you, my man, I thank you.</p> +<p>QUEEN. My deliverer! Tell me who you are!</p> +<p>PRINCESS. It is my mother, the Queen, who asks you.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>amazed, as well he may be</i>). The Queen!</p> +<p>KING. Yes, yes. Certainly, the Queen.</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>taking off his hat</i>). Pardon, your Majesty. I +am a woodcutter, who lives alone here, far away from courts.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Well, you've got more sense in your head than any of the +Princes that <i>I've</i> seen lately. You'd better come to +court.</p> +<p>PRINCESS (<i>shyly</i>). You will be very welcome, sir.</p> +<p>QUEEN. And you'd better marry the Princess.</p> +<p>KING. Isn't that perhaps going a <i>little</i> too far, +dear?</p> +<p>QUEEN. Well, you wanted kindness of heart in your son-in-law, +and you've got it. And he's got common sense too. (<i>To</i> +WOODCUTTER) Tell me, what do you think of bread as—as a form +of nourishment?</p> +<p>WOODCUTTER (<i>cautiously</i>). One can have too much of it.</p> +<p>QUEEN. Exactly my view. (<i>To</i> KING) There you are, you +see.</p> +<p>KING. Well, if you insist. The great thing, of course, is that +our darling child should be happy.</p> +<p>PRINCESS. I will do my best, father. (<i>She takes the</i> +WOODCUTTER'S <i>hand</i>.)</p> +<p>KING. Then the marriage will take place this evening. (<i>With a +wave of his wand</i>) Let the revels begin.</p> +<p>(<i>They begin</i>)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3><font size="+1">ACT II</font>.—OLIVER'S ISLAND</h3> +<h4>SCENE I.—<i>The Schoolroom</i> (<i>Ugh!</i>)</h4> +<p>OLIVER <i>is discovered lying flat on his</i>—<i>well, +lying flat on</i> <i>the floor, deep in a book. The</i> CURATE +<i>puts his head in at the door</i>.</p> +<p>CURATE. Ah, our young friend, Oliver! And how are we this +morning, dear lad?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>mumbling</i>). All right, thanks.</p> +<p>CURATE. That's well, that's well. Deep in our studies, I see, +deep in our studies. And what branch of Knowledge are we pursuing +this morning?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>without looking up</i>). "Marooned in the Pacific," +or "The Pirate's Bride."</p> +<p>CURATE. Dear, dear, what will Miss Pinniger say to this +interruption of our studies?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Silly old beast.</p> +<p>CURATE. Tut-tut, dear lad, that is not the way to speak of our +mentors and preceptors. So refined and intelligent a lady as Miss +Pinniger. Indeed I came here to see her this morning on a little +matter of embroidered vestments. Where is she, dear lad?</p> +<p>OLIVER. It isn't nine yet.</p> +<p>CURATE (<i>looking at his watch</i>). Past nine, past nine.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>jumping up</i>). Je-hoshaphat!</p> +<p>CURATE. Oliver! Oliver! My dear lad! Swearing at <i>your</i> +age! Really, I almost feel it my duty to inform your +aunt——</p> +<p>OLIVER. Fat lot of swearing in just mentioning one of the Kings +of Israel.</p> +<p>CURATE. Of Judah, dear boy, of Judah. To be ignorant on such a +vital matter makes it even more reprehensible. I cannot believe +that our dear Miss Pinniger has so neglected your education +that——</p> +<p><i>Enter our dear</i> MISS PINNIGER, <i>the Governess</i>.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Ah, Mr. Smilax; how pleasant to see you!</p> +<p>CURATE. My dear Miss Pinniger! You will forgive me for +interrupting you in your labours, but there is a small matter +of—ah!——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Certainly, Mr. Smilax. I will walk down to the gate +with you. Oliver, where is Geraldine?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Aunt Jane wanted her.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Well, you should be at your lessons. It's nine +o'clock. The fact that I am momentarily absent from the room should +make no difference to your zeal.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>without conviction</i>). No, Miss Pinniger. (<i>He +sits down at his desk, putting "Marooned in the Pacific" inside +it</i>.)</p> +<p>CURATE (<i>playfully</i>). For men must work, Oliver, men must +work. How doth the little busy bee—Yes, Miss Pinniger, I am +with you. [<i>They go out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>opening his poetry book and saying it to +himself</i>). It was a summer evening—It was a summer +evening—(<i>He stops, refers to the book, and then goes on to +himself</i>) Old Kaspar's work was done. It was a summer evening, +Old Kaspar's work was done——</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> GERALDINE—<i>or</i> JILL.</p> +<p>JILL. Where's Pin?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Hallo, Jill. Gone off with Dearly Belovéd. Her +momentary absence from the room should make no difference to your +zeal, my dear Geraldine. And what are we studying this morning, +dear child? (<i>To himself</i>) It was a summer evening, Old +Kaspar's work was done.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>giggling</i>). Is that Pin?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Pin and Dearly Belovéd between them. She's a bit +batey this morning.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>at her desk</i>). And all my sums have done themselves +wrong. (<i>Hard at it with paper and pencil</i>) What's nine times +seven, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Fifty-six. Old Kaspar's work was done. Jolly well wish +mine was. And he before his cottage door. Fat lot of good my +learning this stuff if I'm going to be a sailor. I bet Beatty +didn't mind what happened to rotten old Kaspar when he saw a German +submarine.</p> +<p>JILL. Six and carry five. Aunt Jane has sent for the doctor to +look at my chest.</p> +<p>OLIVER. What's the matter with your chest?</p> +<p>JILL. I blew my nose rather loud at prayers this morning.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I say, Jill, you <i>are</i> going it!</p> +<p>JILL. It wasn't my fault, Oliver. Aunt Jane turned over two +pages at once and made me laugh, so I had to turn it into a +blow.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Bet you what you like she knew.</p> +<p>JILL. Of course she did, and she'll tell the doctor, and he'll +be as beastly as he can. What did she say to you for being +late?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I said somebody had bagged my sponge, and she wouldn't +like me to come down to prayers all unsponged, and she said, +"Excuses, Oliver, <i>always</i> excuses! Leave me. I will see you +later." Suppose that means I've got to go to bed this afternoon. +Jill, if I do, be sporty and bring me up "Marooned in the +Pacific."</p> +<p>JILL. They'll lock the door. They always do.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Then I shall jolly well go up for a handkerchief this +morning, and shove it in the bed, just in case. +Cavé—here's Pin.</p> +<p>MISS PINNIGER <i>returns to find them full of zeal</i>.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>sitting down at her desk</i>). Well, Oliver, have +you learnt your piece of poetry?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>nervously</i>). I—I think so, Miss +Pinniger.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Close the book, and stand up and say it. (<i>Oliver +takes a last despairing look, and stands up</i>.) Well?</p> +<p>OLIVER. It was a summer evening——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. The title and the author first, Oliver. Everything in +its proper order.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh, I say, I didn't know I had to learn the title.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>in a whisper</i>). After Blenheim.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Geraldine, kindly attend to your own work.</p> +<p>OLIVER. After Blenheim. It was a summer evening.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey. One of our +greatest poets.</p> +<p>OLIVER. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey, one of our greatest +poets. It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was +done—er—Old Kaspar's work was done—er—work +was done, er . . .</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. And he before——</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh yes, of course. And he before—er—and he +before—er—It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work +was done, and he before—er—and he before—— +Er, it <i>was</i> a summer evening——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. So you have already said, Oliver.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I just seem to have forgotten this bit, Miss Pinniger. +And he before——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Well, what was he before?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>hopefully</i>). Blenheim? Oh no, it was <i>after</i> +Blenheim.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>wearily</i>). His cottage door.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oo, yes. And he before his cottage door was sitting in +the sun. (<i>He clears his throat</i>) Was sitting in the sun. +Er—(<i>He coughs again</i>)—er——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. You have a cough, Oliver. Perhaps the doctor had +better see you when he comes to see Geraldine.</p> +<p>OLIVER. It was just something tickling my throat, Miss Pinniger. +Er—it was a summer evening.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. You haven't learnt it, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Yes, I have, Miss Pinniger, only I can't quite remember +it. And he before his cottage door——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Is it any good, Geraldine, asking you if you have got +any of your sums right?</p> +<p>JILL. I've got one, Miss Pinniger . . . nearly right . . . +except for some of the figures.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Well, we shall have to spend more time at our +lessons, that's all. This +afternoon—ah—er——</p> +<p>(<i>She stands up as</i> AUNT JANE <i>and the</i> DOCTOR <i>come +in</i>.)</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I'm sorry to interrupt lessons, Miss Pinniger, but I +have brought the Doctor to see Geraldine. (<i>To</i> DOCTOR) You +will like her to go to her room?</p> +<p>DOCTOR. No, no, dear lady. There is no need. Her pulse—(He +<i>feels it</i>)——dear, dear! Her tongue—(<i>She +puts it out</i>)—tut-tut! A milk diet, plenty of +rice-pudding, and perhaps she would do well to go to bed this +afternoon.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I will see to it, doctor.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>mutinously</i>). I <i>feel</i> quite well.</p> +<p>DOCTOR (<i>to</i> AUNT JANE). A dangerous symptom. <i>Plenty</i> +of rice-pudding.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oliver was coughing just now.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>to himself</i>). Shut up!</p> +<p>DOCTOR (<i>turning to</i> OLIVER). Ah! His pulse—(<i>Feels +it</i>) —tut-tut! His tongue—(OLIVER <i>puts it +out</i>) Dear, dear! The same treatment, dear lady, as prescribed +in the other case.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>under his breath</i>). Beast!</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. Castor-oil, liquorice-powder, ammoniated +quinine—anything of that nature, doctor?</p> +<p>DOCTOR. <i>As</i> necessary, dear lady, <i>as</i> necessary. The +system must be stimulated. Nature must be reinforced.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE (to GOVERNESS). Which do they dislike least?</p> +<p>OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL (<i>hastily</i>). Liquorice-powder!</p> +<p>DOCTOR. Then concentrate on the other two, dear lady.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. Thank you, doctor. [<i>They go out</i>.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. We will now go on with our lessons. Oliver, you will +have opportunities in your bedroom this afternoon of learning your +poetry. By the way, I had better have that book which you were +reading when I came in just now.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>trying to be surprised</i>). Which book?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>nobly doing her best to save the situation</i>). Miss +Pinniger, if you're multiplying rods, poles, or perches by nine, +does it matter if——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I am talking to Oliver, Geraldine. Where is that +book, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh, <i>I</i> know the one you mean. I must have put it +down somewhere. (<i>He looks vaguely about the room</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Perhaps you put it in your desk.</p> +<p>OLIVER. My desk?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>going up to</i> MISS PINNIGER <i>with her work</i>). +You see, it's all gone wrong here, and I think I must have +multiplied—— (<i>Moving in front of her as she +moves</i>) I think I must have multiplied——</p> +<p>(<i>Under cover of this</i>, OLIVER <i>makes a great effort to +get the book into</i> JILL'S <i>desk, but it is no good</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>brushing aside</i> JILL <i>and advancing on</i> +OLIVER). Thank you, <i>I</i> will take it.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>looking at the title</i>). Oh yes, this is the +one.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. And I will speak to your aunt at <i>once</i> about +the behaviour of both of you. [<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>gallantly</i>). <i>I</i> don't care.</p> +<p>JILL. I did try to help you, Oliver.</p> +<p>OLIVER. You wait. Won't I jolly well bag something of hers one +day, just when she wants it.</p> +<p>JILL. I'm afraid you'll find the afternoon rather tiring without +your book. What will you do?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I suppose I shall have to think.</p> +<p>JILL. What shall you think about?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I shall think I'm on my desert island.</p> +<p>JILL. Which desert island?</p> +<p>OLIVER. The one I always pretend I'm on when I'm thinking.</p> +<p>JILL. Isn't there any one else on it ever?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oo, lots of pirates and Dyaks and cannibals +and—other people.</p> +<p>JILL. What sort of other people?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I shan't tell you. This is a special think I thought +last night. As soon as I thought of it, I decided to keep it for +(<i>impressively</i>) a moment of great emergency.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>silenced</i>). Oh! . . . Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER Yes?</p> +<p>JILL. Let me be on your desert island this time. Because I did +try to help you.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well—well—— (<i>Generously</i>) Well, +you can if you like.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, thank you, Oliver. Won't you tell me what it's about, +and then we can both think it together this afternoon.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I expect you'll think all sorts of silly things that +<i>never</i> happen on a desert island.</p> +<p>JILL. I'll try not to, Oliver, if you tell me.</p> +<p>OLIVER. All right.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>coming close to him</i>). Go on.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well, you see, I've been wrecked, you see, and the ship +has foundered with all hands, you see, and I've been cast ashore on +a desert island, you see.</p> +<p>JILL. Haven't I been cast ashore too?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well, you will be this afternoon, of course. Well, you +see, we land on the island, you see, and it's a perfectly ripping +island, you see, and—and we land on it, you see, and . . +.</p> +<hr> +<p><i>But we are getting on too fast. When the good ship crashed +upon the rock and split in twain, it seemed like that all aboard +must perish. Fortunately</i> OLIVER <i>was made of stern mettle. +Hastily constructing a raft and placing the now unconscious</i> +JILL <i>upon it, he launched it into the seething maelstrom of +waters and pushed off. Tossed like a cockle-shell upon the +mountainous waves, the tiny craft with its precious freight was in +imminent danger of foundering. But</i> OLIVER <i>was made of stern +mettle. With dauntless courage he rigged a jury-mast, and placed a +telescope to his eye. "Pull for the lagoon</i>, JILL," <i>cried the +dauntless</i> OLIVER, <i>and in another moment</i>. . . .</p> +<p><i>As the raft glides into the still waters beyond the reef, we +can see it more clearly. Can it be</i> JILL'S <i>bed, with</i> +OLIVER <i>in his pyjamas perched on the rail, and holding up his +bath-towel? Does he shorten sail for a moment to thump his chest +and say, "But</i> OLIVER <i>was made of stern mettle"? Or is +it</i>——</p> +<p><i>But the sun is sinking behind the swamp where the +rattlesnakes bask. For a moment longer the sail gleams like copper +in its rays, and then</i>—<i>-fizz-z</i>—<i>we have +lost it. See! Is that speck on the inky black waters the dauntless +Oliver? It is. Let us follow to the island and see what adventures +befall him</i>.</p> +<p>SCENE II.—<i>It is the island which we have dreamed about +all our lives. But at present we cannot see it properly, for it is +dark. In one of those tropical darknesses which can be felt rather +than seen</i> OLIVER <i>hands</i> JILL <i>out of the boat</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Tread carefully, Jill, there are lots of deadly +rattlesnakes about.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>stepping hastily back into the boat</i>). Oli-ver!</p> +<p>OLIVER. You hear the noise of their rattles sometimes when the +sun is sinking behind the swamp. (<i>The deadly rattle of the +rattlesnake is heard</i>) There!</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, are they very deadly? Because if they are, I +don't think I shall like your island.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Those aren't. I always have their teeth taken out when +ladies are coming. Besides, it's daylight now.</p> +<p>(<i>With a rapidity common in the tropics</i>—<i>although +it may just be</i> OLIVER'S <i>gallantry</i>—<i>the sun +climbs out of the sea, and floods the island</i>, JILL, <i>no +longer frightened, steps out of the boat, and they walk up to the +clearing in the middle</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>looking about her</i>). Oh, what a lovely island! I +think it's lovely, Oliver.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>modestly</i>). It's pretty decent, isn't it? Won't +you lie down? I generally lie down here and watch the turtles +coming out of the sea to deposit their eggs on the sand.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>lying down</i>). How many do they de-deposit usually, +Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oh, three—or a hundred. Just depends how hungry I +am. Have a bull's-eye, won't you?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>excitedly</i>). Oh, did you bring some?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>annoyed</i>). Bring some? (<i>Brightening up</i>) Oh, +you mean from the wreck?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>hastily</i>). Yes, from the wreck. I mean besides the +axe and the bag of nails and the gunpowder.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Couldn't. The ship sank with all hands before I could +get them. But it doesn't matter, because (<i>going up to one of the +trees</i>) I recognise this as the bull's-eye tree. (<i>He picks a +couple of bull's-eyes and gives one to her</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, how lovely! Thank you. (<i>She puts it in her +mouth</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>sucking hard</i>). There was nothing but breadfruit +trees here the first time I was marooned on it. Rotten things to +have on a decent island. So I planted a bull's-eye tree, and a +barley-sugar-cane grove, and one or two other things, and made a +jolly ripping place of it.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>pointing</i>). What's that tree over there?</p> +<p>OLIVER. That one? Rice-pudding tree.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>getting up indignantly</i>). Oliver! Take me back to +the boat at once.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I say, shut up, Jill. You didn't think I meant it for +<i>you</i>, did you?</p> +<p>JILL. But there's only you and me on the island.</p> +<p>OLIVER. What about the domestic animals? I suppose +<i>they've</i> got to eat.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, how lovely! Have we got a goat and a parrot, and +a—a—</p> +<p>OLIVER. Much better than that. Look in that cage there.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, is that a cage? I never noticed it. What do I do?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>going to it</i>). Here, I'll show you (<i>He draws +the blind, and the</i> DOCTOR <i>is exposed sitting on a stump of +wood and blinking at the sudden light</i>) What do you think of +that?</p> +<p>JILL. Oliver!</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>proudly</i>). I thought of that in bed one night. +Spiffing idea, isn't it? I've got some other ones in the plantation +over there. Awfully good specimens. I feed 'em on rice-pudding.</p> +<p>JILL. Can this one talk?</p> +<p>OLIVER. I'm teaching it. (<i>Stirring it up with a stick</i>) +Come up there.</p> +<p>DOCTOR (<i>mumbling</i>). Ninety-nine, ninety-nine . . .</p> +<p>OLIVER. That's all it can say at present. I'm going to give it a +swim in the lagoon to-morrow. I want to see if there are any +sharks. If there aren't, then we can bathe there afterwards.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> DOCTOR <i>shudders</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Have you given it a name yet? I think I should like to +call it Fluffkins.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Righto! Good night, Fluffkins. Time little doctors were +in bed. (<i>He pulls down the blind</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>lying down again</i>). Well, I think it's a lovely +island.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>lying beside her</i>). If there's anything you want, +you know, you've only got to say so. Pirates or anything like that. +There's a ginger-beer well if you're thirsty.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>closing her eyes</i>). I'm quite happy, Oliver, thank +you.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>after a pause, a little awkwardly</i>). Jill, you +didn't ever want to marry a pirate, did you?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>still on her back with her eyes shut</i>). I hadn't +thought about it much, Oliver dear.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Because I can get you an awfully decent pirate, if you +like, and if I was his brother-in-law it would be ripping. I've +often been marooned with him, of course, but never as his +brother-in-law.</p> +<p>JILL. Why don't you marry his daughter and be his +son-in-law?</p> +<p>OLIVER. He hasn't got a daughter.</p> +<p>JILL. Well, you could think him one.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I don't want to. If ever I'm such a silly ass as to +marry, which I'm jolly well not going to be, I shall marry +a—a dusky maiden. Jill, be sporty. All girls have to get +married some time. It's different with men.</p> +<p>JILL. Very well, Oliver. I don't want to spoil your +afternoon.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Good biz. (<i>He stands up, shuts his eyes and waves his +hands about</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Enter the</i> PIRATE CHIEF.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF (<i>with a flourish</i>). Gentles, your servant. +Commodore Crookshank, at your service. Better known on the Spanish +Main as One-eared Eric.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Glad to meet you, Commodore. I'm—er— +Two-toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks. But you may call me +Oliver, if you like. This is my sister Jill—the Pride of the +Pampas.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF (<i>with another bow</i>). Charmed!</p> +<p>JILL (<i>politely</i>). Don't mention it, Commodore.</p> +<p>OLIVER. My sister wants to marry you. Er—carry on. (<i>He +moves a little away from them and lies down</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>sitting down and indicating a place beside her</i>). +Won't you sit down, Commodore?</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Thank you, madam. The other side if I may. I shall +hear better if you condescend to accept me. (<i>He sits down on the +other side of her</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, I'm so sorry! I was forgetting about your ear.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Don't mention it. A little discussion in the La +Plata river with a Spanish gentleman. At the end of it I was an ear +short and he was a head short. It was considered in the family that +I had won.</p> +<p>(<i>There is an awkward pause</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>shyly</i>). Well, Commodore?</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Won't you call me Eric?</p> +<p>JILL. I am waiting, Eric.</p> +<p>PIRATE CHIEF. Madam, I am not a marrying man, not to any extent, +but if you would care to be Mrs. Crookshank, I'd undertake on my +part to have the deck swabbed every morning, and to put a polish on +the four-pounder that you could see your pretty face in.</p> +<p>JILL. Eric, how sweet of you. But I think you must speak to my +brother in the library first. Oli-ver!</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>coming up</i>). Hallo! Settled it?</p> +<p>JILL. It's all settled, Oliver, between Eric and myself, but you +will want to ask him about his prospects, won't you?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Yes, yes, of course.</p> +<p>PIRATE. I shall be very glad to tell you anything I can, sir. I +think I may say that I am doing fairly well in my profession.</p> +<p>OLIVER. What's your ship? A sloop or a frigate?</p> +<p>PIRATE. A brigantine.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>excited</i>). Oh, that's what Oliver puts on his hair +when he goes to a party.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>annoyed</i>). Shut up, Jill! A brigantine? Ah yes, a +rakish craft, eh, Commodore?</p> +<p>PIRATE (<i>earnestly</i>). Extremely rakish.</p> +<p>OLIVER. And how many pieces of eight have you?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Nine thousand.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Ah! (To JILL) What's nine times eight?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>to herself</i>). Nine times eight.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>to himself</i>). Nine times eight.</p> +<p>PIRATE (to <i>himself</i>). Nine times eight.</p> +<p>JILL. Seventy-two.</p> +<p>PIRATE. I made it seventy-one, but I expect you're right.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Then you've seventy-two thousand pieces altogether?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Yes, sir, about that.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Any doubloons?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Hundreds of 'em.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Ingots of gold?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Lashings of 'em.</p> +<p>JILL. And he's going to polish up the four-pounder until I can +see my face in it.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I was just going to ask you about your guns. You've got +'em fore and aft of course?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Yes, sir. A four-pounder fore and a half-pounder +haft.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>a little embarrassed</i>). And do you ever have +brothers-in-law in your ship?</p> +<p>PIRATE. Well, I never have had yet, but I have always been +looking about for one.</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, isn't Eric a <i>nice</i> man?</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>casually</i>). I suppose the captain's brother-in-law +is generally the first man to board the Spaniard with his cutlass +between his teeth?</p> +<p>PIRATE. You might almost say always. Many a ship on the Spanish +Main I've had to leave unboarded through want of a brother-in-law. +They're touchy about it somehow. Unless the captain's +brother-in-law comes first they get complaining.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>bashfully</i>). And there's just one other thing. If +the brigantine happened to put in at an island for water, and the +captain's brother-in-law happened—just happened—to be a +silly ass and go and marry a dusky maiden, whom he met on the +beach——</p> +<p>PIRATE. Bless you, it's always happening to a captain's +brother-in-law.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>in a magnificent manner</i>). Then, Captain +Crookshank, you may take my sister!</p> +<p>JILL. Thank you, Oliver.</p> +<p>(<i>It is not every day that one-eared</i> ERIC, <i>that famous +chieftain, marries into the family of the</i> TERROR OF THE DYAKS. +<i>Naturally the occasion is celebrated by the whole pirate crew +with a rousing chorus, followed by a dance in which the dusky +maidens of the Island join. At the end of it</i>, JILL <i>finds +herself alone with</i> TUA-HEETA, <i>the Dusky Princess</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>fashionably</i>). I'm so pleased to meet my brother's +future wife. It's so nice of you to come to see me. You will have +some tea, won't you? (<i>She puts out her hand and presses an +imaginary bell</i>) I wanted to see you, because I can tell you so +many little things about my brother, which I think you ought to +know. You see, Eric—my husband—</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Ereec?</p> +<p>JILL. Yes. I wish you could see him. He's so nice-looking. But +I'm afraid he won't be home to tea. That's the worst of marrying a +sailor. They are away so much. Well, I was telling you about +Oliver. I think it would be better if you knew at once +that—he doesn't like rice-pudding.</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Rice-poodeeng?</p> +<p>JILL. Yes, he hates it. It is very important that you should +remember that. Then there's another thing—(<i>An untidy +looking servant comes in. Can it be—can it possibly be</i> +AUNT JANE? <i>Horrors!</i>) He dislikes—— Oh, there you +are, Jane. You've been a very long time answering the bell.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I'm so sorry ma'am, I was just dressing.</p> +<p>JILL. Excuses, Jane, always excuses. Leave me. Take a week's +notice. (<i>To</i> TUA-HEETA) YOU must excuse my maid. She's very +stupid. Tea at once, Jane. (AUNT JANE <i>sniffs and goes off</i>) +What was I saying? Oh yes, about Oliver. He doesn't care for +cod-liver oil in the way that some men do. You would be wise not to +force it on him just at first. . . . Have you any idea where you +are going to live?</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Live? (<i>These dusky maidens are no +conversationalists</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. I expect Oliver will wish to reside at Hammersmith, so +convenient for the City. You'll like Hammersmith. You'll go to St. +Paul's Church, I expect. The Vicar will be sure to call. +(<i>Enter</i> AUNT JANE <i>with small tea-table</i>.) Ah, here's +tea. (<i>To</i> JANE) You're very slow, Jane.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. I'm sorry, ma'am.</p> +<p>JILL. It's no good being sorry. Take another week's notice. +(<i>To</i> TUA-HEETA) You must forgive my talking to my maid. She +wants such a lot of looking after. (JANE <i>puts down the +table</i>) That will do, Jane, (JANE <i>bumps against the +table</i>) Dear, dear, how clumsy you are. What wages am I giving +you now?</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. A shilling a month, ma'am.</p> +<p>JILL. Well, we'd better make it ninepence. (JANE <i>goes out in +tears</i>.) Servants are a great nuisance, aren't they? Jane is a +peculiarly stupid person. She used to be aunt to my brother, and I +have only taken her on out of charity. (<i>She pours out from an +imaginary tea-pot</i>) Milk? Sugar? (<i>She puts them in and hands +the imaginary cup to</i> TUA-HEETA.)</p> +<p>TUA-HEETA. Thank you. (<i>Drinks</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>pouring herself a cup</i>). I hope you like China. +(<i>She drinks, and then rings an imaginary bell</i>) Well, as I +was saying——(<i>Enter</i> AUNT JANE.) You can clear +away, Jane.</p> +<p>AUNT JANE. Yes, ma'am.</p> +<p>(<i>She clears away the tea and</i> TUA-HEETA <i>and</i>— +<i>very quickly</i>—<i>herself, as</i> OLIVER <i>comes +back</i>. OLIVER <i>has been discussing boarding-tactics with his +brother-in-law.</i> CAPTAIN CROOKSHANK <i>belongs to the now +old-fashioned Marlinspike School;</i> OLIVER <i>is for well-primed +pistols</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL. Oh, Oliver, I love your island. I've been thinking things +all by myself. You're married to Tua-heeta. You don't mind, do +you?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Not at all, Jill. Make yourself at home. I've just been +trying the doctor in the lagoon. There <i>were</i> sharks there, +after all, so we'll have to find another place for bathing. Oh, and +I shot an elephant. What would you like to do now?</p> +<p>JILL. Just let's lie here and see what happens. (<i>What happens +is that a cassowary</i> <i>comes along</i>.) Oh, what a lovely +bird! Is it an ostrich?</p> +<p>(<i>The cassowary sniffs the air, puts its beak to the ground +and goes off again</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. Silly! It's a cassowary, of course.</p> +<p>JILL. What's a cassowary?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Jill! Don't you remember the rhyme?</p> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">I wish I were a +cassowary</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">Upon the plains of +Timbuctoo</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">And then I'd eat a +missionary—</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">And hat and gloves and +hymn-book too!</span><br> +<p>JILL. Is that all they're for?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Well, what else would you want them for?</p> +<p>(<i>A</i> MISSIONARY, <i>pith-helmet, gloves, hymn-book, +umbrella, all complete</i>—<i>creeps cautiously up. He bears +a strong likeness to the curate, the</i> REVEREND SMILAX.)</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, dear +friends, but have you observed a cassowary on this island, +apparently looking for something?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Yes, we saw one just now.</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>shuddering</i>). Dear, dear, dear. You didn't +happen to ask him what was the object of his researches?</p> +<p>JILL. He went so quickly.</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>coming out of the undergrowth to them</i>). I +wonder if you have ever heard of a little rhyme which apparently +attributes to the bird in question, when residing in the level +pastures of Timbuctoo, an unholy lust for the body and +appurtenances thereto of an unnamed clerical gentleman?</p> +<p>OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL (<i>shouting together</i>). Yes! +Rather!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Dear, dear! Fortunately—I say +fortunately—this is not Timbuctoo! (OLIVER <i>slips away and +comes back with a notice-board "Timbuctoo," which he places at the +edge of the trees, unseen by the</i> MISSIONARY, <i>who goes on +talking to</i> JILL) I take it that a cassowary residing in other +latitudes is of a more temperate habit. His appetite, I venture to +suggest, dear lady, would be under better restraint. That being so, +I may perhaps safely—— (<i>He begins to move off, and +comes suddenly up to the notice-board</i>) Dear, dear, dear, dear, +dear! This is terrible! You said, I think, that +the—ah—bird in question was moving in <i>this</i> +direction?</p> +<p>OLIVER. That's right.</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Then I shall move, hastily yet with all due +precaution, in <i>that</i> direction. (<i>He walks off on tiptoe, +looking over his shoulder in case the cassowary should reappear. +Consequently, he does not observe the enormous</i> CANNIBAL <i>who +has appeared from the trees on the right, until he bumps into +him</i>) I beg your—— (<i>He looks up</i>) Dear, dear, +dear, dear, dear!</p> +<p>CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Yes, my dear sir, it is as you say, a beautiful +morning.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. But I was just going a little walk—in this +direction—if you will permit me.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL (<i>threateningly</i>). Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. I have noticed it, my dear sir, I have often made +that very observation to my parishioners.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL (<i>very threateningly</i>). Boria, boria, boo!</p> +<p>MISSIONARY. Oh, what's he saying?</p> +<p>OLIVER. He says it's his birthday to-morrow.</p> +<p>CANNIBAL. Wurra, wurra wug!</p> +<p>OLIVER. And will you come to the party?</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>to</i> CANNIBAL). My dear sir, it is most kind of +you to invite me, but a prior engagement in a different part of the +country—a totally unexpected call upon me in another +locality—will unfortunately——</p> +<p>(<i>While he is talking, the cassowary comes back, sidles up to +him, and taps with his beak on the</i> MISSIONARY'S +<i>pith-helmet</i>.)</p> +<p>MISSIONARY (<i>absently, without looking round</i>). Come in! . +. . As I was saying, my dear sir—— (<i>The bird taps +again. The</i> MISSIONARY <i>turns round annoyed</i>) Can't you see +I'm engaged——Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, dear!</p> +<p>(<i>He clasps the</i> CANNIBAL <i>in his anguish, recoils from +the</i> CANNIBAL <i>and clasps the cassowary. The three of them go +off together</i>, OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL <i>following eagerly +behind to see who gets most</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> PIRATES <i>come back, each carrying a small wooden +ammunition-box, and sit round in a semicircle, the</i> PIRATE CHIEF +<i>in the middle</i>.)</p> +<p>PIRATE. Steward! Steward!</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>hurrying in</i>). Yes, sir, coming, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Now then, tumble up, my lad. I would carouse. Circulate +the dry ginger.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>hurrying out</i>). Yes, sir, going, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Look lively, my lad, look lively.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>hurrying in</i>). Yes, sir, coming, sir. (<i>He +hands round mugs to them all</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>rising</i>). Gentlemen! (<i>They all stand up</i>) The +crew of the <i>Cocktail</i> will carouse—— (<i>They all +take one step to the right, one back, and one +left</i>—<i>which brings them behind their +boxes</i>—<i>and then place their right feet on the boxes +together</i>) One! (<i>They raise their mugs</i>) Two! (<i>They +drink</i>) Three! (<i>They bang down their mugs</i>) Four! (<i>They +wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands</i>) So! . . . +Steward!</p> +<p>STEWARD. Yes, sir, here, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. The carouse is over.</p> +<p>STEWARD. Yes, sir. (<i>He collects the mugs and goes out.) +(The</i> PIRATES <i>sit down again</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>addressing the men</i>). Having passed an hour thus in +feasting and song——</p> +<p>(<i>Hark! is it the voice of our dear</i> MISS PINNIGER? <i>It +is</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>off</i>). Oliver! Oliver! Jill! You may get up now +and come down to tea.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Having, as I say, slept off our carouse——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>off</i>). Oliver! Jill! (<i>She comes in</i>) Oh, +I beg your pardon, I—er——</p> +<p>(<i>All the</i> PIRATES <i>rise and draw their weapons</i>)</p> +<p>CHIEF. Pray do not mention it. (<i>Polishing his pistol +lovingly</i>) You were asking——</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I—I was l-looking for a small +boy—Oliver—</p> +<p>CHIEF. Oliver? (<i>To</i> 1ST PIRATE) Have we any Olivers on +board?</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. NO, Captain. Only Bath Olivers.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to my +brother-in-law, hight Two-Toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh no, no—Just a small boy and his +sister—Jill.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 2ND PIRATE). Have we any Jills on board?</p> +<p>2ND PIRATE. No, Captain. Only gills of rum.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to Mrs. +Crookshank, styled the Pride of the Pampas?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh no, no, I am so sorry. Perhaps +I—er—</p> +<p>CHIEF. Wait, woman. (<i>To</i> 6TH PIRATE) Ernest, offer your +seat to the lady.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> 6TH PIRATE <i>stands up</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS (<i>nervously</i>). Oh please don't trouble, I'm +getting out at the next station—I mean I—</p> +<p>6TH PIRATE (<i>thunderously</i>). Sit down!</p> +<p>(<i>She sits down tremblingly and he stands by her with his +pistol</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF. Thank you. (<i>To</i> 1ST PIRATE) Cecil, have you your +pencil and notebook with you?</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>producing them</i>). Ay, ay, Captain.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Then we will cross-examine the prisoner. (<i>To</i> +GOVERNESS) Name?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Pinniger.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Pincher.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Christian names, if any?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Letitia.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Letisher—how would you spell +it, Captain?</p> +<p>CHIEF. Spell it like a sneeze. Age?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Twenty-three.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). Habits—untruthful. +Appearance—against her. Got that?</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. Yes, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). And what are you for?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I teach. Oliver and Jill, you know.</p> +<p>CHIEF. And what do you teach them?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh, everything. Arithmetic, French, Geography, +History, Dancing——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>holding up his hand</i>). A moment! I would take +counsel with Percy. (<i>To</i> 2ND PIRATE) Percy, what shall we ask +her in Arithmetic? (<i>The</i> 2ND PIRATE <i>whispers to him</i>.) +Excellent. (<i>To her</i>) If you really are a teacher as you say, +answer me this question. The brigantine <i>Cocktail</i> is in +longitude 40° 39' latitude 22° 50', sailing closehauled on +the port tack at 8 knots in a 15-knot nor'-nor' westerly +breeze—how soon before she sights the Azores?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I—I—I'm afraid I——You +see—I——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). Arithmetic rotten.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Arithmetic rotten.</p> +<p>CHIEF (to 3RD PIRATE). Basil, ask her a question in French.</p> +<p>3RD PIRATE. What would the mate of a French frigate say if he +wanted to say in French, "Avast there, ye lubbering swab" to a +friend like?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Oh, but I hardly—I——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). French futile.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). French futile.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 4TH PIRATE). I don't suppose it's much use, +Francis. But try her in Geography.</p> +<p>4TH PIRATE. Well now, lady. If you was wanting a nice creek to +lay up cosy in, atween Dago Point and the Tortofitas, where would +you run to?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. It-run to? But that isn't—of course +I——</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> 1ST PIRATE). Geography ghastly.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Geography ghastly.</p> +<p>CHIEF (to 5TH PIRATE). Give her a last chance, Mervyn. See if +she knows any history.</p> +<p>5TH PIRATE. I suppose you couldn't tell me what year it was when +old John Cann took the <i>Saucy Codfish</i> over Black Tooth Reef +and laid her alongside the Spaniard in the harbour there, and up +comes the Don in his nightcap. "Shiver my timbers," he says in +Spanish, "but there's only one man in the whole of the Spanish +Main," he says, "and that's John Cann," he says, "who +could——"</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> GOVERNESS <i>looks dumbly at him</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF. She couldn't. History hopeless.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. History hopeless.</p> +<p>CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). What else do you teach?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Music, dancing—er—but I don't +think——</p> +<p>CHIEF. Steward!</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>coming in</i>). Yes, sir, coming, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Concertina.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>going out</i>). Yes, sir, going, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to</i> GOVERNESS). Can you dance a hornpipe?</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. No, I——</p> +<p>CHIEF. Dancing dubious.</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). Dancing dubious.</p> +<p>STEWARD (<i>coming in</i>). Concertina, sir.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Give it to the woman. (<i>He takes it to her</i>.)</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. I'm afraid I——(<i>She produces one +ghastly noise and drops the concertina in alarm</i>.)</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE (<i>writing</i>). What shall I say, sir? Music mouldy +or music measly?</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>standing up</i>). Gentlemen, I think you will agree +with me that the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly +incapable of teaching anybody anything. Twenty-five years, man and +boy, I have sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible +exception of a dumb and half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in +'64, I have never met any one so profoundly lacking in intellect. I +propose, therefore, that for the space of twenty-four hours the +woman Pinniger should be incarcerated in the smuggler's cave, in +the company of a black beetle of friendly temperament.</p> +<p>GOVERNESS. Mercy! Mercy!</p> +<p>1ST PIRATE. I should like to second that.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Those in favour—ay! (<i>They all say "Ay."</i>)</p> +<p>Contrary—No! (<i>The</i> GOVERNESS <i>says "No."</i>) The +motion is carried.</p> +<p>(<i>One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave. The</i> +GOVERNESS <i>rushes to the</i> CHIEF <i>and throws herself at his +feet</i>. OLIVER <i>and</i> JILL <i>appear in the nick of +time</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. A maiden in distress! I will rescue her. (<i>She looks +up and</i> OLIVER <i>recognises her</i>) Oh! Carry on, +Commodore.</p> +<p>(<i>The</i> GOVERNESS <i>is lowered into the cave and the</i> +<i>door is shut</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>to his men</i>). Go, find that black beetle, and +having found it, introduce it circumspectly by the back door.</p> +<p>PIRATES. Ay, ay, sir. [<i>They go out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVER. All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to +rescue somebody.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>excitedly</i>). Oo, rescue me, Oliver.</p> +<p>CHIEF (<i>solemnly</i>). Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks, +and Pest of the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one. +Wilt fight me for the wench? (<i>He puts an arm round</i> +JILL.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. I will.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Swords?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Pistols.</p> +<p>CHIEF. At twenty paces?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Across a handkerchief.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Done! (<i>Feeling in his pockets</i>) Have you got a +handkerchief? I think I must have left mine on the +dressing-table.</p> +<p>OLIVER (<i>bringing out his and putting it hastily back +again</i>). Mine's rather—Jill, haven't you got one?</p> +<p>JILL (<i>feeling</i>). I know I had one, but I——</p> +<p>CHIEF. This is an ill business. Five-and-thirty duels have I +fought—and never before been delayed for lack of a +handkerchief.</p> +<p>JILL. Ah, here it is. (<i>She produces a very small one and lays +it on the ground. They stand one each side of it, pistols +ready</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVER. Jill, you must give the word. JILL. Are you ready?</p> +<p>(<i>The sound of a gong is heard</i>.)</p> +<p>CHIEF. Listen! (<i>The gong is heard again</i>) The Spanish +Fleet is engaged!</p> +<p>JILL. <i>I</i> thought it was our tea gong.</p> +<p>CHIEF. Ah, perhaps you're right.</p> +<p>OLIVER. I say, we oughtn't to miss tea. (<i>Holding out his hand +to her</i>) Come on, Jill.</p> +<p>CHIEF. But you'll come back? We shall always be waiting here for +you whenever you want us.</p> +<p>JILL. Yes, we'll come back, won't we, Oliver?</p> +<p>OLIVER. Oo, rather.</p> +<p>(<i>The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and +Dusky Maidens, come on. They sing as they wave good-bye to the +children who are making their way to the boat</i>.)</p> +<p>JILL (<i>from the boat</i>). Good-bye, good-bye.</p> +<p>OLIVER. Good-bye, you chaps.</p> +<p>JILL (<i>politely</i>). And thank you all for a very pleasant +afternoon.</p> +<p>[<i>They are all singing as the boat pushes off. Night comes on +with tropical suddenness. The singing dies slowly down</i>.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3><font size="+1">ACT III.</font>—FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE +HUBBARD FAMILY</h3> +<p> </p> +<p>SCENE I.—<i>The drawing-room of the</i> HUBBARDS <i>before +Fame and Prosperity came to them. It is simply furnished with a +deal table and two cane chairs</i>.</p> +<p>MR. <i>and</i> MRS. HUBBARD, <i>in faultless evening dress, are +at home</i>, MR. HUBBARD <i>reading a magazine</i>, MRS. HUBBARD +<i>with her hands in her lap. She sighs</i>.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>impetuously throwing down his magazine</i>). +Dearest, you sighed?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>quickly</i>). No, no, Henry. In a luxurious and +well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. True, dear. Not only is it artistically furnished, +as you say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all +things—(<i>he lifts up the magazine</i>)—a library.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful +for.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. We have indeed. But I am selfish. Would you care to +read? (<i>He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry.</p> +<p>(<i>They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs +again</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves +you.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>thoughtfully</i>). Isabel?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she +comes after Harold?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>counting on his fingers</i>). A, B, C, D, E, F, +G, H, I—dear me, have we got nine already?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>imploringly</i>). Darling, say you don't think +it's too many.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it +isn't as if they were real children.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>indignantly</i>). Henry! How can you say they +are not real?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they're only the children we thought +we'd like to have if Father Christmas gave us any.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here +in the house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis, +pretty Elsie with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired +Frank—</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>firmly</i>). Darling one, Frank has curly brown +hair. It was an understood thing that you should choose the girls, +and <i>I</i> should choose the boys. When we decided to +take—A, B, C, D, E, F—a sixth child, it was my turn for +a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly brown hair and a fondness +for animals.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you're right, dear. Of course it is a +little confusing when you never see your children.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will +give us some.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our +stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a +diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order +would be something.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the +chimney has not been swept for some years may have something to do +with it. Or he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot +help feeling that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this +way he would be very much annoyed.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I +am standing up in—I mean sitting down in.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of +us in the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening +dress. We are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately +cuts us off in this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go +on reading or would you like to walk up and down the room? +Fortunately these simple pleasures are left to us.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I've finished this page.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>tearing out one</i>). Have another, my love. +(<i>They read for a little while, until interrupted by a knock at +the door</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Some one at the door! Who could it be?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>getting up</i>). Just make the room look a +little more homey, dear, in case it's any one important.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes out, leaving her to alter the position of the chairs +slightly</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Well?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>coming in</i>). A letter. (<i>He opens +it</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Quick!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>whistling with surprise</i>). Father Christmas! +An invitation to Court! (<i>Reading</i>) "Father Christmas at Home, +25th December. Jollifications, 11.59 P.M." My love, he has found us +at last! (<i>They embrace each other</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry, how gratifying!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Yes. (<i>Sadly, after a pause</i>) But we can't +go.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>sadly</i>). No, I have no clothes.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Nor I.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. How can I possibly go without a diamond necklace? +None of the Montmorency-Smythe women has ever been to Court without +a diamond necklace.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. The Hubbards are a proud race. No male Hubbard +would dream of appearing at Court without a gentleman's gold Albert +watch-chain. . . . Besides, there is another thing. There will be +many footmen at Father Christmas's Court, who will doubtless +require coppers pressed into their palms. My honour would be +seriously affected, were I compelled to whisper to them that I had +no coppers.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. It is very unfortunate. Father Christmas may have +hundreds of presents waiting for us.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. True. But how would it be to hang up our stockings +again this evening—now that we know he knows we are here? I +would suggest tied on to the door-knocker, to save him the trouble +of coming down the chimney.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>excitedly</i>). Henry, I wonder! But of course +we will.</p> +<p>(<i>They begin to take off—the one a sock, the other a +stocking</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. I almost wish now that my last suit had been a +knickerbocker one. However, we must do what we can with a sock.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>holding up her stocking and looking at it a +little anxiously</i>). I hope Father Christmas won't give me a +bicycle. A stocking never sets so well after it has had a bicycle +in it.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>taking it from her</i>). Now, dear, I will go +down and put them in position. Let us hope that fortune will be +kind to us.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Let us hope so, darling. And quickly. For +(<i>picking up her page of the magazine</i>) it is a trifle cold. +[<i>He goes out and she is left reading</i>.</p> +<p>SCENE II.—<i>Outside the house the snow lies deep. The +stocking and sock are tied on to the door-knocker. There is a light +in the window</i>.</p> +<p><i>A party of carol-singers, with lanterns, come by and halt in +the snow outside the house</i>.</p> +<p>PETER ABLEWAYS. Friends, are we all assembled?</p> +<p>JONAS HUMPHREY. Ay, ay, Peter Ableways, assembled and met +together in a congregation, for the purpose of lifting up our +voices in joyous thanksgiving, videlicet the singing of a carol or +other wintry melody.</p> +<p>JENNIFER LING. Keep your breath for your song, Master Humphrey. +That last "Alleluia" of yours was a poor windy thing, lacking +grievously in substance.</p> +<p>JONAS (<i>sadly</i>). It is so. I never made much of an +Alleluia. It is not in my nature somehow. 'Tis a vain boastful +thing an Alleluia.</p> +<p>MARTHA PORRITT. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet +are cold.</p> +<p>JONAS. What matter the feet, Martha Porritt, if the heart be +warm with loving-kindness and seasonable emotions?</p> +<p>MARTHA. Well, nothing of me will be warm soon.</p> +<p>JENNIFER. Ay, let's begin, Peter Ableways, while we carry the +tune in our heads. It is ill searching for the notes in the middle +of the carol, as some singers do.</p> +<p>PETER. Well spoken, Mistress Jennifer. Now listen all, while I +unfold the nature of the entertainment. <i>Item</i>—A carol +or birth song to draw the attention of all folk to the company here +assembled and the occasion celebrated. <i>Item</i>—Applause +and the clapping of hands. <i>Item</i>—A carol or song of +thanksgiving. <i>Item</i>—A collection.</p> +<p>JONAS. An entertainment well devised, Master Ableways, sobeit +the words of the second song remain with me after I am delivered of +the first.</p> +<p>MARTHA. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are +cold.</p> +<p>PETER. Are we all ready, friends? I will say +one—two—three—and at "three" I pray you all to +give it off in a hearty manner from the chest. +One—two—</p> +<p>JONAS. Hold, hold, Master Ableways! Does it begin—No, +that's the other one. (JENNIFER <i>whispers the first line to +him</i>) Ay, ay—I have it now—and bursting to get out +of me. Proceed, Peter Ableways.</p> +<p>PETER. One—two—three—(<i>They carol</i>.)</p> +<p>PETER. Well sung, all.</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. The applause followed, good Master Peter, as ordained. +Moreover, I have the tune of the second song ready within me. +Likewise a la-la-la or two to replace such words as I have +forgotten.</p> +<p>MARTHA. Don't forget the collection, Master Ableways.</p> +<p>PETER. Ay, the collection. (<i>He takes off his hat and places +it on the ground</i>.)</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. Nay, not so fast, Master Peter. It would be ill if the +good folk thought that our success this night were to be estimated +by an empty hat. Place some of our money in it, Master Ableways. +Where money is, money will come.</p> +<p>JENNIFER. Ay, it makes a pleasing clink.</p> +<p>PETER. True, Mistress Jennifer. Master Humphrey speaks true. +(<i>He pours some coppers from his pockets into his hat</i>.)</p> +<p>MARTHA. Are we to go on, Master Ableways? My feet are cold.</p> +<p>PETER (<i>shaking the hat</i>). So, a warming noise.</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. To it again, gentles.</p> +<p>PETER. Are all ready? One—two—three! (<i>They +carol</i>.)</p> +<p>PETER. Well sung, all.</p> +<p>HUMPHREY. Have you the hat, Master Peter?</p> +<p>PETER (<i>picking it up</i>). Ay, friend, all is ready.</p> +<p>(<i>The door opens and</i> MR. HUBBARD <i>appears at the +entrance</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Good evening, friends.</p> +<p>PETER. Good evening, sir. (<i>He holds out the hat</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>looking at it</i>). What is this? (PETER +<i>shakes it</i>) Aha! Money!</p> +<p>PETER. Remember the carol singers, sir.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>helping himself</i>). My dear friends, I will +always remember you. This is most generous. I shall never forget +your kindness. This is most unexpected. But not the less welcome, +not the less—I think there's a ha'penny down there that I +missed—thank you. As I was saying, unexpected but welcome. I +thank you heartily. Good evening, friends.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes in and shuts the door</i>.</p> +<p>PETER (<i>who has been too surprised to do anything but keep his +mouth open</i>). Well! . . . Well! . . . Well, friends, let us to +the next house. We have got all that we can get here.</p> +<p>[<i>They trail off silently</i>.</p> +<p>MARTHA (<i>as they go off</i>). Master Ableways!</p> +<p>PETER. Ay, lass!</p> +<p>MARTHA. My feet aren't so cold now.</p> +<p>(<i>But this is to be an exciting night. As soon as they are +gone, a Burglar and a Burglaress steal into view</i>)</p> +<p>BILL. Wotcher get, Liz? (<i>She holds up a gold watch and chain. +He nods and holds up a diamond necklace</i>) 'Ow's that?</p> +<p>LIZ (<i>starting suddenly</i>). H'st!</p> +<p>BILL (<i>in a whisper</i>). What is it?</p> +<p>LIZ. Copper!</p> +<p>BILL (<i>desperately</i>). 'Ere, quick, get rid of these. 'Ide +'em in the snow, or——</p> +<p>LIZ. Bill! (<i>He turns round</i>) Look! (<i>She points to the +stocking and sock hanging up</i>) We can come back for 'em as soon +as 'e's gone.</p> +<p>(BILL <i>looks at them, and back at her, and grins. He drops the +necklace into one and the watch into the other. As the</i> +POLICEMAN <i>approaches they strike up, "While shepherds watched +their flock by night," with an air of great enthusiasm</i>.)</p> +<p>POLICEMAN. Now then, move along there.</p> +<p>(<i>They move along. The</i> POLICEMAN <i>flashes his light on +the door to see that all is well. The stocking and sock are +revealed. He beams sentimentally at them</i>.)</p> +<p>SCENE III.—<i>We are inside the house again</i>. MRS. +HUBBARD <i>is still reading a page of the magazine. In dashes</i> +MR. HUBBARD <i>with the sock and stocking</i>.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. My darling, what do you think? Father Christmas has +sent you a little present. (<i>He hands her the stocking</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Has he sent you one too?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>holding up his sock</i>). Observe!</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. How sweet of him! I wonder what mine is. What is +yours, darling?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. I haven't looked yet, my love. Perhaps just a few +nuts or something of that sort, with a card attached saying, "To +wish you the old, old wish." We must try not to be disappointed, +whatever it is, darling.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, Henry. After all, it is the kindly +thought which really matters.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Certainly. All the same, I hope—Will you look +in yours, dear, first, or shall I?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I think I should like to, darling. (<i>Feeling +it</i>) It feels so exciting. (<i>She brings out a diamond +necklace</i>) Henry!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. My love! (<i>They embrace</i>) Now you will be able +to go to Court. You must say that your husband is unfortunately in +bed with a bad cold. You can tell me all about it when you come +home. I shall be able to amuse myself with—(<i>He is feeling +in his sock while talking, and now brings out the watch and +chain</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! My love!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. A gentleman's gold hunter and Albert watch-chain. +My darling!</p> +<p>(<i>They put down their presents on the table and embrace each +other again</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Let's put them on at once, Henry, and see how they +suit us.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Allow me, my love. (<i>He fastens her +necklace</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>happily</i>). Now I feel really dressed again! +Oh, I wish we had a looking-glass.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>opening his gold watch</i>). Try in here, my +darling.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>surveying herself</i>). How perfectly sweet! . +. . Now let me put your watch-chain on for you, dear. (<i>She +arranges it for him</i>—HENRY <i>very proud</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Does it suit me, darling?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. You look fascinating, Henry!</p> +<p>(<i>They strut about the room with an air</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>taking out his watch and-looking at it +ostentatiously</i>). Well, well, we ought to be starting. My watch +makes it 11.58. (<i>He holds it to her ear</i>) Hasn't it got a +sweet tick?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Sweet! But starting where, Henry? Do you mean we +can really—But you haven't any money.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Money? (<i>Taking out a handful</i>) Heaps of +it.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Father Christmas?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Undoubtedly, my love. Brought round to the front +door just now by some of his messengers. By the way, +dear—(<i>indicating the sock and stocking</i>)—hadn't +we better put these on before we start?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Of course. How silly of me!</p> +<p>(<i>They sit down and put them on</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Really this is a very handsome watch-chain.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. It becomes you admirably, Henry.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Thank you, dear. There's just one little point. +Father Christmas is sometimes rather shy about acknowledging the +presents he gives. He hates being thanked. If, therefore, he makes +any comment on your magnificent necklace or my handsome +watch-chain, we must say that they have been in the family for some +years.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, dear. (<i>They get up</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Well, now we're ready.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, don't you think we might bring the +children?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Of course, dear! How forgetful of me! . . . +Children—'shun! (<i>Listen! Their heels click as they come to +attention</i>) Number! (<i>Their voices—alternate boy and +girl, one to nine—are heard</i>) Right <i>turn</i>!</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, I almost seem to hear them!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Are you ready, my love?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, Henry.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Quick march!</p> +<p>(<i>The children are heard tramping off. Very proudly</i> MR. +<i>and</i> MRS. HUBBARD <i>bring up the rear</i>.)</p> +<p>SCENE IV.—<i>The Court of</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS. <i>Shall +we describe it? No. But there is everything there which any +reasonable person could want, from ices to catapults. And the +decorations, done in candy so that you can break off a piece +whenever you are hungry, are superb</i>.</p> +<p>1ST USHER (<i>from the back</i>). Father Christmas!</p> +<p>SEVERAL USHERS (<i>from the front</i>). Father Christmas! (<i>He +comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS (<i>genially</i>). Good evening, everybody.</p> +<p><i>I ought to have said that there are already some hundreds of +people there, though how some of them got invitations—but, +after all, that is not our business. Wishing to put them quite at +their ease,</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS, <i>who has a very creditable +baritone, gives them a song. After the applause which follows it, +he retires to the throne at the back, and awaits his more important +guests. The</i> USHERS <i>take up their places, one at the +entrance, one close to the throne</i>.</p> +<p>1ST USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard! (<i>They come +in</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>pressing twopence into his palm</i>). Thank you, +my man, thank you.</p> +<p>2ND USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>handing out another twopence</i>). Not at all, +my man, not at all.</p> +<p>(MRS. HUBBARD <i>curtsies and</i> MR. HUBBARD <i>bows to</i> +FATHER CHRISTMAS.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. I am delighted to welcome you to my Court. How +are you both?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Very well, thank you, sir. My wife has a slight +cold in one foot, owing to—</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>hastily</i>). A touch of gout, sir, inherited +from my ancestors, the Montmorency-Smythes.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. Dear me, it won't prevent you dancing, I +hope?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Oh no, sir.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. That's right. We shall have a few more friends +coming in soon. You have been giving each other presents already, I +see. I congratulate you, madam, on your husband's taste.</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>touching her necklace</i>). Oh no, this is a +very old heirloom of the Montmorency-Smythe family.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. An ancestress of Mrs. Hubbard's—a +lady-in-waiting at the Tottenham Court—at the Tudor +Court—was fortunate enough to catch the eye +of—er—</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Elizabeth.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Queen Elizabeth, and—er—</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. I see. You are lucky, madam, to have such +beautiful jewels. (<i>Turning to</i> MR. HUBBARD) And this +delightful gold Albert watch-chain—</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Presented to an ancestor of mine, Sir Humphrey de +Hubbard, at the battle of—er—</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Agincourt.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. As you say, dear, Agincourt. By King Richard +the—I should say William the—well, by the King.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How very interesting.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Yes. My ancestor clove a scurvy knave from the +chaps to the chine. I don't quite know how you do that, but I +gather that he inflicted some sort of a scratch upon his adversary, +and the King rewarded him with this handsome watch-chain.</p> +<p>USHERS (<i>announcing</i>). Mr. Robinson Crusoe! (<i>He comes +in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>bowing</i>). I'm a little late, I'm afraid, sir. My +raft was delayed by adverse gales.</p> +<p>(FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>introduces him to the</i> HUBBARDS, <i>who +inform him that the weather is very seasonable</i>.)</p> +<p>USHERS. Miss Riding Hood! (<i>She comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>curtseying</i>). I hope I am in time, sir. I had +to look in on my grandmother on the way here.</p> +<p>(FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>makes the necessary introductions</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> CRUSOE). Do come and see me, Mr. Crusoe. +Any Friday. I should like your advice about my parrot. He's +moulting in all the wrong places.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> RED RIDING HOOD). I don't know if you're +interested in wolves at all, Miss Hood. I heard a very good story +about one the other day. (<i>He begins to tell it, but she has +hurried away before he can remember whether it was Thursday or +Friday</i>.)</p> +<p>USHERS. Baron Bluebeard! (<i>He comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>bowing</i>). I trust you have not been waiting for +me, sir. I had a slight argument with my wife before starting, +which delayed me somewhat.</p> +<p>(FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>forgives him</i>.)</p> +<p>USHERS. Princess Goldilocks!</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>curtseying</i>). I brought the youngest bear with +me—do you mind? (<i>She introduces the youngest bear to</i> +FATHER CHRISTMAS <i>and the other guests</i>) Say, how do you do, +darling? (<i>To an</i> USHER) Will you give him a little porridge, +please, and if you have got a nice bed where he could rest a little +afterwards—he gets tired so quickly.</p> +<p>USHER. Certainly, your Royal Highness.</p> +<p>(<i>Music begins</i>.)</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>to</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS). Are we going to dance? +How lovely!</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS (<i>to the</i> HUBBARDS). You will dance, won't +you?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. I think not just at first, thank you.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>to</i> CRUSOE). Come along!</p> +<p>CRUSOE. I am a little out of practice—er—but if you +don't mind—er—(<i>He comes</i>.)</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>to</i> RIDING HOOD). May I have the pleasure?</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> RIDING HOOD). Be careful, dear; he has a +very bad reputation.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>to</i> BLUEBEARD). You don't eat people, do +you?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>pained by this injustice</i>). Never!</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Oh then, I don't mind. But I do hate being +eaten.</p> +<p><i>Now we can't possibly describe the whole dance to you, for in +every corner of the big ballroom couples were revolving and +sliding, and making small talk with each other. So we will just +take two specimen conversations</i>.</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>nervous, poor man</i>). Princess Goldilocks, may I +speak to you on a matter of some importance to me?</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. I wish you would.</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>looking across at</i> BLUEBEARD <i>and</i> RED RIDING +HOOD, <i>who are revolving close by</i>). Alone.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>to</i> BLUEBEARD). Do you mind? You can have your +turn afterwards.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>to</i> RIDING HOOD). Shall we adjourn to the +Buffet?</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Oh, do let's. [<i>They adjourn</i>.</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>bravely</i>). Princess, I am a lonely man.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>encouragingly</i>). Yes, Robinson?</p> +<p>CRUSOE. I am not much of a one for society, and I don't quite +know how to put these things, but—er—if you would like +to share my island, I—I should so love to have you there.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. Oh, Robbie!</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>warming to it</i>). I have a very comfortable house, +and a man-servant, and an excellent view from the south windows, +and several thousands of acres of good rough-shooting, +and—oh, do say you'll come!</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. May I bring my bears with me?</p> +<p>CRUSOE. Of course! I ought to have said that. I have a great +fondness for animals.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. How sweet of you! But perhaps I ought to warn you +that we all like porridge. Have you——</p> +<p>CRUSOE. I have a hundred acres of oats.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS. Then, Robinson, I am yours. (<i>They embrace</i>) +There! Now tell me—did you make all your clothes +yourself?</p> +<p>CRUSOE (<i>proudly</i>). All of them.</p> +<p>GOLDILOCKS (<i>going off with him</i>). How wonderful of you! +Really you hardly seem to want a wife.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out. Now it is the other couple's turn</i>.</p> +<p><i>Enter, then</i>, BLUEBEARD <i>and</i> RIDING HOOD</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. Perhaps I ought to tell you at once, Miss Riding +Hood, that I have been married before.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Yes?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. My last wife unfortunately died just before I started +out here this evening.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>calmly</i>). Did you kill her?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>taken aback</i>). I—I—I—</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Are you quite a nice man, Bluebeard?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. W-what do you mean? I am a very <i>rich</i> man. If +you will marry me, you will live in a wonderful castle, full of +everything that you want.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. That will be rather jolly.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>dramatically</i>) But there is one room into which +you must never go. (<i>Holding up a key</i>) Here is the key of it. +(<i>He offers it to her</i>.)</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>indifferently</i>) But if I'm never to go into +it, I shan't want the key.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>upset</i>). You—you <i>must</i> have the +key.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Why?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. The—the others all had it.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>coldly</i>). Bluebeard, you aren't going to talk +about your <i>other</i> wives all the time, are you?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. N—no.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Then don't be silly. And take this key, and go and +tidy up that ridiculous room of yours, and when it's nice and +clean, and when you've shaved off that absurd beard, perhaps I'll +marry you.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>furiously drawing his sword</i>). Madam!</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Don't do it here. You'll want some hot water.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>trying to put his sword back</i>). This is too +much, this is—</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. You're putting it in the wrong way round.</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>stiffly</i>). Thank you. (<i>He manages to get it +in</i>.)</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Well, do you want to marry me?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. Yes!</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD. Sure?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD (<i>admiringly</i>). More than ever. You're the first +woman I've met who hasn't been afraid of me.</p> +<p>RIDING HOOD (<i>surprised</i>). Are you very alarming? Wolves +frighten me sometimes, but not just silly men. . . . (<i>Giving him +her hand</i>) All right then. But you'll do what I said?</p> +<p>BLUEBEARD. Beloved one, I will do anything for you.</p> +<p>(CRUSOE <i>and</i> GOLDILOCKS <i>come back. Probably it will +occur to the four of them to sing a song indicative of the happy +family life awaiting them. On the other hand they may prefer to +dance. . . .</i>.)</p> +<p><i>But enough of this. Let us get on to the great event of the +evening. Ladies and gentlemen, are you all assembled? Then silence, +please, for</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS.</p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great +pleasure to see you here at my Court this evening; and in +particular my friends Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, of whom I have been too +long neglectful. However, I hope to make up for it to-night. (<i>To +an</i> USHER) Disclose the Christmas Tree!</p> +<p><i>The Christmas Tree is disclosed, and—what do you think? +Children disguised as crackers are hanging from every branch! Well, +I never!</i></p> +<p>FATHER CHRISTMAS (<i>quite calmly</i>). Distribute the +presents!</p> +<p>(<i>An</i> USHER <i>takes down the children one by one and +places them in a row, reading from the labels on them</i>. "MRS. +HUBBARD, MR. HUBBARD" <i>alternately</i>.)</p> +<p>USHER (<i>handing list to</i> MR. HUBBARD). Here is the nominal +roll, sir.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>looking at it in amazement</i>). What's this? +(MRS. HUBBARD <i>looks over his shoulder</i>) Ada, Bertram, +Caroline—My darling one!</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Our children at last! Oh, are they +all—<i>all</i> there?</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. We'll soon see, dear. Ada!</p> +<p>ADA (<i>springing to attention</i>). Father! (<i>She stands at +ease</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. Bertram! . . . (<i>And so on up to</i> ELSIE) . . . +Frank!</p> +<p>FRANK. Father!</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD. There you are, darling, I told you he had curly +brown hair. . . . Gwendoline! (<i>And so on</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS). Oh thank you so much. +It is sweet of you.</p> +<p>MR. HUBBARD (<i>to</i> FATHER CHRISTMAS). We are slightly +overcome. Do you mind if we just dance it off. (FATHER CHRISTMAS +<i>nods genially</i>.) Come on, children!</p> +<p>(<i>He holds out his hands, and he and his wife and the children +dance round in a ring singing, "Here we go round the Christmas +Tree, all on a Christmas evening</i>. . . .")</p> +<p><i>And then—But at this moment</i> JAMES <i>and</i> +ROSEMARY <i>and the</i> HUBBARD <i>children stopped thinking, so of +course the play came to an end. And if there were one or two bits +in it which the children didn't quite understand, that was</i> +JAMES'S <i>fault. He never ought to have been thinking at all, +really</i>.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_4"><!-- RULE4 4 --></a> +<h2>MR. PIM PASSES BY</h2> +<center>A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +<div align="center">GEORGE MARDEN, J.P.<br> +OLIVIA (his wife).<br> +DINAH (his niece).<br> +LADY MARDEN (his aunt).<br> +BRIAN STRANGE<br> +CARRAWAY PIM.<br> +ANNE.</div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<br> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">The first performance of +this play in London took place at the New Theatre on January 5, +1920, with the following cast:<br> +<br> +George Marden—BEN WEBSTER.<br> +Olivia—IRENE VANBRUGH.<br> +Dinah—GEORGETTE COHAN.<br> +Lady Marden—ETHEL GRIFFIES.<br> +Brian Strange—LESLIE HOWARD.<br> +Carraway Pim—DION BOUCICAULT.<br> +Anne—ETHEL WELLESLEY.</font></div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>MR. PIM PASSES BY</h2> +<center> +<h2>ACT I</h2> +<h3> </h3> +</center> +<p><i>The morning-room at Marden House (Buckinghamshire) decided +more than a hundred years ago that it was all right, and has not +bothered about itself since. Visitors to the house have called the +result such different adjectives as "mellow" "old-fashioned," +"charming"—even "baronial" and "antique"; but nobody ever +said it was "exciting." Sometimes</i> OLIVIA <i>wants it to be more +exciting, and last week she let herself go over some new curtains. +At present they are folded up and waiting for her; she still has +the rings to put on. It is obvious that the curtains alone will +overdo the excitement; they will have to be harmonised with a new +carpet and cushions</i>. OLIVIA <i>has her eye on just the things, +but one has to go carefully with</i> GEORGE. <i>What was good +enough for his great-great-grandfather is good enough for him. +However, we can trust</i> OLIVIA <i>to see him through it, although +it may take time</i>.</p> +<p><i>There are two ways of coming into the room; by the open +windows leading from the terrace or by the door. On this pleasant +July morning</i> MR. PIM <i>chooses the latter way—or +rather</i> ANNE <i>chooses it for him; and old</i> MR. PIM, +<i>wistful, kindly, gentle, little</i> MR. PIM, <i>living in some +world of his own whither we cannot follow, ambles after +her</i>.</p> +<p>ANNE. I'll tell Mr. Marden you're here, sir. Mr. Pim, isn't +it?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>coming back to this world</i>). Yes—er—Mr. +Carraway Pim. He doesn't know me, you understand, but if he could +just see me for a moment—er—(<i>He fumbles in his +pockets</i>) I gave you that letter?</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, sir, I'll give it to him.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>bringing out a letter which is not the one he was +looking for, but which reminds him of something else he has +forgotten</i>). Dear me!</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, sir?</p> +<p>PIM. I ought to have sent a telegram, but I can do it on my way +back. You have a telegraph office in the village?</p> +<p>ANNE. Oh yes, sir. If you turn to the left when you get outside +the gates, it isn't more than a hundred yards down the hill.</p> +<p>PIM. Thank you, thank you. Very stupid of me to have +forgotten.</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(MR. PIM <i>wanders about the room humming to himself, and +looking vaguely at the pictures. He has his back to the door as</i> +DINAH <i>comes in. She is nineteen, very pretty, very happy, and +full of boyish high spirits and conversation</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. Hullo!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>turning round</i>). Ah, good morning, Mrs. Marden. You +must forgive my—er—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh I say, I'm not Mrs. Marden. I'm Dinah.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>with a bow</i>). Then I will say, Good morning, Miss +Diana.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>reproachfully</i>). Now, look here, if you and I are +going to be friends you mustn't do that. Dinah, <i>not</i> Diana. +Do remember it, there's a good man, because I get so tired of +correcting people. Have you come to stay with us?</p> +<p>PIM. Well no, Miss—er—Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>nodding</i>). That's right. I can see I shan't have to +speak to <i>you</i> again. Now tell me <i>your</i> name, and I bet +you I get it right first time. And do sit down.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>sitting down</i>). Thank you. My name +is—er—Pim, Carraway Pim—</p> +<p>DINAH. Pim, that's easy.</p> +<p>PIM. And I have a letter of introduction to your +father—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh no; now you're going wrong again, Mr. Pim. George +isn't my father; he's my uncle. <i>Uncle</i> George—he +doesn't like me calling him George. Olivia doesn't mind—I +mean she doesn't mind being called Olivia, but George is rather +touchy. You see, he's been my guardian since I was about two, and +then about five years ago he married a widow called Mrs. +Telworthy—that's Olivia—so she became my Aunt Olivia, +only she lets me drop the Aunt. Got that?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>a little alarmed</i>). I—I think so, Miss +Marden.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>admiringly</i>). I say, you <i>are</i> quick, Mr. Pim. +Well, if you take my advice, when you've finished your business +with George, you will hang about a bit and see if you can't see +Olivia. She's simply devastating. I don't wonder George fell in +love with her.</p> +<p>PIM. It's only the merest matter of business—just a few +minutes with your uncle—I'm afraid I shall hardly—</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, you must please yourself, Mr. Pim. I'm just giving +you a friendly word of advice. Naturally, I was awfully glad to get +such a magnificent aunt, because, of course, marriage <i>is</i> +rather a toss up, isn't it, and George might have gone off with +anybody. It's different on the stage, where guardians always marry +their wards, but George couldn't marry <i>me</i> because I'm his +niece. Mind you, I don't say that I should have had him, because +between ourselves he's a little bit old-fashioned.</p> +<p>PIM. So he married—er—Mrs. Marden instead.</p> +<p>DINAH. Mrs. Telworthy—don't say you've forgotten already, +just when you were getting so good at names. Mrs. Telworthy. You +see, Olivia married the Telworthy man and went to Australia with +him, and he drank himself to death in the bush, or wherever you +drink yourself to death out there, and Olivia came home to England, +and met my uncle, and he fell in love with her and proposed to her, +and he came into my room that night—I was about +fourteen—and turned on the light and said, "Dinah, how would +you like to have a beautiful aunt of your very own?" And I said: +"Congratulations, George." That was the first time I called him +George. Of course, I'd seen it coming for <i>weeks</i>. Telworthy, +isn't it a funny name?</p> +<p>PIM. Very singular. From Australia, you say?</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, I always say that he's probably still alive, and +will turn up here one morning and annoy George, because that's what +first husbands always do in books, but I'm afraid there's not much +chance.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>shocked</i>). Miss Marden!</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, of course, I don't really <i>want</i> it to happen, +but it <i>would</i> be rather exciting, wouldn't it? However, +things like that never seem to occur down here, somehow. There was +a hay-rick burnt last year about a mile away, but that isn't quite +the same thing, is it?</p> +<p>PIM. No, I should say that that was certainly different.</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course, something very, very wonderful did happen last +night, but I'm not sure if I know you well enough—— +(<i>She looks at him hesitatingly</i>.)</p> +<p>PIM (<i>uncomfortably</i>). Really, Miss Marden, I am only +a—a passer-by, here to-day and gone to-morrow. You really +mustn't——</p> +<p>DINAH. And yet there's something about you, Mr. Pim, which +inspires confidence. The fact is—(<i>in a stage +whisper</i>)—I got engaged last night!</p> +<p>PIM. Dear me, let me congratulate you.</p> +<p>DINAH. I expect that's why George is keeping you such a long +time. Brian, my young man, the well-known painter—only nobody +has ever heard of him—he's smoking a pipe with George in the +library and asking for his niece's hand. Isn't it exciting? You're +really rather lucky, Mr. Pim—I mean being told so soon. Even +Olivia doesn't know yet.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>getting up</i>). Yes, yes. I congratulate you, Miss +Marden. Perhaps it would be better——</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Marden is out at the moment, sir—— Oh, I +didn't see you, Miss Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. It's all right, Anne. <i>I'm</i> looking after Mr. +Pim.</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, Miss.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>excitedly</i>). That's me. They can't discuss me in +the library without breaking down, so they're walking up and down +outside, and slashing at the thistles in order to conceal their +emotion. <i>You</i> know. I expect Brian——</p> +<p>PIM (<i>looking at his watch</i>). Yes, I think, Miss Marden, I +had better go now and return a little later. I have a telegram +which I want to send, and perhaps by the time I came +back——</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, but how disappointing of you, when we were getting on +together so nicely. And it was just going to be your turn to tell +me all about <i>your</i>self.</p> +<p>PIM. I have really nothing to tell, Miss Marden. I have a letter +of introduction to Mr. Marden, who in turn will give me, I hope, a +letter to a certain distinguished man whom it is necessary for me +to meet. That is all. (<i>Holding out his hand</i>) And now, Miss +Marden——</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, I'll start you on your way to the post office. I want +to know if you're married, and all that sort of thing. You've got +heaps to tell me, Mr. Pim. Have you got your hat? That's right. +Then we'll—hullo, here's Brian.</p> +<p>(BRIAN STRANGE <i>comes in at the windows. He is what</i> GEORGE +<i>calls a damned futuristic painter-chap, aged twenty-four. To +look at, he is a very pleasant boy, rather untidily +dressed</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>nodding</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>seizing him</i>). Brian, this is Mr. Pim. Mr. Carraway +Pim. He's been telling me all about himself. It's so interesting. +He's just going to send a telegram, and then he's coming back +again. Mr. Pim, this is Brian—<i>you</i> know.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>smiling and shaking hands</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>pleadingly</i>). You <i>won't</i> mind going to the +post office by yourself, will you, because, you see, Brian and +I—(<i>she looks lovingly at</i> BRIAN).</p> +<p>PIM (<i>because they are so young</i>). Miss Dinah and +Mr.—er—Brian, I have only come into your lives for a +moment, and it is probable that I shall now pass out of them for +ever, but you will allow an old man——</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, not old!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>chuckling happily</i>). Well, a middle-aged man—to +wish you both every happiness in the years that you have before +you. Good-bye, good-bye.</p> +<p>[<i>He disappears gently through the windows</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian, he'll get lost if he goes that way.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>going to the windows and calling after him</i>). Round +to the left, sir. . . . That's right. (<i>He comes back into the +room</i>) Rum old bird. Who is he?</p> +<p>DINAH. Darling, you haven't kissed me yet.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>taking her in his arms</i>). I oughtn't to, but then +one never ought to do the nice things.</p> +<p>DINAH. Why oughtn't you?</p> +<p>(<i>They sit on the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, we said we'd be good until we'd told your uncle and +aunt all about it. You see, being a guest in their +house——</p> +<p>DINAH. But, darling child, what <i>have</i> you been doing all +this morning <i>except</i> telling George?</p> +<p>BRIAN. <i>Trying</i> to tell George.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>nodding</i>). Yes, of course, there's a +difference.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I think he guessed there was something up, and he took me +down to see the pigs—he said he had to see the pigs at +once—I don't know why; an appointment perhaps. And we talked +about pigs all the way, and I couldn't say, "Talking about pigs, I +want to marry your niece——"</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>with mock indignation</i>). Of course you +couldn't.</p> +<p>BRIAN. No. Well, you see how it was. And then when we'd finished +talking about pigs, we started talking <i>to</i> the +pigs——</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>eagerly</i>). Oh, <i>how</i> is Arnold?</p> +<p>BRIAN. The little black-and-white one? He's very jolly, I +believe, but naturally I wasn't thinking about him much. I was +wondering how to begin. And then Lumsden came up, and wanted to +talk pig-food, and the atmosphere grew less and less romantic, +and—and I gradually drifted away.</p> +<p>DINAH. Poor darling. Well, we shall have to approach him through +Olivia.</p> +<p>BRIAN. But I always wanted to tell her first; she's so much +easier. Only you wouldn't let me.</p> +<p>DINAH. That's <i>your</i> fault, Brian. You would tell Olivia +that she ought to have orange-and-black curtains.</p> +<p>BRIAN. But she <i>wants</i> orange-and-black curtains.</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, but George says he's not going to have any +futuristic nonsense in an honest English country house, which has +been good enough for his father and his grandfather and his +great-grandfather, and—and all the rest of them. So there's a +sort of strained feeling between Olivia and George just now, and if +Olivia were to—sort of recommend you, well, it wouldn't do +you much good.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>looking at her</i>). I see. Of course I know what +<i>you</i> want, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. What do I want?</p> +<p>BRIAN. You want a secret engagement, and notes left under +door-mats, and meetings by the withered thorn, when all the +household is asleep. <i>I</i> know you.</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered +thorns.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, I'm not going to have it.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>childishly</i>). Oh, George! Look at us being +husbandy!</p> +<p>BRIAN. You babe! I adore you. (<i>He kisses her and holds her +away from him and looks at her</i>) You know, you're rather +throwing yourself away on me. Do you mind?</p> +<p>DINAH. Not a bit.</p> +<p>BRIAN. We shall never be rich, but we shall have lots of fun, +and meet interesting people, and feel that we're doing something +worth doing, and not getting paid nearly enough for it, and we can +curse the Academy together and the British Public, and—oh, +it's an exciting life.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>seeing it</i>). I shall love it.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'll make you love it. You shan't be sorry, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. You shan't be sorry either, Brian.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>looking at her lovingly</i>). Oh, I know I shan't. . . +. What will Olivia think about it? Will she be surprised?</p> +<p>DINAH. She's never surprised. She always seems to have thought +of things about a week before they happen. George just begins to +get hold of them about a week <i>after</i> they've happened. +(<i>Considering him</i>) After all, there's no reason why George +<i>shouldn't</i> like you, darling.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'm not his sort, you know.</p> +<p>DINAH. You're more Olivia's sort. Well, we'll tell Olivia this +morning.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>coming in</i>). And what are you going to tell Olivia +this morning? (<i>She looks at them with a smile</i>) Oh, well, I +think I can guess.</p> +<p><i>Shall we describe</i> OLIVIA? <i>But you will know all about +her before the day is over</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>jumping up</i>). Olivia, darling!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>following</i>). Say you understand, Mrs. Marden.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mrs. Marden, I am afraid, is a very dense person, Brian, +but I think if you asked Olivia if she understood——</p> +<p>BRIAN. Bless you, Olivia. I knew you'd be on our side.</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course she would.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't know if it's usual to kiss an aunt-in-law, +Brian, but Dinah is such a very special sort of niece +that—(<i>she inclines her cheek and</i> BRIAN <i>kisses +it</i>).</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, you <i>are</i> in luck to-day, Brian.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>going over to her chair by the work-table and getting +to business with the curtains</i>) And how many people have been +told the good news?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Nobody yet.</p> +<p>DINAH. Except Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Oh, does <i>he</i>—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Who's Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, he just happened—I say, are those <i>the</i> +curtains? Then you're going to have them after all?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with an air of surprise</i>). After all what? But I +decided on them long ago. (<i>To</i> BRIAN) You haven't told George +yet?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I began to, you know, but I never got any farther than +"Er—there's just—er—"</p> +<p>DINAH. George <i>would</i> talk about pigs all the time.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I suppose you want me to help you.</p> +<p>DINAH. Do, darling.</p> +<p>BRIAN. It would be awfully decent of you. Of course, I'm not +quite his sort really—</p> +<p>DINAH. You're <i>my</i> sort.</p> +<p>BRIAN. But I don't think he objects to me, and—</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>comes in, a typical, narrow-minded, honest country +gentleman of forty odd</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>at the windows</i>). What's all this about a Mr. Pim? +(<i>He kicks some of the mud off his boots</i>) Who is he? Where is +he? I had most important business with Lumsden, and the girl comes +down and cackles about a Mr. Pim, or Ping, or something. Where did +I put his card? (<i>Bringing it out</i>) Carraway Pim. Never heard +of him in my life.</p> +<p>DINAH. He said he had a letter of introduction, Uncle +George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, <i>you</i> saw him, did you? Yes, that reminds me, +there <i>was</i> a letter—(<i>he brings it out and reads +it</i>).</p> +<p>DINAH. He had to send a telegram. He's coming back.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Pass me those scissors, Brian.</p> +<p>BRIAN. These? (<i>He picks them up and comes close to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Thank you. (<i>She indicates</i> GEORGE'S <i>back. +"Now?" says</i> BRIAN <i>with his eyebrows. She nods</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>reading</i>). Ah well, a friend of Brymer's. Glad to +oblige him. Yes, I know the man he wants. Coming back, you say, +Dinah? Then I'll be going back. Send him down to the farm, Olivia, +when he comes. (<i>To</i> BRIAN) Hallo, what happened to +<i>you</i>?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Don't go, George, there's something we want to talk +about.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Hallo, what's this?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). Shall I——?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>stepping out</i>). I've been wanting to tell you all +this morning, sir, only I didn't seem to have an opportunity of +getting it out.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, what is it?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I want to marry Dinah, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You want to marry Dinah? God bless my soul!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>rushing to him and putting her cheek against his +coat</i>). Oh, do say you like the idea, Uncle George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Like the idea! Have you heard of this nonsense, +Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. They've just this moment told me, George. I think they +would be happy together.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> BRIAN). And what do you propose to be happy +together <i>on</i>?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, of course, it doesn't amount to much at present, +but we shan't starve.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian got fifty pounds for a picture last March!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>a little upset by this</i>). Oh! (<i>Recovering +gamely</i>) And how many pictures have you sold since?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, none, but—</p> +<p>GEORGE. None! And I don't wonder. Who the devil is going to buy +pictures with triangular clouds and square sheep? And they call +that Art nowadays! Good God, man, (<i>waving him to the +windows</i>) go outside and <i>look</i> at the clouds!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. If he draws round clouds in future, George, will you let +him marry Dinah?</p> +<p>GEORGE. What—what? Yes, of course, you <i>would</i> be on +his side—all this Futuristic nonsense. I'm just taking these +clouds as an example. I suppose I can see as well as any man in the +county, and I say that clouds <i>aren't</i> triangular.</p> +<p>BRIAN. After all, sir, at my age one is naturally experimenting, +and trying to find one's (<i>with a laugh</i>)—well, it +sounds priggish, but one's medium of expression. I shall find out +what I want to do directly, but I think I shall always be able to +earn enough to live on. Well, I have for the last three years.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see, and now you want to experiment with a wife, and +you propose to start experimenting with <i>my</i> niece?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>with a shrug</i>). Well, of course, if you—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You could help the experiment, darling, by giving Dinah +a good allowance until she's twenty-one.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Help the experiment! I don't <i>want</i> to help the +experiment.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>apologetically</i>). Oh, I thought you did.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You will talk as if I was made of money. What with taxes +always going up and rents always going down, it's as much as we can +do to rub along as we are, without making allowances to everybody +who thinks she wants to get married. (<i>To</i> BRIAN) And that's +thanks to you, my friend.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>surprised</i>) To me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You never told me, darling. What's Brian been doing?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>indignantly</i>). He hasn't been doing anything.</p> +<p>GEORGE. He's one of your Socialists who go turning the country +upside down.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But even Socialists must get married sometimes.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't see any necessity.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But you'd have nobody to damn after dinner, darling, if +they all died out.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Really, sir, I don't see what my politics and my art have +got to do with it. I'm perfectly ready not to talk about either +when I'm in your house, and as Dinah doesn't seem to object to +them—</p> +<p>DINAH. I should think she doesn't.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, you can get round the women, I daresay.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, it's Dinah I want to marry and live with. So what +it really comes to is that you don't think I can support a +wife.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, if you're going to do it by selling pictures, I +don't think you can.</p> +<p>BRIAN. All right, tell me how much you want me to earn in a +year, and I'll earn it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hedging</i>). It isn't merely a question of money. I +just mention that as one thing—one of the important things. +In addition to that, I think you are both too young to marry. I +don't think you know your own minds, and I am not at all persuaded +that, with what I venture to call your outrageous tastes, you and +my niece will live happily together. Just because she thinks she +loves you, Dinah may persuade herself now that she agrees with all +you say and do, but she has been properly brought up in an honest +English country household, and—er—she—well, in +short, I cannot at all approve of any engagement between you. +(<i>Getting up</i>) Olivia, if this Mr.—er—Pim comes, I +shall be down at the farm. You might send him along to me.</p> +<p>(<i>He walks towards the windows</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>indignantly</i>). Is there any reason why I shouldn't +marry a girl who has been properly brought up?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I think you know my views, Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. George, wait a moment, dear. We can't quite leave it +like this.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I have said all I want to say on the subject.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, darling, but I haven't begun to say all that +<i>I</i> want to say on the subject.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, if you have anything to say, Olivia, I will +listen to it; but I don't know that this is quite the time, or that +you have chosen—(<i>looking darkly at the +curtains</i>)—quite the occupation likely +to—er—endear your views to me.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>mutinously</i>). I may as well tell you, Uncle George, +that <i>I</i> have got a good deal to say, too.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I can guess what you are going to say, Dinah, and I +think you had better keep it for the moment.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>meekly</i>). Yes, Aunt Olivia.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Brian, you might take her outside for a walk. I expect +you have plenty to talk about.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Now mind, Strange, no love-making. I put you on your +honour about that.</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'll do my best to avoid it, sir.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>cheekily</i>). May I take his arm if we go up a +hill?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm sure you'll know how to behave—both of +you.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Come on, then, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH. Righto.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>as they go</i>). And if you do see any clouds, +Strange, take a good look at them. (<i>He chuckles to himself</i>) +Triangular clouds—I never heard of such nonsense. (<i>He goes +back to his chair at the writing-table</i>) Futuristic rubbish. . . +. Well, Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE. What are you doing?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Making curtains, George. Won't they be rather sweet? Oh, +but I forgot—you don't like them.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't like them, and what is more, I don't mean to +have them in my house. As I told you yesterday, this is the house +of a simple country gentleman, and I don't want any of these +new-fangled ideas in it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Is marrying for love a new-fangled idea?</p> +<p>GEORGE. We'll come to that directly. None of you women can keep +to the point. What I am saying now is that the house of my fathers +and forefathers is good enough for me.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do you know, George, I can hear one of your ancestors +saying that to his wife in their smelly old cave, when the +new-fangled idea of building houses was first suggested. "The Cave +of my Fathers is—"</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's ridiculous. Naturally we must have progress. But +that's just the point. (<i>Indicating the curtains</i>) I don't +call this sort of thing progress. +It's—ah—retrogression.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, anyhow, it's pretty.</p> +<p>GEORGE. There I disagree with you. And I must say once more that +I will not have them hanging in my house.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Very well, George. (<i>But she goes on working</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. That being so, I don't see the necessity of going on +with them.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I must do something with them now I've got the +material. I thought perhaps I could sell them when they're +finished—as we're so poor.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What do you mean—so poor?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you said just now that you couldn't give Dinah an +allowance because rents had gone down.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). Confound it, Olivia! Keep to the point! +We'll talk about Dinah's affairs directly. We're discussing our own +affairs at the moment.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But what is there to discuss?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Those ridiculous things.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But we've finished that. You've said you wouldn't have +them hanging in your house, and I've said, "Very well, George." Now +we can go on to Dinah and Brian.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>shouting</i>). But put these beastly things away.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>rising and gathering up the curtains</i>). Very well, +George. (<i>She puts them away, slowly, gracefully. There is an +uncomfortable silence. Evidently somebody ought to +apologise</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>realising that he is the one</i>). Er—look +here, Olivia, old girl, you've been a jolly good wife to me, and we +don't often have rows, and if I've been rude to you about +this—lost my temper a bit perhaps, what?—I'll say I'm +sorry. May I have a kiss?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>holding up her face</i>). George, darling! (<i>He +kisses her</i>.) Do you love me?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You know I do, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. As much as Brian loves Dinah?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). I've said all I want to say about that. +(<i>He goes away from her</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, but there must be lots you want to say—and +perhaps don't like to. Do tell me, darling.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What it comes to is this. I consider that Dinah is too +young to choose a husband for herself, and that Strange isn't the +husband I should choose for her.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You were calling him Brian yesterday.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yesterday I regarded him as a boy, now he wants me to +look upon him as a man.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. He's twenty-four.</p> +<p>GEORGE. And Dinah's nineteen. Ridiculous!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. If he'd been a Conservative, and thought that clouds +were round, I suppose he'd have seemed older, somehow.</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's a different point altogether. That has nothing to +do with his age.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). Oh, I thought it had.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What I am objecting to is these ridiculously early +marriages before either party knows its own mind, much less the +mind of the other party. Such marriages invariably lead to +unhappiness.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course, <i>my</i> first marriage wasn't a happy +one.</p> +<p>GEORGE. As you know, Olivia, I dislike speaking about your first +marriage at all, and I had no intention of bringing it up now, but +since you mention it—well, that is a case in point.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking back at it</i>). When I was eighteen, I was +in love. Or perhaps I only thought I was, and I don't know if I +should have been happy or not if I had married him. But my father +made me marry a man called Jacob Telworthy; and when things were +too hot for him in England—"too hot for him"—I think +that was the expression we used in those days—then we went to +Australia, and I left him there, and the only happy moment I had in +all my married life was on the morning when I saw in the papers +that he was dead.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>very uncomfortable</i>). Yes, yes, my dear, I know. +You must have had a terrible time. I can hardly bear to think about +it. My only hope is that I have made up to you for it in some +degree. But I don't see what bearing it has upon Dinah's case.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, none, except that <i>my</i> father <i>liked</i> +Jacob's political opinions and his views on art. I expect that that +was why he chose him for me.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You seem to think that I wish to choose a husband for +Dinah. I don't at all. Let her choose whom she likes as long as he +can support her and there's a chance of their being happy together. +Now, with regard to this fellow—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You mean Brian?</p> +<p>GEORGE. He's got no money, and he's been brought up in quite a +different way from Dinah. Dinah may be prepared to believe +that—er—all cows are blue, and +that—er—waves are square, but she won't go on believing +it for ever.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Neither will Brian.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, that's what I keep telling him, only he won't see +it. Just as I keep telling you about those ridiculous curtains. It +seems to me that I am the only person in the house with any +eyesight left.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Perhaps you are, darling; but you must let us find out +our own mistakes for ourselves. At any rate, Brian is a gentleman; +he loves Dinah, Dinah loves him; he's earning enough to support +himself, and you are earning enough to support Dinah. I think it's +worth risking, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). I can only say the whole question +demands much more anxious thought than you seem to have given it. +You say that he is a gentleman. He knows how to behave, I admit; +but if his morals are as topsy-turvy as his tastes +and—er—politics, as I've no doubt they are, +then—er—In short, I do <i>not</i> approve of Brian +Strange as a husband for my niece and ward.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking at him thoughtfully</i>). You <i>are</i> a +curious mixture, George. You were so very unconventional when you +married me, and you're so very conventional when Brian wants to +marry Dinah. . . . George Marden to marry the widow of a +convict!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Convict! What do you mean?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy, convict—I forget his +number—surely I told you all this, dear, when we got +engaged?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Never!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I told you how he carelessly put the wrong signature to +a cheque for a thousand pounds in England; how he made a little +mistake about two or three companies he'd promoted in Australia; +and how—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, but you never told me he was +<i>convicted</i>!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What difference does it make?</p> +<p>GEORGE. My dear Olivia, if you can't see that—a +convict!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. So, you see, we needn't be too particular about our +niece, need we?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I think we had better leave your first husband out of +the conversation altogether. I never wished to refer to him; I +never wish to hear about him again. I certainly had not realised +that he was actually—er—<i>convicted</i> for +his—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mistakes.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, we needn't go into that. As for this other matter, +I don't for a moment take it seriously. Dinah is an exceptionally +pretty girl, and young Strange is a good-looking boy. If they are +attracted to each other, it is a mere outward attraction which I am +convinced will not lead to any lasting happiness. That must be +regarded as my last word in the matter, Olivia. If this +Mr.—er—what was his name, comes, I shall be down at the +farm.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out by the door</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>Left alone</i>, OLIVIA <i>brings out her curtains again, and +gets calmly to work upon them</i>.)</p> +<p>(DINAH <i>and</i> BRIAN <i>come in by the windows</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. Finished?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh no, I've got all these rings to put on.</p> +<p>DINAH. I meant talking to George.</p> +<p>BRIAN. We walked about outside—</p> +<p>DINAH. Until we heard him <i>not</i> talking to you any +more—</p> +<p>BRIAN. And we didn't kiss each other once.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian was very George-like. He wouldn't even let me +tickle the back of his neck. (<i>She goes up suddenly to</i> OLIVIA +<i>and kneels by her and kisses her</i>) Darling, being George-like +is a very nice thing to be—I mean a nice thing for other +people to be—I mean—oh, you know what I mean. But say +that he's going to be decent about it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course he is, Dinah.</p> +<p>BRIAN. You mean he'll let me come here as—as—</p> +<p>DINAH. As my young man?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, I think so.</p> +<p>DINAH. Olivia, you're a wonder. Have you really talked him +round?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I haven't said anything yet. But I daresay I shall think +of something.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>disappointedly</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>making the best of it</i>). After all, Dinah, I'm +going back to London to-morrow—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You can be good for one more day, Dinah, and then when +Brian isn't here, we'll see what we can do.</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, but I didn't want him to go back to-morrow.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>sternly</i>). Must. Hard work before me. Earn +thousands a year. Paint the Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey, +life-size, including chains of office; paint slice of haddock on +plate. Copy Landseer for old gentleman in Bayswater. Design +antimacassar for middle-aged sofa in Streatham. Earn a living for +you, Dinah.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>giggling</i>). Oh, Brian, you're heavenly. What fun we +shall have when we're married.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>stiffly</i>). Sir Brian Strange, R.A., if you please, +Miss Marden. Sir Brian Strange, R.A., writes: "Your Sanogene has +proved a most excellent tonic. After completing the third acre of +my Academy picture 'The Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey' I was +completely exhausted, but one bottle of Sanogene revived me, and I +finished the remaining seven acres at a single sitting."</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking about her</i>). Brian, find my scissors for +me.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Scissors. (<i>Looking for them</i>) Sir Brian Strange, +R.A., looks for scissors. (<i>Finding them</i>) Aha! Once more we +must record an unqualified success for the eminent Academician. +Your scissors.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Thank you so much.</p> +<p>DINAH. Come on, Brian, let's go out. I feel open-airy.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Don't be late for lunch, there's good people. Lady +Marden is coming.</p> +<p>DINAH. Aunt Juli-ah! Help! (<i>She faints in</i> BRIAN'S +<i>arms</i>) That means a clean pinafore. Brian, you'll jolly well +have to brush your hair.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>feeling it</i>). I suppose there's no time now to go +up to London and get it cut?</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> ANNE, <i>followed by</i> PIM.</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>delighted</i>). Hullo, Mr. Pim! Here we are again! You +can't get rid of us so easily, you see.</p> +<p>PIM. I—er—dear Miss Marden—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How do you do, Mr. Pim? I can't get up, but do come and +sit down. My husband will be here in a minute. Anne, send somebody +down to the farm—</p> +<p>ANNE. I think I heard the Master in the library, madam.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, will you tell him then?</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, madam.</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You'll stay to lunch, of course, Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, do!</p> +<p>PIM. It's very kind of you, Mrs. Marden, but—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, you simply must, Mr. Pim. You haven't told us half +enough about yourself yet. I want to hear all about your early +life.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah!</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, we are almost, I might say, old friends, Mrs. +Marden.</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course we are. He knows Brian, too. There's more in +Mr. Pim than you think. You <i>will</i> stay to lunch, won't +you?</p> +<p>PIM. It's very kind of you to ask me, Mrs. Marden, but I am +lunching with the Trevors.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, well, you must come to lunch another day.</p> +<p>DINAH. The reason why we like Mr. Pim so much is that he was the +first person to congratulate us. We feel that he is going to have a +great influence on our lives.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). I, so to speak, stumbled on the +engagement this morning and—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I see. Children, you must go and tidy yourselves up. Run +along.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Sir Brian and Lady Strange never run; they walk. +(<i>Offering his arm</i>) Madam!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>taking it</i>). Au revoir, Mr. Pim. +(<i>Dramatically</i>) +We—shall—meet—<i>again</i>!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>chuckling</i>). Good morning, Miss Dinah.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Good morning.</p> +<p>[<i>He and</i> DINAH <i>go out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You must forgive them, Mr. Pim. They're such children. +And naturally they're rather excited just now.</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, not at all, Mrs. Marden.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course you won't say anything about their engagement. +We only heard about it five minutes ago, and nothing has been +settled yet.</p> +<p>PIM. Of course, of course!</p> +<p><i>[Enter</i> GEORGE.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Ah, Mr. Pim, we meet at last. Sorry to have kept you +waiting before.</p> +<p>PIM. The apology should come from me, Mr. Marden for +having—er—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Not at all. Very glad to meet you now. Any friend of +Brymer's. You want a letter to this man Fanshawe?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Shall I be in your way at all?</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, no, no, please don't.</p> +<p>GEORGE. It's only just a question of a letter. (<i>Going to his +desk</i>) Fanshawe will put you in the way of seeing all that you +want to see. He's a very old friend of mine. (<i>Taking a sheet of +notepaper</i>) You'll stay to lunch, of course?</p> +<p>PIM. I'm afraid I am lunching with the Trevors—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, well, they'll look after you all right. Good chap, +Trevor.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). You see, Mrs. Marden, I have only +recently arrived from Australia after travelling about the world +for some years, and I'm rather out of touch with +my—er—fellow-workers in London.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh yes. You've been in Australia, Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>disliking Australia</i>). I shan't be a moment, Mr. +Pim. (<i>He frowns at</i> OLIVIA.)</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, that's all right, thank you. (<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Oh yes, +I have been in Australia more than once in the last few years.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Really? I used to live at Sydney many years ago. Do you +know Sydney at all?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>detesting Sydney</i>). H'r'm! Perhaps I'd better +mention that you are a friend of the Trevors?</p> +<p>PIM. Thank you, thank you. (<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Indeed yes, I +spent several months in Sydney.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How curious. I wonder if we have any friends in common +there.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hastily</i>). Extremely unlikely, I should think. +Sydney is a very big place.</p> +<p>PIM. True, but the world is a very small place, Mr. Marden. I +had a remarkable instance of that, coming over on the boat this +last time.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Ah! (<i>Feeling that the conversation is now safe, he +resumes his letter</i>.)</p> +<p>PIM. Yes. There was a man I used to employ in Sydney some years +ago, a bad fellow, I'm afraid, Mrs. Marden, who had been in prison +for some kind of fraudulent company-promoting and had taken to +drink and—and so on.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, yes, I understand.</p> +<p>PIM. Drinking himself to death I should have said. I gave him at +the most another year to live. Yet to my amazement the first person +I saw as I stepped on board the boat that brought me to England +last week was this fellow. There was no mistaking him. I spoke to +him, in fact; we recognised each other.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Really?</p> +<p>PIM. He was travelling steerage; we didn't meet again on board, +and as it happened at Marseilles, this poor +fellow—er—now what <i>was</i> his name? A very unusual +one. Began with a—a T, I think.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with suppressed feeling</i>). Yes, Mr. Pim, yes? +(<i>She puts out a hand</i> to GEORGE.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>in an undertone</i>). Nonsense, dear!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>triumphantly</i>). I've got it! Telworthy!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Telworthy!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Good God!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>a little surprised at the success of his story</i>). An +unusual name, is it not? Not a name you could forget when once you +had heard it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with feeling</i>). No, it is not a name you could +forget when once you had heard it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hastily coming over to</i> PIM). Quite so, Mr. Pim, a +most remarkable name, a most odd story altogether. Well, well, +here's your letter, and if you're sure you won't stay to +lunch—</p> +<p>PIM. I'm afraid not, thank you. You see, I—</p> +<p>GEORGE. The Trevors, yes. I'll just see you on your +way—(<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Er—my dear—</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>holding out her hand, but not looking at him</i>). +Good-bye, Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>PIM. Good-bye, good-bye!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>leading the way through the windows</i>). This way, +this way. Quicker for you.</p> +<p>PIM. Thank you, thank you.</p> +<p>[GEORGE <i>hurries</i> MR. PIM <i>out</i>.</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>sits there and looks into the past. Now and then she +shudders</i>.)</p> +<p>[GEORGE <i>comes back</i>.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Good God! Telworthy! Is it possible? (<i>Before</i> +OLIVIA <i>can answer</i>, LADY MARDEN <i>is announced. They pull +themselves together and greet her</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2><b>ACT II</b></h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>Lunch is over and coffee has been served on the terrace. +Conversation drags on, to the satisfaction of</i> LADY MARDEN, +<i>but of nobody else</i>. GEORGE <i>and</i> OLIVIA <i>want to be +alone; so do</i> BRIAN <i>and</i> DINAH. <i>At last</i> BRIAN +<i>murmurs something about a cigarette-case; and, catching</i> +DINAH'S <i>eye, comes into the house. He leans against the sofa and +waits for</i> DINAH.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>loudly as she comes in</i>). Have you found it?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Found what?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>in her ordinary voice</i>). That was just for +<i>their</i> benefit. I said I'd help you find it. It <i>is</i> +your cigarette-case we're looking for, isn't it?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>taking it out</i>). Yes. Have one?</p> +<p>DINAH. No, thank you, darling. Aunt Juli-ah still thinks it's +unladylike. . . . Have you ever seen her beagling?</p> +<p>BRIAN. No. Is that very ladylike?</p> +<p>DINAH. Very. . . . I say, what has happened, do you think?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Everything. I love you, and you love me.</p> +<p>DINAH. Silly! I meant between George and Olivia. Didn't you +notice them at lunch?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I noticed that you seemed to be doing most of the +talking. But then I've noticed that before sometimes. Do you think +Olivia and your uncle have quarrelled because of <i>us</i>?</p> +<p>DINAH. Of course not. George may <i>think</i> he has quarrelled, +but I'm quite sure Olivia hasn't. No, I believe Mr. Pim's at the +bottom of it. He's brought some terribly sad news about George's +investments. The old home will have to be sold up.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Good. Then your uncle won't mind your marrying me.</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes, darling, but you must be more dramatic about it than +that. "George," you must say, with tears in your eyes, "I cannot +pay off the whole of the mortgage for you. I have only two and +ninepence; but at least let me take your niece off your hands." +Then George will thump you on the back and say gruffly, "You're a +good fellow, Brian, a damn good fellow," and he'll blow his nose +very loudly, and say, "Confound this cigar, it won't draw +properly." (<i>She gives us a rough impression of</i> GEORGE +<i>doing it</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN. Dinah, you're a heavenly idiot. And you've simply got to +marry me, uncles or no uncles.</p> +<p>DINAH. It will have to be "uncles," I'm afraid, because, you +see, I'm his ward, and I can get sent to Chancery or Coventry or +somewhere beastly, if I marry without his consent. Haven't +<i>you</i> got anybody who objects to your marrying <i>me</i>?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Nobody, thank Heaven.</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, that's rather disappointing of you. I saw myself +fascinating your aged father at the same time that you were +fascinating George. I should have done it much better than you. As +a George-fascinator you aren't very successful, sweetheart.</p> +<p>BRIAN. What am I like as a Dinah-fascinator?</p> +<p>DINAH. Plus six, darling.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Then I'll stick to that and leave George to Olivia.</p> +<p>DINAH. I expect she'll manage him all right. I have great faith +in Olivia. But you'll marry me, anyhow, won't you, Brian?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I will.</p> +<p>DINAH. Even if we have to wait till I'm twenty-one?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Even if we have to wait till you're fifty-one.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>holding out her hands to him</i>). Darling!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>uneasily</i>). I say, don't do that.</p> +<p>DINAH. Why not?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, I promised I wouldn't kiss you.</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh! . . . Well, you might just <i>send</i> me a kiss. You +can look the other way as if you didn't know I was here.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Like this?</p> +<p>(<i>He looks the other way, kisses the tips of his fingers, and +flicks it carelessly in her direction</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. That was a lovely one. Now here's one coming for you.</p> +<p>(<i>He catches it gracefully and conveys it to his +mouth</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>with a low bow</i>). Madam, I thank you.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>curtseying</i>). Your servant, Mr. Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>from outside</i>). Dinah!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>jumping up</i>). Hullo!</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>comes in through the windows, followed by</i> GEORGE +<i>and</i> LADY MARDEN, <i>the latter a vigorous young woman of +sixty odd, who always looks as if she were beagling</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Aunt Julia wants to see the pigs, dear. I wish you'd +take her down. I'm rather tired, and your uncle has some business +to attend to.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I've always said that you don't take enough +exercise, Olivia. Look at me—sixty-five and proud of it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, Aunt Julia, you're wonderful.</p> +<p>DINAH. How old would Olivia be if she took exercise?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Don't stand about asking silly questions, Dinah. Your +aunt hasn't much time.</p> +<p>BRIAN. May I come, too, Lady Marden?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Well, a little exercise wouldn't do <i>you</i> any +harm, Mr. Strange. You're an artist, ain't you?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, I try to paint.</p> +<p>DINAH. He sold a picture last March for—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, never mind that now.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Unhealthy life. Well, come along.</p> +<p>[<i>She strides out, followed by</i> DINAH <i>and</i> BRIAN.</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>sits down at his desk with his head in his hand, and +stabs the blotting-paper with a pen</i>. OLIVIA <i>takes the +curtains with her to the sofa and begins to work on them</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>looking up and seeing them</i>). Really, Olivia, +we've got something more important, more vital to us than curtains, +to discuss, now that we <i>are</i> alone at last.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I wasn't going to discuss them, dear.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I'm always glad to see Aunt Julia in my house, but I +wish she hadn't chosen this day of all days to come to lunch.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It wasn't Aunt Julia's fault. It was really Mr. Pim who +chose the wrong day.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>fiercely</i>). Good Heavens, is it true?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. About Jacob Telworthy?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You told me he was dead. You always said that he was +dead. You—you—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I always thought that he was dead. He was as dead +as anybody could be. All the papers said he was dead.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>scornfully</i>). The papers!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>as if this would settle it for</i> GEORGE). The +<i>Times</i> said he was dead. There was a paragraph about him. +Apparently even his death was fraudulent.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, I'm not blaming you, Olivia, but what are we +going to do, that's the question, what are we going to do? My God, +it's horrible! You've never been married to me at all! You don't +seem to understand.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It is a little difficult to realise. You see, it doesn't +seem to have made any difference to our happiness.</p> +<p>GEORGE. No, that's what's so terrible. I mean—well, of +course, we were quite innocent in the matter. But, at the same +time, nothing can get over the fact that we—we had no right +to—to be happy.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Would you rather we had been miserable?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You're Telworthy's wife, that's what you don't seem to +understand. You're Telworthy's wife. You—er—forgive me, +Olivia, but it's the horrible truth—you committed bigamy when +you married me. (<i>In horror</i>) Bigamy!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It is an ugly word, isn't it?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, but don't you understand—(<i>He jumps up and +comes over to her</i>) Look here, Olivia, old girl, the whole thing +is nonsense, eh? It isn't your husband, it's some other Telworthy +that this fellow met. That's right, isn't it? Some other shady +swindler who turned up on the boat, eh? This sort of thing doesn't +happen to people like <i>us</i>—committing bigamy and all +that. Some other fellow.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shaking her head</i>). I knew all the shady swindlers +in Sydney, George. . . . They came to dinner. . . . There were no +others called Telworthy.</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>goes back despondently to his seat</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, what are we going to do?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You sent Mr. Pim away so quickly. He might have told us +things. Telworthy's plans. Where he is now. You hurried him away so +quickly.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I've sent a note round to ask him to come back. My one +idea at the moment was to get him out of the house—to hush +things up.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You can't hush up two husbands.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>in despair</i>). You can't. Everybody will know. +Everybody!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. The children, Aunt Julia, they may as well know now as +later. Mr. Pim must, of course.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I do not propose to discuss my private affairs with Mr. +Pim——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But he's mixed himself up in them rather, hasn't he, and +if you're going to ask him questions——</p> +<p>GEORGE. I only propose to ask him one question. I shall ask him +if he is absolutely certain of the man's name. I can do that quite +easily without letting him know the reason for my inquiry.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You couldn't make a mistake about a name like Telworthy. +But he might tell us something about Telworthy's plans. Perhaps +he's going back to Australia at once. Perhaps he thinks I'm dead, +too. Perhaps— oh, there are so many things I want to +know.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, dear. It would be interesting to—that +is, one naturally wants to know these things, but of course it +doesn't make any real difference.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). No difference?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, that is to say, you're as much his wife if he's in +Australia as you are if he's in England.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I am not his wife at all.</p> +<p>GEORGE. But, Olivia, surely you understand the +position——</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shaking her head</i>). Jacob Telworthy may be alive, +but I am not his wife. I ceased to be his wife when I became +yours.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You never <i>were</i> my wife. That is the terrible part +of it. Our union—you make me say it, Olivia—has been +unhallowed by the Church. Unhallowed even by the Law. Legally, we +have been living in—living in—well, the point is, how +does the Law stand? I imagine that Telworthy could get a—a +divorce. . . . Oh, it seems impossible that things like this can be +happening to <i>us</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>Joyfully</i>). A divorce?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I—I imagine so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But then we could <i>really</i> get married, and we +shouldn't be living in—living in—whatever we were +living in before.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I can't understand you, Olivia. You talk about it so +calmly, as if there was nothing blameworthy in being divorced, as +if there was nothing unusual in my marrying a divorced woman, as if +there was nothing wrong in our having lived together for years +without having been married.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What seems wrong to me is that I lived for five years +with a bad man whom I hated. What seems right to me is that I lived +for five years with a good man whom I love.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, my dear, I know. But right and wrong don't +settle themselves as easily as that. We've been living together +when you were Telworthy's wife. That's <i>wrong</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do you mean wicked?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, no doubt the Court would consider that we acted in +perfect innocence—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What Court?</p> +<p>GEORGE. These things have to be done legally, of course. I +believe the proper method is a nullity suit, declaring our marriage +null and—er—void. It would, so to speak, wipe out these +years of—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Wickedness?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of irregular union, and—er—then—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Then I could go back to Jacob. . . . Do you really mean +that, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>uneasily</i>). Well, dear, you see—that's how +things are—one can't get away from—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What you feel is that Telworthy has the greater claim? +You are prepared to—make way for him?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Both the Church and the Law would say that I had no +claim at all, I'm afraid. I—I suppose I haven't.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I see. (<i>She looks at him curiously</i>) Thank you for +making it so clear, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, whether or not you go back +to—er—Telworthy is another matter altogether. That +would naturally be for you to decide.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>cheerfully</i>). For me and Jacko to decide.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Er—Jacko?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I used to call my first husband—I mean my only +husband—Jacko. I didn't like the name of Jacob, and Jacko +seemed to suit him somehow. . . . He had very long arms. Dear +Jacko.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). You don't seem to realise that this is +not a joke, Olivia.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>a trifle hysterically</i>). It may not be a joke, but +it <i>is</i> funny, isn't it?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I must say I don't see anything funny in a tragedy that +has wrecked two lives.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Two? Oh, but Jacko's life isn't wrecked. It has just +been miraculously restored to him. And a wife, too. There's nothing +tragic for Jacko in it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). I was referring to <i>our</i> two +lives—yours and mine.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yours, George? Your life isn't wrecked. The Court will +absolve you of all blame; your friends will sympathise with you, +and tell you that I was a designing woman who deliberately took you +in; your Aunt Julia——</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>overwrought</i>). Stop it! What do you mean? Have you +no heart? Do you think I <i>want</i> to lose you, Olivia? Do you +think I <i>want</i> my home broken up like this? Haven't you been +happy with me these last five years?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Very happy.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well then, how can you talk like that?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>pathetically</i>). But you want to send me away.</p> +<p>GEORGE. There you go again. I don't <i>want</i> to. I have +hardly had time to realise just what it will mean to me when you +go. The fact is I simply daren't realise it. I daren't think about +it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>earnestly</i>). Try thinking about it, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. And you talk as if I <i>wanted</i> to send you away!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Try thinking about it, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You don't seem to understand that I'm not <i>sending</i> +you away. You simply aren't mine to keep.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Whose am I?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Your husband's. Telworthy's.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>gently</i>). If I belong to anybody but myself, I +think I belong to you.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Not in the eyes of the Law. Not in the eyes of the +Church. Not even in the eyes of—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. The County?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). I was about to say "Heaven."</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>unimpressed</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>GEORGE. That this should happen to <i>us</i>! (<i>He gets up and +walks about the room, wondering when he will wake up from this +impossible dream,</i> OLIVIA <i>works in silence. Then she stands +up and shakes out her curtains</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking at them</i>). I do hope Jacko will like +these.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What! You—— (<i>Going up to her</i>) Olivia, +Olivia, have you no heart?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ought you to talk like that to another man's wife?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Confound it, is this just a joke to you?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You must forgive me, George; I am a little +over-excited—at the thought of returning to Jacob, I +suppose.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Do you <i>want</i> to return to him?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. One wants to do what is right. In the eyes +of—er—Heaven.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Seeing what sort of man he is, I have no doubt that you +could get a separation, supposing that he +didn't—er—divorce you. I don't know <i>what</i> is +best. I must consult my solicitor. The whole position has been +sprung on us, and—(<i>miserably</i>) I don't know, I don't +know. I can't take it all in.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Wouldn't you like to consult your Aunt Julia too? She +could tell you what the County—I mean what Heaven really +thought about it.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes. Aunt Julia has plenty of common sense. You're +quite right, Olivia. This isn't a thing we can keep from the +family.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do I still call her <i>Aunt</i> Julia?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>looking up from his pacings</i>). What? What? (ANNE +<i>comes in</i>.) Well, what is it?</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim says he will come down at once, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh, thank you, thank you.</p> +<p>[ANNE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. George, Mr. Pim has got to know.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't see the necessity.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Not even for me? When a woman suddenly hears that her +long-lost husband is restored to her, don't you think she wants to +ask questions? Where is he living, and how is he looking, +and——</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coldly</i>). Of course, if you are interested in +these things—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How can I help being? Don't be so silly, George. We +<i>must</i> know what Jacko—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>annoyed</i>). I wish you wouldn't call him by that +ridiculous name.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. My husband—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>wincing</i>). Yes, well—your husband?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, we must know his plans—where we can +communicate with him, and so on.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I have no wish to communicate with him.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm afraid you'll have to, dear.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't see the necessity.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you'll want to—to apologise to him for +living with his wife for so long. And as I belong to him, he ought +to be told where he can—call for me.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>after a struggle</i>). You put it in a very peculiar +way, but I see your-point. (<i>With a shudder</i>) Oh, the horrible +publicity of it all!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>going up to him and comforting him</i>). Poor George. +Dear, don't think I don't sympathise with you. I understand so +exactly what you are feeling. The publicity! It's terrible.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>miserably</i>). I want to do what's right, Olivia. +You believe that?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course I do. It's only that we don't quite agree as +to what is right and what is wrong.</p> +<p>GEORGE. It isn't a question of agreeing. Right is right, and +wrong is wrong, all the world over.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with a sad little smile</i>). But more particularly +in Buckinghamshire, I think.</p> +<p>GEORGE. If I only considered myself, I should say: "Let us pack +this man Telworthy back to Australia. He would make no claim. He +would accept money to go away and say nothing about it." If I +consulted simply my own happiness, Olivia, that is what I should +say. But when I consult—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). Mine?</p> +<p>GEORGE. My conscience——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Then I can't do it. It's wrong. (<i>He is at the window +as he says this</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>making her first and last appeal</i>). George, aren't +I worth a little——</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>turning round</i>). H'sh! Dinah! (<i>Loudly for</i> +DINAH'S <i>benefit</i>) Well, then I'll write to him and—Ah, +Dinah, where's Aunt Julia?</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>coming in</i>). We've seen the pigs, and now she's +discussing the Art of Landseer with Brian. I just came to +ask——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah, dear, bring Aunt Julia here. And Brian too. We +have things we want to talk about with you all.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>outraged</i>). Olivia!</p> +<p>DINAH. Righto. What fun!</p> +<p>[<i>Exit</i> DINAH.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Olivia, you don't seriously suggest that we should +discuss these things with a child like Dinah and a young man like +Strange, a mere acquaintance.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah will have to know. I'm very fond of her, George. +You can't send me away without telling Dinah. And Brian is my +friend. You have your solicitor and your aunt and your conscience +to consult—mayn't I even have Brian?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>forgetting</i>). I should have thought that your +<i>husband</i>——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, but we don't know where Jacko is.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I was not referring to—er—Telworthy.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well then?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, naturally I—you mustn't—Oh, this is +horrible!</p> +<p>(<i>He comes back to his desk as the others come in</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>getting up</i>). George and I have had some rather +bad news, Aunt Julia. We wanted your advice. Where will you +sit?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Thank you, Olivia. I can sit down by myself. +(<i>She does so, near</i> GEORGE. DINAH <i>sits on the sofa +with</i> OLIVIA, <i>and</i> BRIAN <i>half leans against the back of +it. There is a hush of expectation. . . .</i>) What is it? Money, I +suppose. Nobody's safe nowadays.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>signalling for help</i>). Olivia—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. We've just heard that my first husband is still +alive.</p> +<p>DINAH. Telworthy!</p> +<p>BRIAN. Good Lord!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. George!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>excitedly</i>). And only this morning I was saying +that nothing ever happened in this house! (<i>Remorsefully to</i> +OLIVIA) Darling, I don't mean that. Darling one!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. What does this mean, George? I leave you for ten +minutes—barely ten minutes—to go and look at the pigs, +and when I come back you tell me that Olivia is a bigamist.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>indignantly</i>). I say—</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>restraining him</i>). H'sh!</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). If this is a row, I'm on your +side.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Well, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I'm afraid it's true, Aunt Julia. We heard the news just +before lunch—just before you came. We've only this moment had +an opportunity of talking about it, of wondering what to do.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. What was his +name—Tel—something—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. So he's alive still?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Apparently. There seems to be no doubt about it.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). Didn't you <i>see</i> him die? I +should always want to <i>see</i> my husband die before I married +again. Not that I approve of second marriages, anyhow. I told you +so at the time, George.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. <i>And</i> me, Aunt Julia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Did I? Well, I generally say what I think.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I ought to tell you, Aunt Julia, that no blame attaches +to Olivia over this. Of that I am perfectly satisfied. It's +nobody's fault, except——</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Except Telworthy's. <i>He</i> seems to have been +rather careless. Well, what are you going to do about it?</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's just it. It's a terrible situation. There's bound +to be so much publicity. Not only all this, but—but +Telworthy's past and—and everything.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I should have said that it was Telworthy's present +which was the trouble. Had he a past as well?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. He was a fraudulent company promoter. He went to prison +a good deal.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. George, you never told me this!</p> +<p>GEORGE. I—er——</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't see <i>why</i> he should want to talk about +it.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>indignantly</i>). What's it got to do with Olivia, +anyhow? It's not <i>her</i> fault.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>sarcastically</i>). Oh no, I daresay it's +mine.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>to</i> GEORGE). YOU wanted to ask Aunt Julia what was +the right thing to do.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>bursting out</i>). Good Heavens, what <i>is</i> there +to do except the one and only thing? (<i>They all look at him and +he becomes embarrassed</i>) I'm sorry. You don't want <i>me</i> +to—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. <i>I</i> do, Brian.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Well, go on, Mr. Strange. What would <i>you</i> do +in George's position?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Do? Say to the woman I loved, "You're <i>mine</i>, and +let this other damned fellow come and take you from me if he can!" +And he couldn't—how could he?—not if the woman chose +<i>me</i>.</p> +<p>(LADY MARDEN <i>gazes at</i> BRIAN <i>in amazement</i>, GEORGE +<i>in anger</i>, OLIVIA <i>presses his hand gratefully. He has said +what she has been waiting—oh, so eagerly—for</i> GEORGE +<i>to say</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>adoringly</i>). Oh, Brian! (<i>In a whisper</i>) It +<i>is</i> me, isn't it, and not Olivia?</p> +<p>BRIAN. You baby, of course!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I'm afraid, Mr. Strange, your morals are as +peculiar as your views on Art. If you had led a more healthy +life—</p> +<p>BRIAN. This is not a question of morals or of art, it's a +question of love.</p> +<p>DINAH. Hear, hear!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>to</i> GEORGE). Isn't it that girl's bedtime +yet?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>to</i> DINAH). We'll let her sit up a little longer +if she's good.</p> +<p>DINAH. I will be good, Olivia, only I thought anybody, however +important a debate was, was allowed to say "Hear, hear!"</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coldly</i>) I really think we could discuss this +better if Mr. Strange took Dinah out for a walk. Strange, if +you—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Tell them what you have settled first, George.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Settled? What is there to be settled? It settles +itself.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>sadly</i>). That's just it.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. The marriage must be annulled—is that the +word, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I presume so.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. One's solicitor will know all about that of +course.</p> +<p>BRIAN. And when the marriage has been annulled, what then?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Presumably Olivia will return to her husband.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>bitterly</i>). And <i>that's</i> morality! As +expounded by Bishop Landseer!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>angered</i>). I don't know what you mean by Bishop +Landseer. Morality is acting in accordance with the Laws of the +Land and the Laws of the Church. I am quite prepared to believe +that <i>your</i> creed embraces neither marriage nor monogamy, but +my creed is different.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>fiercely</i>). My creed includes both marriage +<i>and</i> monogamy, and monogamy means sticking to the woman you +love, as long as she wants you.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>calmly</i>). You suggest that George and Olivia +should go on living together, although they have never been legally +married, and wait for this Telworthy man to divorce her, and +then—bless the man, what do you think the County would +say?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>scornfully</i>). Does it matter?</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, if you really want to know, the men would say, +"Gad, she's a fine woman; I don't wonder he sticks to her," and the +women would say, "I can't <i>think</i> what he sees in her to stick +to her like that," and they'd both say, "After all, he may be a +damn fool, but you can't deny he's a sportsman." That's what the +County would say.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>indignantly</i>) Was it for this sort of thing, +Olivia, that you insisted on having Dinah and Mr. Strange in here? +To insult me in my own house?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I can't think what young people are coming to +nowadays.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think, dear, you and Brian had better go.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>getting up</i>). We will go. But I'm just going to say +one thing, Uncle George. Brian and I <i>are</i> going to marry each +other, and when we are married we'll stick to each other, +<i>however</i> many of our dead husbands and wives turn up!</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out indignantly, followed by</i> BRIAN.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Upon my word, this is a pleasant discussion.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think the discussion is over, George. It is only a +question of where I shall go, while you are bringing +your—what sort of suit did you call it?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>to</i> GEORGE). Nullity suit. I suppose that +<i>is</i> the best thing?</p> +<p>GEORGE. It's horrible. The awful publicity. That it should be +happening to <i>us</i>, that's what I can't get over.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I don't remember anything of the sort in the Marden +Family before, ever.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>absently</i>). Lady Fanny.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>recollecting</i>). Yes, of course; but that was +two hundred years ago. The standards were different then. Besides, +it wasn't quite the same, anyhow.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>absently</i>). No, it wasn't quite the same.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. No. We shall all feel it. Terribly.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>his apology</i>). If there were any other way! +Olivia, what <i>can</i> I do? It <i>is</i> the only way, isn't it? +All that that fellow said—of course, it sounds very +well—but as things are. . . . <i>Is</i> there anything in +marriage, or isn't there? You believe that there is, don't you? You +aren't one of these Socialists. Well, then, <i>can</i> we go on +living together when you're another man's wife? It isn't only what +people will say, but it <i>is</i> wrong, isn't it? . . . And +supposing he doesn't divorce you, are we to go on living together, +unmarried, for <i>ever</i>? Olivia, you seem to think that I'm just +thinking of the publicity—what people will say. I'm not. I'm +not. That comes in any way. But I want to do what's right, what's +best. I don't mean what's best for <i>us</i>, what makes us +happiest, I mean what's really best, what's rightest. What anybody +else would do in my place. <i>I</i> don't know. It's so unfair. +You're not my wife at all, but I want to do what's right. . . . Oh, +Olivia, Olivia, you do understand, don't you?</p> +<p>(<i>They have both forgotten</i> LADY MARDEN. OLIVIA <i>has +never taken her eyes off him as he makes his last attempt to +convince himself</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>almost tenderly</i>). So very very well, George. Oh, +I understand just what you are feeling. And oh, I do so wish that +you could—(<i>with a little sigh</i>)—but then it +wouldn't be George, not the George I married—(<i>with a +rueful little laugh</i>)—or didn't quite marry.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I must say, I think you are both talking a little +wildly.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>repeating it, oh, so tenderly</i>). Or +didn't—quite—marry. (<i>She looks at him with all her +heart in her eyes. She is giving him his last chance to say "Damn +Telworthy; you're mine!" He struggles desperately with himself. . . +. Will he?—will he? . . . But we shall never know, for at +that moment</i> ANNE <i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim is here, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>emerging from the struggle with an effort</i>). Pim? +Pim? Oh, ah, yes, of course. Mr. Pim. (<i>Looking up</i>) Where +have you put him?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I want to see Mr. Pim, too, George.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Who on earth is Mr. Pim?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Show him in here, Anne.</p> +<p>ANNE. Yes, madam. [<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. It was Mr. Pim who told us about my husband. He came +across with him in the boat, and recognised him as the Telworthy he +knew in Australia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Oh! Shall I be in the way?</p> +<p>GEORGE. No, no. It doesn't matter, does it, Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Please stay.</p> +<p>ANNE <i>enters followed by</i> MR. PIM.</p> +<p>ANNE. Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>pulling himself together</i>). Ah, Mr. Pim! Very good +of you to have come. The fact is—er—(<i>It is too much +for him; he looks despairingly at</i> OLIVIA.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. We're so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Pim. By the way, do +you know Lady Marden? (MR. PIM <i>and</i> LADY MARDEN <i>bow to +each other</i>.) Do come and sit down, won't you? (<i>She makes +room for him on the sofa next to her</i>) The fact is, Mr. Pim, you +gave us rather a surprise this morning, and before we had time to +realise what it all meant, you had gone.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. A surprise, Mrs. Marden? Dear me, not an unpleasant +one, I hope?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, rather a—surprising one.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Olivia, allow me a moment. Mr. Pim, you mentioned a man +called Telworthy this morning. My wife used to—that is to +say, I used to—that is, there are reasons—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think we had better be perfectly frank, George.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I am sixty-five years of age, Mr. Pim, and I can +say that I've never had a moment's uneasiness by telling the +truth.</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>after a desperate effort to keep up with the +conversation</i>). Oh! . . . I—er—I'm afraid I am +rather at sea. Have I—er—left anything unsaid in +presenting my credentials to you this morning? This Telworthy whom +you mention—I seem to remember the name—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, you told us this morning of a man whom you had +met on the boat, a man who had come down in the world, whom you had +known in Sydney. A man called Telworthy.</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>relieved</i>). Ah yes, yes, of course. I did say +Telworthy, didn't I? Most curious coincidence, Lady Marden. Poor +man, poor man! Let me see, it must have been ten years +ago—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. You're quite sure that his name +was Telworthy?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Telworthy—Telworthy—didn't I say Telworthy? +Yes, that was it—Telworthy. Poor fellow!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Pim. I +feel quite sure that I can trust you. This man Telworthy whom you +met is my husband.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Your husband? (<i>He looks in mild surprise at</i> +GEORGE.) But—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. My first husband. His death was announced six years ago. +I had left him some years before that, but there seems no doubt +from your story that he's still alive. His record—the country +he comes from—above all, the very unusual +name—Telworthy.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Telworthy—yes—certainly a most peculiar +name. I remember saying so. Your first husband? Dear me! Dear +me!</p> +<p>GEORGE. You understand, Mr. Pim, that all this is in absolute +confidence.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Of course, of course.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, since he is my husband, we naturally want to know +something about him. Where is he now, for instance?</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>surprised</i>). Where is he now? But surely I told +you? I told you what happened at Marseilles?</p> +<p>GEORGE. At Marseilles?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Yes, yes, poor fellow, it was most unfortunate. +(<i>Quite happy again</i>) You must understand, Lady Marden, that +although I had met the poor fellow before in Australia, I was never +in any way intimate—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>thumping the desk</i>). Where is he <i>now</i>, +that's what we want to know?</p> +<p>(MR. PIM <i>turns to him with a start</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Please, Mr. Pim!</p> +<p>PIM. Where is he now? But—but didn't I tell you of the +curious fatality at Marseilles—poor fellow—the +fish-bone?</p> +<p>ALL. Fish-bone?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Yes, yes, a herring, I understand.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>understanding first</i>). Do you mean he's dead?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Dead—of course—didn't I—?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>laughing hysterically</i>). Oh, Mr. Pim, +you—oh, what a husband to have—oh, I—(<i>But that +is all she can say for the moment</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Pull yourself together, Olivia. This is so +unhealthy for you. (<i>To</i> PIM) So he really <i>is</i> dead this +time?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly. A fishbone lodged in his +throat.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>trying to realise it</i>). Dead!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>struggling with her laughter</i>). I think you must +excuse me, Mr. Pim—I can never thank you enough—a +herring—there's something about a herring—morality +depends on such little things—George, you—(<i>Shaking +her head at him in a weak state of laughter, she hurries out of the +room</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Dear me! Dear me!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Now, let us have this quite clear, Mr. Pim. You say that +the man, Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Telworthy, yes—didn't I say Telworthy? This man I +was telling you about—</p> +<p>GEORGE. He's dead?</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Yes, yes, he died at Marseilles.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. A dispensation of Providence, George. One can look +at it in no other light.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Dead! (<i>Suddenly annoyed</i>) Really, Mr. Pim, I think +you might have told us before.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. But I—I <i>was</i> telling you—I—</p> +<p>GEORGE. If you had only told us the whole story at once, instead +of in two—two instalments like this, you would have saved us +all a good deal of anxiety.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Really, I—</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I am sure Mr. Pim meant well, George, but it seems +a pity he couldn't have said so before. If the man was dead, +<i>why</i> try to hush it up?</p> +<p>MR. PIM (<i>lost again</i>). Really, Lady Marden, I—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>getting up</i>). Well, well, at any rate, I am much +obliged to you, Mr. Pim, for having come down to us this afternoon. +Dead! <i>De mortuis</i>, and so forth, but the situation would have +been impossible had he lived. Good-bye! (<i>Holding out his +hand</i>) Good-bye!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Good-bye, Mr. Pim.</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! (GEORGE <i>takes him to the +door</i>.) Of course, if I had—(<i>to himself</i>) +Telworthy—I <i>think</i> that was the name. (<i>He goes out, +still wondering</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with a sigh of thankfulness</i>). Well! This is +wonderful news, Aunt Julia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Most providential! . . . You understand, of course, +that you are not married to Olivia?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>who didn't</i>). Not married?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. If her first husband only died at Marseilles a few +days ago—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Good Heavens!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Not that it matters. You can get married quietly +again. Nobody need know.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>considering it</i>). Yes . . . yes. Then all these +years we have been—er—Yes.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Who's going to know?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes, that's true. . . . And in perfect innocence, +too.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. I should suggest a Registry Office in London.</p> +<p>GEORGE. A Registry Office, yes.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Better go up to town this afternoon. Can't do it +too quickly.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, yes. We can stay at an hotel—</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>surprised</i>). George!</p> +<p>GEORGE. What?</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. <i>You</i> will stay at your club.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Oh—ah—yes, of course, Aunt Julia.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN. Better take your solicitor with you to be on the +safe side. . . . To the Registry Office, I mean.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes.</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>getting up</i>). Well, I must be getting along, +George. Say good-bye to Olivia for me. And those children. Of +course, you won't allow this absurd love-business between them to +come to anything?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Most certainly not. Good-bye, Aunt Julia!</p> +<p>LADY MARDEN (<i>indicating the windows</i>). I'll go <i>this</i> +way. (<i>As she goes</i>) And get Olivia out more, George. I don't +like these hysterics. You want to be firm with her.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>firmly</i>) Yes, yes! Good-bye!</p> +<p>(<i>He waves to her and then goes back to his seat</i>.)</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>comes in, and stands in the middle of the room +looking at him. He comes to her eagerly</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>holding out his hands</i>). Olivia! Olivia! (<i>But +it is not so easy as that</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>drawing herself up proudly</i>). Mrs. Telworthy!</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT III</h2> +<p> </p> +<p>OLIVIA <i>is standing where we left her at the end of the last +act</i>.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>taken aback</i>). Olivia, I—I don't +understand.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>leaving melodrama with a little laugh and coming down +to him</i>). Poor George! Did I frighten you rather?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You're so strange to-day. I don't understand you. You're +not like the Olivia I know.</p> +<p>(<i>They sit down on the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Perhaps you don't know me very well after all.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>affectionately</i>). Oh, that's nonsense, old girl. +You're just my Olivia.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. And yet it seemed as though I wasn't going to be your +Olivia half an hour ago.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with a shudder</i>). Don't talk about it. It doesn't +bear thinking about. Well, thank Heaven that's over. Now we can get +married again quietly and nobody will be any the wiser.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Married again?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes, dear. As you—er—(<i>he laughs +uneasily</i>) said just now, you are Mrs. Telworthy. Just for the +moment. But we can soon put that right. My idea was to go up this +evening and—er—make arrangements, and if you come up +to-morrow morning, if we can manage it by then, we could get +quietly married at a Registry Office, and—er—nobody any +the wiser.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, I see. You want me to marry you at a Registry +Office to-morrow?</p> +<p>GEORGE. If we can arrange it by then. I don't know how long +these things take, but I should imagine there would be no +difficulty.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh no, that part ought to be quite easy. +But—(<i>She hesitates</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. But what?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, if you want to marry me to-morrow, George, +oughtn't you to propose to me first?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>amazed</i>). Propose?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. It is usual, isn't it, to propose to a person +before you marry her, and—and we want to do the usual thing, +don't we?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>upset</i>). But you—but we . . .</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You see, dear, you're George Marden, and I'm Olivia +Telworthy, and you—you're attracted by me, and think I would +make you a good wife, and you want to marry me. Well, naturally you +propose to me first, and—tell me how much you are attracted +by me, and what a good wife you think I shall make, and how badly +you want to marry me.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>falling into the humour of it, as he thinks</i>). The +baby! Did she want to be proposed to all over again?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, she did rather.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>rather fancying himself as an actor</i>). She shall +then. (<i>He adopts what he considers to be an appropriate +attitude</i>) Mrs. Telworthy, I have long admired you in silence, +and the time has now come to put my admiration into words. +Er—(<i>But apparently he finds a difficulty</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>hopefully</i>). Into words.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>with the idea of helping</i>). Oh, Mr. Marden!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Er—may I call you Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>taking her hand</i>). Olivia—I—(<i>He +hesitates</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't want to interrupt, but oughtn't you to be on +your knees? It is—usual, I believe. If one of the servants +came in, you could say you were looking for my scissors.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Really, Olivia, you must allow me to manage my own +proposal in my own way.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>meekly</i>). I'm sorry. Do go on.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, er—confound it, Olivia, I love you. Will you +marry me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Thank you, George, I will think it over.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>laughing</i>). Silly girl! Well then, to-morrow +morning. No wedding-cake, I'm afraid, Olivia. (<i>He laughs +again</i>) But we'll go and have a good lunch somewhere.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I will think it over, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>good-humouredly</i>). Well, give us a kiss while +you're thinking.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm afraid you mustn't kiss me until we are actually +engaged.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>laughing uneasily</i>). Oh, we needn't take it as +seriously as all that.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But a woman must take a proposal seriously.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>alarmed at last</i>). What do you mean?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I mean that the whole question, as I heard somebody say +once, demands much more anxious thought than either of us has given +it. These hasty marriages—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Hasty!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you've only just proposed to me, and you want to +marry me to-morrow.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Now you're talking perfect nonsense, Olivia. You know +quite well that our case is utterly different from—from any +other.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. All the same, one has to ask oneself questions. With a +young girl like—well, with a young girl, love may well seem +to be all that matters. But with a woman of my age, it is +different. I have to ask myself if you can afford to support a +wife.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coldly</i>). Fortunately that is a question that you +can very easily answer for yourself.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, but I have been hearing rather bad reports lately. +What with taxes always going up, and rents always going down, some +of our landowners are getting into rather straitened circumstances. +At least, so I'm told.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I don't know what you're talking about.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). Oh, isn't it true? I heard of a case +only this morning—a landowner who always seemed to be very +comfortably off, but who couldn't afford an allowance for his only +niece when she wanted to get married. It made me think that one +oughtn't to judge by appearances.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You know perfectly well that I can afford to support a +wife as my wife <i>should</i> be supported.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm so glad, dear. Then your income—you aren't +getting anxious at all?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>stiffly</i>). You know perfectly well what my income +is. I see no reason for anxiety in the future.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ah, well, then we needn't think about that any more. +Well, then, there is another thing to be considered.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I can't make out what you're up to. Don't you want to +get married; to—er—legalise this extraordinary +situation in which we are placed?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I want to be sure that I am going to be happy, George. I +can't just jump at the very first offer I have had since my husband +died, without considering the whole question very carefully.</p> +<p>GEORGE. So I'm under consideration, eh?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Every suitor is.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>sarcastically, as he thinks</i>). Well, go on.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, then, there's your niece. You have a niece who +lives with you. Of course Dinah is a delightful girl, but one +doesn't like marrying into a household in which there is another +grown-up woman. But perhaps she will be getting married herself +soon?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see no prospect of it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I think it would make it much easier if she did.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Is this a threat, Olivia? Are you telling me that if I +do not allow young Strange to marry Dinah, you will not marry +me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. A threat? Oh no, George.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Then what does it mean?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I'm just wondering if you love me as much as Brian loves +Dinah. You <i>do</i> love me?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>from his heart</i>). You know I do, old girl. (<i>He +comes to her</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You're not just attracted by my pretty face? . . . +<i>Is</i> it a pretty face?</p> +<p>GEORGE. It's an adorable one. (<i>He tries to kiss it, but she +turns away</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. How can I be sure that it is not <i>only</i> my face +which makes you think that you care for me? Love which rests upon a +mere outward attraction cannot lead to any lasting +happiness—as one of our thinkers has observed.</p> +<p>GEORGE. What's come over you, Olivia? I don't understand what +you're driving at. Why should you doubt my love?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ah!—Why?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You can't pretend that we haven't been happy together. +I've—I've been a good pal to you, eh? We—we suit each +other, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do we?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course we do.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I wonder. When two people of our age think of getting +married, one wants to be very sure that there is real community of +ideas between them. Whether it is a comparatively trivial matter, +like the right colour for a curtain, or some very much more serious +question of conduct which arises, one wants to feel that there is +some chance of agreement between husband and wife.</p> +<p>GEORGE. We—we love each other, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. We do now, yes. But what shall we be like in five years' +time? Supposing that after we have been married five years, we +found ourselves estranged from each other upon such questions as +Dinah's future, or the decorations of the drawing-room, or even the +advice to give to a friend who had innocently contracted a bigamous +marriage? How bitterly we should regret then our hasty plunge into +a matrimony which was no true partnership, whether of tastes, or of +ideas, or even of consciences! (<i>With a sigh</i>) Ah me!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>nastily</i>). Unfortunately for your argument, +Olivia, I can answer you out of your own mouth. You seem to have +forgotten what you said this morning in the case +of—er—young Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>reproachfully</i>). Is it quite fair, George, to drag +up what was said this morning?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You've brought it on yourself.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I? . . . Well, and what did I say this morning?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You said that it was quite enough that Strange was a +gentleman and in love with Dinah for me to let them marry each +other.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh! . . . <i>Is</i> that enough, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>triumphantly</i>). You said so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>meekly</i>). Well, if you think so, too, I—I +don't mind risking it.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>kindly</i>). Aha, my dear! You see!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Then you do think it's enough?</p> +<p>GEORGE. I—er—Yes, yes, I—I think so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>going to him</i>). My darling one! Then we can have a +double wedding. How jolly!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>astounded</i>). A double one!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. You and me, Brian and Dinah.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>firmly</i>). Now look here, Olivia, understand once +and for all, I am not to be blackmailed into giving my consent to +Dinah's engagement. Neither blackmailed nor tricked. Our marriage +has nothing whatever to do with Dinah's.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. No, dear. I quite understand. They may take place about +the same time, but they have nothing to do with each other.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see no prospect of Dinah's marriage taking place for +many years.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. No, dear, that was what I said.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>not understanding for the moment</i>). You said. . .? +I see. Now, Olivia, let us have this perfectly clear. You +apparently insist on treating my—er—proposal as +serious.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). Wasn't it serious? Were you trifling +with me?</p> +<p>GEORGE. You know quite well what I mean. You treat it as an +ordinary proposal from a man to a woman who have never been more +than acquaintances before. Very well then. Will you tell me what +you propose to do, if you decide to—ah—refuse me? You +do not suggest that we should go on living +together—unmarried?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shocked</i>). Of course not, George! What would the +County—I mean Heaven—I mean the Law—I mean, of +<i>course</i> not! Besides, it's so unnecessary. If I decide to +accept you, of <i>course</i> I shall marry you.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Quite so. And if you—ah—decide to refuse me? +What will you do?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Nothing.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Meaning by that?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Just that, George. I shall stay here—just as +before. I like this house. It wants a little re-decorating perhaps, +but I do like it, George . . . Yes, I shall be quite happy +here.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I see. You will continue to live down here—in +spite of what you said just now about the immorality of it.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). But there's nothing immoral in a +widow living alone in a big country house, with perhaps the niece +of a friend of hers staying with her, just to keep her company.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>sarcastic</i>). And what shall <i>I</i> be doing, +when you've so very kindly taken possession of my house for me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I don't know, George. Travelling, I expect. You could +come down sometimes with a chaperone. I suppose there would be +nothing wrong in that.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>indignant</i>). Thank you! And what if I refuse to be +turned out of my house?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Then, seeing that we can't <i>both</i> be in it, it +looks as though you'd have to turn <i>me</i> out. (<i>Casually</i>) +I suppose there are legal ways of doing these things. You'd have to +consult your solicitor again.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>amazed</i>). Legal ways?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, you couldn't <i>throw</i> me out, could you? You'd +have to get an injunction against me—or prosecute me for +trespass—or something. It would make an awfully unusual case, +wouldn't it? The papers would be full of it.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You must be mad!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>dreamily</i>). Widow of well-known ex-convict takes +possession of J.P.'s house. Popular country gentleman denied +entrance to his own home. Doomed to travel.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>angrily</i>). I've had enough of this. Do you mean +all this nonsense?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I do mean, George, that I am in no hurry to go up to +London and get married. I love the country just now, and (<i>with a +sigh</i>) after this morning, I'm—rather tired of +husbands.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>in a rage</i>). I've never heard so much—damned +nonsense in my life. I will leave you to come to your senses. +(<i>He goes out indignantly</i>.)</p> +<p>(OLIVIA, <i>who has forgiven him already, throws a loving kiss +after him, and then turns triumphantly to her dear curtains. She +takes them, smiling, to the sofa, and has just got to work again, +when</i> MR. PIM <i>appears at the open windows</i>.)</p> +<p>PIM (<i>in a whisper</i>). Er, may I come in, Mrs. Marden?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>turning round in surprise</i>). Mr. Pim!</p> +<p>PIM (<i>anxiously</i>). Mr. Marden is—er—not +here?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>getting up</i>). Do you want to see him? I will tell +him.</p> +<p>PIM. No, no, no! Not for the world! (<i>He comes in and looks +anxiously at the door</i>) There is no immediate danger of his +returning, Mrs. Marden?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>surprised</i>). No, I don't think so. What is it? +You—</p> +<p>PIM. I took the liberty of returning by the window in the hope +of—er—coming upon you alone, Mrs. Marden.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>still rather nervous</i>). I—er—Mr. Marden +will be very angry with me. Quite rightly. I blame myself entirely. +I do not know how I can have been so stupid.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. What is it, Mr. Pim? Has my husband come to life +again?</p> +<p>PIM. Mrs. Marden, I throw myself on your mercy entirely. The +fact is—his name was Polwittle.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>at a loss</i>). Whose? My husband's?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes. The name came back to me suddenly, just as I +reached the gate. Polwittle, poor fellow.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But, Mr. Pim, my husband's name was Telworthy.</p> +<p>PIM. No, no, Polwittle.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But, really I ought to. . .</p> +<p>PIM (<i>firmly</i>). Polwittle. It came back to me suddenly just +as I reached the gate. For the moment, I had thoughts of conveying +the news by letter. I was naturally disinclined to return in +person, and—Polwittle. (<i>Proudly</i>) If you remember, I +always said it was a curious name.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But who <i>is</i> Polwittle?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>in surprise at her stupidity</i>). The man I have been +telling you about, who met with the sad fatality at Marseilles. +Henry Polwittle—or was it Ernest? No, Henry, I think. Poor +fellow.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>indignantly</i>). But you said his name was +Telworthy! How <i>could</i> you?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, I blame myself entirely.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. But how could you <i>think</i> of a name like Telworthy, +if it wasn't Telworthy?</p> +<p>PIM (<i>eagerly</i>). Ah, that is the really interesting thing +about the whole matter.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, all your visits here to-day have been +interesting.</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, but you see, on my first appearance here this morning, +I was received by—er—Miss Diana.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Dinah.</p> +<p>PIM. Miss Dinah, yes. She was in—er—rather a +communicative mood, and she happened to mention, by way of passing +the time, that before your marriage to Mr. Marden you had been a +Mrs.—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Telworthy.</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, Telworthy, of course. She mentioned also +Australia. By some process of the brain—which strikes me as +decidedly curious—when I was trying to recollect the name of +the poor fellow on the boat, whom you remember I had also met in +Australia, the fact that this other name was also stored in my +memory, a name equally peculiar—this fact I say. . .</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>seeing that the sentence is rapidly going to +pieces</i>). Yes, I understand.</p> +<p>PIM. I blame myself, I blame myself entirely.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't do that, Mr. Pim. It was really Dinah's +fault for inflicting all our family history on you.</p> +<p>PIM. Oh, but a charming young woman. I assure you I was very +much interested in all that she told me. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well, +Mrs.—er—Marden, I can only hope that you will forgive +me for the needless distress I have caused you to-day.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't worry about that—please.</p> +<p>PIM. And you will tell your husband—you will break the +news to him?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling to herself</i>). I will—break the news +to him.</p> +<p>PIM. You understand how it is that I thought it better to come +to you in the first place?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I am very glad you did.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>holding out his hand</i>). Then I will say good-bye, +and—er—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. Let us have it quite clear this +time. You never knew my husband, Jacob Telworthy, you never met him +in Australia, you never saw him on the boat, and nothing whatever +happened to him at Marseilles. Is that right?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, that is so.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. So that, since he was supposed to have died in Australia +six years ago, he is presumably still dead?</p> +<p>PIM. Yes, yes, undoubtedly.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>holding out her hand with a charming smile</i>). Then +good-bye, Mr. Pim, and thank you so much for—for all your +trouble.</p> +<p>PIM. Not at all, Mrs. Marden. I can only assure you I—</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>from the window</i>). Hullo, here's Mr. Pim! (<i>She +comes in, followed by</i> BRIAN.)</p> +<p>PIM (<i>anxiously looking at the door in case</i> MR. MARDEN +<i>should come in</i>). Yes, yes, I—er—</p> +<p>DINAH. Oh, Mr. Pim, you mustn't run away without even saying how +do you do! Such old friends as we are. Why, it is ages since I saw +you! Are you staying to tea?</p> +<p>PIM. I'm afraid I—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Mr. Pim has to hurry away, Dinah. You mustn't keep +him.</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, but you'll come back again?</p> +<p>PIM. I fear that I am only a passer-by, +Miss—er—Dinah.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You can walk with him to the gate, dear.</p> +<p>PIM (<i>gratefully to</i> OLIVIA). Thank you. (<i>He edges +towards the window</i>) If you would be so kind, Miss +Dinah—</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'll catch you up.</p> +<p>DINAH. Come along then, Mr. Pim. (<i>As they go out</i>) I want +to hear all about your <i>first</i> wife. You haven't really told +me anything yet.</p> +<p>(OLIVIA <i>resumes her work, and</i> BRIAN <i>sits on the back +of the sofa looking at her</i>.)</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>awkwardly</i>). I just wanted to say, if you don't +think it cheek, that I'm—I'm on your side, if I may be, and +if I can help you at all I should be very proud of being allowed +to.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>looking up at him</i>). Brian, you dear. That's sweet +of you . . . But it's quite all right now, you know.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Oh, I'm so glad.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, that's what Mr. Pim came back to say. He'd made a +mistake about the name. (<i>Smiling</i>) George is the only husband +I have.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>surprised</i>). What? You mean that the whole +thing—that Pim—(<i>With conviction</i>) Silly ass!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>kindly</i>). Oh, well, he didn't mean to be. +(<i>After a pause</i>) Brian, do you know anything about the +Law?</p> +<p>BRIAN. I'm afraid not. I hate the Law. Why?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>casually</i>). Oh, I just—I was +wondering—thinking about all the shocks we've been through +to-day. Second marriages, and all that.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Oh! It's a rotten business.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I suppose there's nothing wrong in getting married to +the <i>same</i> person twice?</p> +<p>BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh?</p> +<p>BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice, +don't they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in +church.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it's +rather a nice idea. They ought to do it in England more.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can +work it. (<i>Anxiously</i>) D'you think there's any chance, +Olivia?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling</i>). Every chance, dear.</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>jumping up</i>). I say, do you really? Have you +squared him? I mean, has he—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later +on.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Bless you. Righto.</p> +<p>(<i>As he goes out by the windows,</i> GEORGE <i>comes in at the +door</i>. GEORGE <i>stands looking after him, and then turns to</i> +OLIVIA, <i>who is absorbed in her curtains. He walks up and down +the room, fidgeting with things, waiting for her to speak. As she +says nothing, he begins to talk himself, but in an obviously +unconcerned way. There is a pause after each answer of hers, before +he gets out his next remark</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>casually</i>). Good-looking fellow, Strange.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>equally casually</i>). Brian—yes, isn't he? And +such a nice boy. . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? +Hey?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's +any doubt about it. . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about +painting.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear.</p> +<p>GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in +this new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint +like—like Rubens or—or Reynolds?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find +his directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh yes!</p> +<p>GEORGE. H'm! . . . Good-looking fellow. (<i>There is rather a +longer silence this time</i>, GEORGE <i>continues to hope that he +is appearing casual and unconcerned. He stands looking at</i> +OLIVIA'S <i>work for a moment</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Nearly finished 'em?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>looking round</i>). Scissors?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE. Where are you going to put 'em?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>as if really wondering</i>). I don't quite know. . . +. I <i>had</i> thought of this room, but—I'm not quite +sure.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>walking over to the present curtains</i>). H'm. They +<i>are</i> a bit faded.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>shaking out hers, and looking at them +critically</i>). Sometimes I think I love them, and sometimes I'm +not quite sure.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Best way is to hang 'em up and see how you like 'em +then. Always take 'em down again.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. That's rather a good idea, George!</p> +<p>GEORGE. Best way.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. . . . I think we might do that. . . . The only +thing is—(<i>she hesitates</i>).</p> +<p>GEORGE. What?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, the carpet and the chairs, and the cushions and +things—</p> +<p>GEORGE. What about 'em?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, if we had new curtains—</p> +<p>GEORGE. You'd want a new carpet, eh?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>doubtfully</i>). Y—yes. Well, new chair-covers +anyhow.</p> +<p>GEORGE. H'm. . . . Well, why not?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, but—</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with an awkward laugh</i>). We're not so hard up as +all that, you know.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. No, I suppose not. (<i>Thoughtfully</i>) I suppose it +would mean that I should have to go up to London for them. That's +rather a nuisance.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>extremely casual</i>). Oh, I don't know. We might go +up together one day.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, of course if we <i>were</i> up—for anything +else—we could just look about us, and see if we could find +what we want.</p> +<p>GEORGE. That's what I meant.</p> +<p>(<i>There is another silence</i>. GEORGE <i>is wondering whether +to come to closer quarters with the great question</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, by the way, George—</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). I told Brian, and I expect he'll +tell Dinah, that Mr. Pim had made a mistake about the name.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>astonished</i>). You told Brian that Mr. +Pim—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes—I told him that the whole thing was a mistake. +It seemed the simplest way.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Olivia! Then you mean that Brian and Dinah think +that—that we have been married all the time?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes . . . They both think so now.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>coming close to her</i>). Olivia, does that mean that +you <i>are</i> thinking of marrying me?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. At your old Registry Office?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>eagerly</i>). Yes!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. To-morrow?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Yes!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Do you want me to <i>very</i> much?</p> +<p>GEORGE. My darling, you know I do!</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>a little apprehensive</i>). We should have to do it +very quietly.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, darling. Nobody need know at all. We don't +<i>want</i> anybody to know. And now that you've put Brian and +Dinah off the scent, by telling them that Mr. Pim made a +mistake—(<i>He breaks off, and says admiringly</i>) That was +very clever of you, Olivia. I should never have thought of +that.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). No, darling. . . You don't think it +was wrong, George?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>his verdict</i>). An innocent deception . . . +perfectly harmless.</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes, dear, that was what I thought about—about +what I was doing.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Then you will come to-morrow? (<i>She nods</i>.) And if +we happen to see the carpet, or anything that you want—</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, what fun!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>beaming</i>). And a wedding lunch at the Carlton, +what? (<i>She nods eagerly</i>.) And—and a bit of a honeymoon +in Paris?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, George!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>hungrily</i>). Give us a kiss, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>lovingly</i>). George!</p> +<p>(<i>She holds up her cheek to him. He kisses it, and then +suddenly takes her in his arms</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Don't ever leave me, old girl.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>affectionately</i>). Don't ever send me away, old +boy.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>fervently</i>). I won't. . . . (<i>Awkwardly</i>) +I—I don't think I would have, you know. I—I—</p> +<p>(DINAH <i>and</i> BRIAN <i>appear at the windows, having +seen</i> MR. PIM <i>safely off</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>surprised</i>). Oo, I say!</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>hastily moves away</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE. Hallo!</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>going up impetuously to him</i>). Give <i>me</i> one, +too, George; Brian won't mind.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Really, Dinah, you are the limit.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>formally, but enjoying it</i>). Do you mind, Mr. +Strange?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>a little uncomfortably</i>). Oh, I say, sir—</p> +<p>GEORGE. We'll risk it, Dinah. (<i>He kisses her</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>triumphantly to</i> BRIAN). Did you notice that one? +That wasn't just an ordinary affectionate kiss. It was a special +bless—you—my—children one. (<i>To</i> GEORGE) +Wasn't it?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. You do talk nonsense, darling.</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, I'm so happy, now that Mr. Pim has relented about +your first husband—</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>catches</i> OLIVIA'S <i>eye and smiles; she smiles +back; but they are different smiles</i>.)</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>the actor</i>). Yes, yes, stupid fellow Pim, +what?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Absolute idiot.</p> +<p>DINAH.—And now that George has relented about <i>my</i> +first husband.</p> +<p>GEORGE. You get on much too quickly, young woman. (<i>To</i> +BRIAN) So you want to marry my Dinah, eh?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>with a smile</i>). Well, I do rather, sir.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>hastily</i>). Not at once, of course, George. We want +to be engaged for a long time first, and write letters to each +other, and tell each other how much we love each other, and sit +next to each other when we go out to dinner.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> OLIVIA). Well, <i>that</i> sounds fairly +harmless, I think.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling</i>). I think so. . . .</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> BRIAN). Then you'd better have a talk with +me—er—Brian.</p> +<p>BRIAN. Thank you very much, sir.</p> +<p>GEORGE. Well, come along then. (<i>Looking at his watch</i>) I +am going up to town after tea, so we'd better—</p> +<p>DINAH. I say! Are you going to London?</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>with the smile of the conspirator</i>). A little +business. Never you mind, young lady.</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>calmly</i>). All right. Only, bring me back something +nice.</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>to</i> BRIAN). Shall we walk down and look at the +pigs?</p> +<p>BRIAN. Righto!</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Don't go far, dear. I may want you in a moment.</p> +<p>GEORGE. All right, darling, we'll be on the terrace.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>DINAH. Brian and George always try to discuss me in front of the +pigs. So tactless of them. Are you going to London, too, +darling?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. To-morrow morning.</p> +<p>DINAH. What are you going to do in London?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, shopping, and—one or two little things.</p> +<p>DINAH. With George?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Yes. . . .</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, wasn't it lovely about Pim?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Lovely?</p> +<p>DINAH. Yes; he told me all about it. Making such a hash of +things, I mean.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>innocently</i>). Did he make a hash of things?</p> +<p>DINAH. Well, I mean keeping on coming like that. And if you look +at it all round—well, for all he had to say, he needn't +really have come at all.</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>smiling to herself</i>). I shouldn't quite say that, +Dinah. (<i>She stands up and shakes out the curtains</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, aren't they jolly?</p> +<p>OLIVIA (<i>demurely</i>). I'm so glad everybody likes them. Tell +George I'm ready, will you?</p> +<p>DINAH. I say, is <i>he</i> going to hang them up for you?</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Well, I thought he could reach best.</p> +<p>DINAH. Righto! What fun! (<i>At the windows</i>) George! George! +(<i>To</i> OLIVIA) Brian is just telling George about the five +shillings he's got in the Post Office. . . . George!</p> +<p>GEORGE (<i>from the terrace</i>). Coming!</p> +<p>(<i>He hurries in, the model husband</i>, BRIAN +<i>follows</i>.)</p> +<p>OLIVIA. Oh, George, just hang these up for me, will you?</p> +<p>GEORGE. Of course, darling. I'll get the steps from the +library.</p> +<p>[<i>He hurries out</i>.</p> +<p>(BRIAN <i>takes out his sketching block. It is obvious that his +five shillings has turned the scale. He bows to</i> DINAH. <i>He +kisses</i> OLIVIA'S <i>hand with an air. He motions to</i> DINAH +<i>to be seated</i>.)</p> +<p>DINAH (<i>impressed</i>). What is it?</p> +<p>BRIAN (<i>beginning to draw</i>). Portrait of Lady Strange.</p> +<p>(GEORGE <i>hurries in with the steps, and gets to work. There is +a great deal of curtain, and for the moment he becomes slightly +involved in it. However, by draping it over his head and shoulders, +he manages to get successfully up the steps. There we may leave +him.</i></p> +<p><i>But we have not quite finished with</i> MR. PIM. <i>It is a +matter of honour with him now that he should get his little story +quite accurate before passing out of the</i> MARDENS' <i>life for +ever. So he comes back for the last time; for the last time we see +his head at the window. He whispers to</i> OLIVIA.)</p> +<p>MR. PIM. Mrs. Marden! I've just remembered. His name was +<i>Ernest</i> Polwittle—<i>not</i> Henry.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes off happily. A curious family the</i> MARDENS. +<i>Perhaps somebody else would have committed bigamy if he had not +remembered in time that it was Ernest. . . . Ernest. . . . Yes. . . +. Now he can go back with an easy conscience to the +Trevors</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="BOLD_3"><!-- BOLD 3 --></a> +<h2><b>THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE</b></h2> +<center>A COMEDY IN ONE ACT</center> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">KATE CAMBERLEY.<br> +<br> +CYRIL NORWOOD (her lover).<br> +<br> +DENNIS CAMBERLEY (her husband).<br></font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<br> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">This play was first produced +by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the Coliseum on September 8, 1919, with +the following cast:</font><br> +<br> +<font face="Times">Dennis Camberley—GODFREY TEARLE.<br> +Kate Camberley—MARY MALONE.<br> +Cyril Norwood—EWAN BROOK.</font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>It is an evening of 1919 in</i> KATE'S <i>drawing-room. She +is expecting him, and the Curtain goes up as he is +announced</i>.</p> +<p>MAID. Mr. Cyril Norwood.</p> +<p>(<i>He comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>for the</i> MAID'S <i>benefit, but you may be sure +she knows</i>). Ah, good evening, Mrs. Camberley!</p> +<p>KATE. Good evening!</p> +<p>(<i>They shake hands</i>. NORWOOD <i>is sleek and prosperous, in +a morning coat with a white slip to his waistcoat. He is +good-looking in rather an obvious way with rather an obvious +moustache. Most women like him—at least, so he will tell +you</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>as soon as they are alone</i>). My darling!</p> +<p>KATE. Cyril!</p> +<p>(<i>He takes her hands and kisses them. He would kiss her face, +but she is not quite ready for this</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You let me yesterday. Why mayn't I kiss you to-day?</p> +<p>KATE. Not just yet, dear. I want to talk to you. Come and sit +down.</p> +<p>(<i>They sit on the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You aren't sorry for what you said yesterday?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking at him thoughtfully, and then shaking her +head</i>). No.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Then what's happened?</p> +<p>KATE. I've just had a letter from Dennis.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>anxiously</i>). Dennis—your husband?</p> +<p>KATE. Yes.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Where does he write from?</p> +<p>KATE. India.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Oh, well!</p> +<p>KATE. He says I may expect him home almost as soon as I get the +letter.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Good Heavens!</p> +<p>KATE. Yes. . . .</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>always hopeful</i>). Perhaps he didn't catch the +boat that he expected to. Wouldn't he have cabled from somewhere on +the way?</p> +<p>KATE. You can't depend on cables nowadays. <i>I</i> don't +know—What are we to do, Cyril?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You know what I always wanted you to do. (<i>He takes +her hands</i>) Come away with me.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>doubtfully</i>). And let Dennis come home and +find—an empty house?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>eagerly</i>). You are nothing to him, and he is +nothing to you. A war-wedding!—after you'd been engaged to +each other for a week! And forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent +out to India—and you haven't seen him since.</p> +<p>KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. The world may say that you're his wife and he's your +husband, but—what do you know of him? He won't even be the +boy you married. He'll be a stranger whom you'll hardly recognise. +And you aren't the girl <i>he</i> married. You're a woman now, and +you're just beginning to learn what love is. Come with +<i>me</i>.</p> +<p>KATE. It's true, it's true. But he <i>has</i> been fighting for +us. And to come home again after those four years of exile, and +find—</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Exile—that's making much too much of it. He's +come through the war safely, and he's probably had what he'd call a +topping good time. Like enough he's been in love half-a-dozen times +himself since—on leave in India and that sort of thing. +India! Well, you should read Kipling.</p> +<p>KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don't know him. But I +feel that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight +about it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing +what you say, he would understand—and perhaps be glad of +it.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>uneasily</i>). Really, darling, it's hardly a thing +you can talk over calmly with a husband, even if he—We don't +want any unpleasantness, and—er—(<i>Taking her hands +again</i>) Besides, I want you, Kate. It may be weeks before he +comes back. We can't go on like this . . . Kate!</p> +<p>KATE. Do you love me so very much?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. My darling!</p> +<p>KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week—in case +he comes. I don't want to seem to be afraid of him.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>eagerly</i>). And then?</p> +<p>KATE. Then I'll come with you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>taking her in his arms</i>). My darling! . . . +There! And now what are you going to do? Ask me to stay to dinner +or what?</p> +<p>KATE. Certainly not, sir. I'm going <i>out</i> to dinner +to-night.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>jealously</i>). Who with?</p> +<p>KATE. You.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>eagerly</i>). At our little restaurant? (<i>She +nods</i>) Good girl! Then go and put on a hat, while I ring 'em up +and see if they've got a table.</p> +<p>KATE. What fun! I won't be a moment. (<i>She goes to the +door</i>) Cyril, you will <i>always</i> love me?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Of course I will, darling. (<i>She nods at him and goes +out. He is very well pleased with himself when he is left alone. He +goes to the telephone with a smile</i>) Gerrard 11,001. Yes . . . I +want a table for two. To-night . . . Mr. Cyril Norwood . . . Oh, in +about half an hour . . . Yes, for two. Is that all right? . . . +Thank you.</p> +<p>(<i>He puts the receiver back and turns round to see</i> DENNIS +CAMBERLEY, <i>who has just come in</i>. DENNIS <i>is certainly a +man now; very easily and pleasantly master of himself and of +anybody else who gets in his way</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>surprised</i>). Hallo!</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>nodding pleasantly</i>). Hallo!</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>wondering who he is</i>). +You—er——?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You know my name?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Oh yes, I've heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril +Norwood.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>stiffly</i>). I don't think I've had the pleasure +of—er——</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>winningly</i>). Oh, but I'm sure you must have heard +a good deal about <i>me</i>.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Good God, you don't mean——</p> +<p>DENNIS. I do, indeed. (<i>With a bow</i>) Dennis Camberley, the +missing husband. (<i>Pleadingly</i>) You <i>have</i> heard about +me, <i>haven't</i> you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I—er—Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So +you're back?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. +Norwood, and sometimes—they do. . . . Even after four years. +. . . But you <i>did</i> talk about me sometimes?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. How did you know my name?</p> +<p>DENNIS. A little bird told me about you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>turning away in anger</i>). Pooh!</p> +<p>DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the +backs of crocodiles, searching for—well, let us say, +breakfast. He said to me one morning: "Talking of parasites," he +said, "do you know Mr. Cyril Norwood?" he said, "because I could +tell you an interesting story about him," he said, "if you care +to—"</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>wheeling round furiously</i>). Look here, sir, we'd +better have it out quite plainly. I don't want any veiled insults +and sneers from you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has +arisen, but we must look facts in the face. You may be Mrs. +Camberley's husband, but she has not seen you for four years, +and—well, she and I love each other. There you have it. What +are you going to do?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>anxiously</i>). You don't feel that I have neglected +her, Mr. Norwood? You see, I couldn't come home for week-ends very +well, and—</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What are you going to do?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>pleasantly</i>). Well, what do you suggest?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>taken aback</i>). Really, sir, I—er—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You see, I feel so out of it all. I've been leading such +a nasty, uncivilised life for the last four years, I really hardly +know what is—what is being done. Now <i>you</i> have been +mixing in Society . . . making munitions . . .</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>stiffly</i>). I have been engaged on important work +for the Government of a confidential nature—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You, as I was saying, have been mixing in Society, +engaged on important work for the Government of a confidential +nature——</p> +<p>NORWOOD. It was my great regret that I had no opportunity of +enlisting——</p> +<p>DENNIS. With no opportunity, as I was about to say, of +enlisting, but with many opportunities, fortunately, of making love +to my wife.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Now look here, Mr. Camberley, I've already told +you——</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>soothing him</i>). But, my dear Mr. Norwood, I'm only +doing what you said. I'm looking facts in the face. +(<i>Surprised</i>) You aren't ashamed of having made love to my +wife, are you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>impatiently</i>). What are you going to do? That's +all that matters between you and me. What are you going to do?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Well, that was what I was going to ask you. You're so +much more in the swim than I am. (<i>Earnestly</i>) What <i>is</i> +being done in Society just now? You must have heard a good deal of +gossip about it. All your friends, who were also engaged on +important work of a confidential nature, with no opportunity of +enlisting—don't they tell you their own experiences? What +<i>have</i> the husbands been doing lately when they came back from +the front?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>advancing on him angrily</i>). Now, once and for +all, sir——</p> +<p>(KATE <i>comes in, with a hat in each hand, calling to</i> +NORWOOD <i>as she comes</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. Oh, Cyril—which of these two hats—(<i>she sees +her husband</i>)—Dennis!</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>looking at her steadfastly</i>). How are <i>you</i>, +Kate?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>stammering</i>). You've—you've come back? (<i>She +puts the hats down</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. I've come back. As I was telling Mr. Norwood.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking from one to the other</i>). You—?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>smiling</i>). Oh, we're quite old friends.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>going to her</i>). I've told him, Kate.</p> +<p>(<i>He takes her hands, and tries to look defiantly at</i> +DENNIS, <i>though he is not feeling like that at all</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking anxiously at</i> DENNIS). What are you going to +do?</p> +<p>(<i>She can hardly make him out. He is different from the +husband who left her four years ago</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. Well, that's what Cyril keeps asking me. (<i>To</i> +NORWOOD) You don't mind my calling you Cyril?—such an old +friend of my wife's—</p> +<p>KATE (<i>unable to make him out</i>). Dennis! (<i>She is +frightened</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>soothingly</i>). It's all right, dear.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Do let's sit down and talk it over in a friendly +way.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>going to him</i>). Dennis, can you ever forgive me? We +never ought to have got married—we knew each other so +little—you had to go away so soon—I—I was going +to write and tell you—oh, I wish—</p> +<p>DENNIS. That's all right, Kate. (<i>He will not let her come too +close to him. He steps back and looks at her from head to feet</i>) +You've altered.</p> +<p>KATE. That's just it, Dennis. I'm not the girl who—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You've grown four years younger and four years +prettier.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>dropping her eyes</i>). Have I?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Yes. . . . You do your hair a new way.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>surprised</i>). Do you like it?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I love it.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>coughing</i>). Yes, well, perhaps we'd +better—</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>with a start</i>). I beg your pardon, Cyril. I was +forgetting you for the moment. Well, now do sit down, (NORWOOD +<i>and</i> KATE <i>sit down together on the sofa, but</i> DENNIS +<i>remains standing</i>) That's right.</p> +<p>KATE. Well?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>to</i> KATE). You want to marry him, eh?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. We have already told you the circumstances, Mr. +Camberley. I need hardly say how regrettable it is +that—er—but at the same time +these—er—things will happen, and since +it—er—has happened—</p> +<p>KATE. I feel I hardly know you, Dennis. Did I love you when I +married you? I don't know. It was so sudden. We had no time to find +out anything about each other. And now you come back—a +stranger—</p> +<p>DENNIS ((<i>jerking his head at</i> NORWOOD). And he's not a +stranger, eh?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>dropping her eyes</i>). N-no.</p> +<p>DENNIS. You feel you know all about <i>him</i>?</p> +<p>KATE. I—we—(<i>She is unhappy</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. We have discovered that we love each other. (<i>Taking +her hands</i>) My darling one, this is distressing for you. Let +<i>me</i>—</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>sharply</i>). It wouldn't be distressing for her, if +you didn't keep messing her about. Why the devil can't you sit on a +chair by yourself?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>indignantly</i>). Really!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>freeing herself from him, and moving to the extreme end +of the sofa</i>). What are you going to do, Dennis?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>looking at them thoughtfully, his chin on his +hand</i>). I don't know. . . . It's difficult. I don't want to do +anything melodramatic. I mean (<i>to</i> KATE) it wouldn't really +help matters if I did shoot him, would it?</p> +<p>(KATE <i>looks at him without saying anything, trying to +understand this new man who has come into her life</i>. NORWOOD +<i>swallows, and tries very hard to say something</i>)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I—I—</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>turning to him). You</i> don't think so, do you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I—I—</p> +<p>DENNIS. No, I'm quite sure you're right. It wouldn't really +help. It is difficult, isn't it? You see (<i>to</i> KATE) +<i>you</i> love <i>him</i>—(<i>he waits a moment for her to +say it if she will, but she only looks at him</i>)—and +<i>he</i> says <i>he</i> loves <i>you</i>, but at the same time I +<i>am</i> your husband. . . . (<i>He walks up and down +thoughtfully, and then says suddenly to</i> NORWOOD) I'll tell you +what—I'll fight you for her.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>trying to be firm</i>). I think we'd better leave +this eighteenth-century nonsense out of it.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>pleasantly</i>). They fight in the twentieth century, +too, Mr. Norwood. Perhaps you hadn't heard what we've been doing +these last four years? Oh, quite a lot of it. . . . Well?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You don't wish me to believe that you're serious?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Perfectly. Swords, pistols, fists, +catch-as-catch-can—what would you like?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I do not propose to indulge in an undignified scuffle +for the—er—lady of my heart.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>cheerfully</i>). Nothing doing in scuffles, eh? All +right, then, I'll toss you for her.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Now you're merely being vulgar. (<i>To</i> KATE) My +dear—</p> +<p>(<i>She motions him back with her hand, but does not take her +eyes off</i> DENNIS.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. Really, Mr. Norwood, you're a little hard to please. If +you don't like my suggestions, perhaps you will make one of your +own.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. This is obviously a matter in which it is for +the—er—lady to choose.</p> +<p>DENNIS. You think Mrs. Camberley should choose between us?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Certainly.</p> +<p>DENNIS. What do you say, Kate?</p> +<p>KATE. You are very generous, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>after a pause</i>). Very well, you shall choose.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>complacently</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>DENNIS. Wait a moment, Mr. Norwood. (<i>To</i> KATE) When did +you first meet him?</p> +<p>KATE. A year ago.</p> +<p>DENNIS. And he's been making love to you for a year? (KATE +<i>bends her head</i>) He's been making love to you for a year?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I think, sir, that the sooner the lady makes her +choice, and brings this distressing scene to a close—After +all, is it fair to her to—?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Are you fair to <i>me</i>? You've been making love to +her for a year. <i>I</i> made love to her for a +fort-night—four years ago. And now you want her to choose +between us. Is <i>that</i> fair?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You hardly expect us to wait a year before she is +allowed to make up her mind?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I waited four years for her out there. . . . However, I +won't ask you to wait a year. I'll ask you to wait for five +minutes.</p> +<p>KATE. What is it you want us to do, Dennis?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I want you to listen to both of us, for five minutes +each; that's all. After all, we're your suitors,<br> +aren't we? You're going to choose between us. Very well, then, you +must hear what we have to say. Mr.<br> +Norwood shall have five minutes alone with you in which to present +his case; five minutes in which to<br> +tell you how beautiful you are. . .and how rich he is . . . and how +happy you'll be together. And I shall<br> +have <i>my</i> five minutes.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>sneering</i>). Five minutes in which to tell her +lies about <i>me</i>, eh?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Damn it, you've had a whole year in which to tell her +lies about yourself; you oughtn't to grudge me five minutes. +(<i>To</i> KATE) Well?</p> +<p>KATE. I agree, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Good. (<i>He spins a coin, puts it on the back of his +hand, and says to</i> NORWOOD) Call!</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What on <i>earth</i>—</p> +<p>DENNIS. Choice of innings.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I never heard of anything so—Tails.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>uncovering it</i>). Heads. You shall have first +knock.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>bewildered</i>). What do you—I +don't—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You have five minutes in which to lay your case before +Mrs. Camberley. (<i>He looks at his watch</i>) Five +minutes—and then I shall come back. . . . Is there a fire in +the dining-room, Kate?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>smiling in spite of herself</i>). A gas-fire; it isn't +lit.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Then I shall light it. (<i>To</i> NORWOOD) That will +make the room nice and warm for you by the time you've finished. +(<i>He goes to the door and says again</i>) Five minutes.</p> +<p>(<i>There is an awkward silence after he is gone</i>. KATE +<i>waits for</i> NORWOOD <i>to say something, but</i> NORWOOD +<i>doesn't know in the least what is expected of him</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>looking anxiously at the door</i>). What's the +fellow's game, eh?</p> +<p>KATE. Game?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Yes. What's he up to?</p> +<p>KATE. Is he up to anything?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I don't like it. Why the devil did he choose to-day to +come back? If he'd waited another week, we'd have been safely away +together. What's his game, I wonder?</p> +<p>(<i>He walks up and down, worrying it out</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. I don't think he's playing a game. He's just giving me my +chance.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What chance?</p> +<p>KATE. A chance to decide between you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think +about it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming +away with me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he +up to?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>sitting down and talking to herself</i>). You're quite +right about my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage +in those early days of the war—knowing nothing about each +other. And then they come back, and even the little one thought one +did know is different. . . . I suppose he feels the same about +me.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>to himself</i>). Damn him!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>after a pause</i>). Well, Cyril?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>looking sharply round at her</i>). Well?</p> +<p>KATE. We haven't got very long.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>looking at his watch</i>). He really means to come +back—in five minutes?</p> +<p>KATE. You heard him say so.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>going up to her and speaking eagerly</i>). What's +the matter with slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can +slip out quietly. He won't hear us. He'll come back and find us +gone—well, what can he do? Probably he'll hang about for a +bit and then go to his club. We'll have a bit of dinner; ring up +your maid; get her to meet you with some things, and go off by the +night mail. Scotland—anywhere you like. Let the whole +business simmer down a bit. We don't want any melodramatic +eighteenth-century nonsense.</p> +<p>KATE. Go out now, and not wait for him to have <i>his</i> five +minutes?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>impatiently</i>). What does he <i>want</i> with five +minutes? What's the <i>good</i> of it to him? Just to take a +pathetic farewell of you, and pretend that you've ruined his life, +when all the time he's chuckling in his sleeve at having got rid of +you so easily. <i>I</i> know these young fellows. Some Major's wife +in India is what <i>he's</i> got his eye on. . . . Or else he'll +try fooling around with the hands-up business. You don't want to be +mixed up with any scandal of <i>that</i> sort. No, the best thing +we can do—I'm speaking for <i>your</i> sake, Kate—is to +slip off quietly, while we've got the chance. We can <i>write</i> +and explain all that we want to explain.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>looking wonderingly at him—another man whom she +doesn't know</i>). Is that playing quite fair to Dennis?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Good Lord, this isn't a game! Camberley may think so +with his tossing-up and all the rest of it, but you and I aren't +children. Everything's fair in a case like this. Put your hat +on—quickly—(<i>he gets it for her</i>)—here you +are—</p> +<p>KATE (<i>standing up</i>). I'm not sure, Cyril.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. What d'you mean?</p> +<p>KATE. He expects me to wait for him.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. If it comes to that, he expected you to wait for him +four years ago.</p> +<p>KATE. Yes. . . . (<i>Quietly</i>) Thank you for reminding +me.</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Kate, don't be stupid. What's happened to you? Of +course, I know it's been beastly upsetting for you, all +this—but then, why do you want to go on with it? Why do you +want <i>more</i> upsetting scenes?</p> +<p>You've got a chance now of getting out of it all, +and—(<i>He looks at his watch</i>) Good Lord!</p> +<p>KATE. Is the five minutes over?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Quick, quick! (<i>He puts his fingers to his lips</i>) +Quietly. (<i>He walks on tiptoe to the door</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. Cyril!</p> +<p>NORWOOD. H'sh!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>sitting down again</i>). It's no good, Cyril, I must +wait for him.</p> +<p>(<i>The door opens, and</i> NORWOOD <i>starts back quickly +as</i> DENNIS <i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>looking at his watch</i>). Innings declared closed. +(<i>To</i> NORWOOD) The dining-room is nicely warmed now, and I've +left you an evening paper.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>going to</i> KATE). Look here, Mr. Camberley, Kate +and I—</p> +<p>DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley, no doubt, will tell me.</p> +<p>(<i>He holds the door open and waits politely for</i> NORWOOD +<i>to go</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD. I don't know what your game is—</p> +<p>DENNIS. You've never been in Mesopotamia, Mr. Norwood?</p> +<p>NORWOOD. Never.</p> +<p>DENNIS. It's a very trying place for the temper. . . . I'm +waiting for you.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>irresolute</i>). Well, I—— (<i>He comes +sulkily to the door</i>) Well, I shall come back for Kate in five +minutes.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley and I will be ready for you. You know +your way?</p> +<p>[NORWOOD <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(DENNIS <i>shuts the door. He comes into the room and stands +looking at</i> KATE.)</p> +<p>KATE (<i>uncomfortably</i>). Well?</p> +<p>DENNIS. No, don't move. I just want to look at you. . . . I've +seen you like that for four years. Don't move. . . . I've been in +some dreary places, but you've been with me most of the time. Just +let's have a last look.</p> +<p>KATE. A last look?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Yes.</p> +<p>KATE. You're saying good-bye to me?</p> +<p>DENNIS. I don't know whether it's to you, Kate. To the girl who +has been with me these last four years. Was that you?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>dropping her eyes</i>). I don't know, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS. I wish to God I wasn't your husband.</p> +<p>KATE. What would you do if you weren't my husband?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Make love to you.</p> +<p>KATE. Can't you do that now?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Being your husband rather handicaps me, you know. I +never really stood a chance against the other fellow.</p> +<p>KATE. I was to choose between you, you said. You think that I +have already made up my mind?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>smiling</i>). I think so.</p> +<p>KATE. And chosen him?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>shaking his head</i>). Oh, no!</p> +<p>KATE (<i>surprised</i>). You think I have chosen <i>you</i>?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>nodding</i>). M'm.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>indignantly</i>). Really, Dennis! Considering that I +had practically arranged to run away with him twenty minutes ago! +You must think me very fickle.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Not fickle. Imaginative.</p> +<p>KATE. What do you mean? And why are you so certain that I am +going to choose you? And why in that case did you talk about taking +a last look at me? And what—?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Of course, we've only got five minutes, but I think that +if you asked your questions one at a time——</p> +<p>KATE (<i>smiling</i>). Well, you needn't <i>answer</i> them all +together.</p> +<p>DENNIS. All right then, one at a time. Why am I certain that you +will choose me? Because for the first time in your life you have +just been alone with Mr. Cyril Norwood. That's what I meant by +saying you were imaginative. The Norwood you've been thinking +yourself in love with doesn't exist. I'm certain that you've seen +him for the first time in these last few minutes. Why, the +Archangel Gabriel would have made a hash of a five minutes like +that; it would have been impossible for him to have said the right +thing to you. Norwood? Good Lord, he didn't stand a chance. You +were judging him all the time, weren't you?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>thoughtfully</i>). You're very clever, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>cheerfully</i>). Four years' study of the Turkish +character.</p> +<p>KATE. But how do you know I'm not judging <i>you</i> all the +time?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Of course you are. But there's all the difference in the +world between judging a stranger like me, and judging the man you +thought you were in love with.</p> +<p>KATE. You <i>are</i> a stranger to me.</p> +<p>DENNIS. I know. That's why I said good-bye to the girl who had +been with me these last four years, the girl I had married. Well, +I've said good-bye to her. You're not my wife any longer, Kate; but +if you don't mind pretending that I'm not your husband, and just +give me a chance of making love to you—well, that's all I +want.</p> +<p>KATE. You're very generous, Dennis.</p> +<p>DENNIS. No, I'm not. I'm very much in love; and for a man very +much in love I'm being rather less of a silly ass than usual. Why +should you love me? You fell in love with my uniform at the +beginning of the war. I was ordered out, and you fell in love with +the departing hero. After that? Well, I had four +years—alone—in which to think about <i>you</i>, and you +had four years—with other men—in which to forget +<i>me</i>. Is it any wonder that—?</p> +<p>(NORWOOD <i>comes in</i>.)</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>roughly</i>). Well?</p> +<p>DENNIS. You arrive just in time, Mr. Norwood. I was talking too +much. (<i>To</i> KATE) Mrs. Camberley, we are both at your +disposal. Will you choose between us, which one is to have the +happiness of—serving you?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>holding out his hand to her, and speaking in the +voice of the proprietor</i>). Kate!</p> +<p>(KATE <i>goes slowly up to him with her hand held out</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE (<i>shaking</i> NORWOOD'S <i>hand</i>). Good-bye, Mr. +Norwood.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>astounded</i>). Kate! (<i>To</i> DENNIS) You +devil!</p> +<p>DENNIS. And only a moment ago I was comparing you to the +Archangel Gabriel.</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>sneeringly to</i> KATE). So you're going to be a +loving wife to him after all?</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>tapping him kindly on the shoulder</i>). You'll +remember what I said about Mesopotamia?</p> +<p>NORWOOD (<i>pulling himself together hastily</i>). Good-bye, +Mrs. Camberley. I can only hope that you will be happy.</p> +<p>(<i>He goes out with dignity</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>closing the door</i>). Well, there we agree.</p> +<p>(<i>He comes back to her</i>.)</p> +<p>KATE. What a stupid little fool I have been. (<i>She holds out +her arms to him</i>) Dennis!</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>retreating in mock alarm</i>). Oh no, you don't! +(<i>He shakes a finger at her</i>) We're not going to rush it +<i>this</i> time.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>reproachfully</i>). Dennis!</p> +<p>DENNIS. I think you should call me Mr. Camberley.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>with a smile</i>). Mr. Camberley.</p> +<p>DENNIS. That's better. Now our courtship begins. (<i>Bowing +low</i>) Madam, will you do me the great honour of dining with me +this evening?</p> +<p>KATE (<i>curtseying</i>). I shall be charmed.</p> +<p>DENNIS. Then let us hasten. The carriage waits.</p> +<p>KATE (<i>holding up the two hats</i>). Which of these two +chapeaux do you prefer, Mr. Camberley?</p> +<p>DENNIS. Might I express a preference for the black one with the +pink roses?</p> +<p>KATE. It is very elegant, is it not? (<i>She puts it +on</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS. Vastly becoming, upon my life. . . . I might mention +that I am staying at the club. Is your ladyship doing anything +to-morrow?</p> +<p>KATE. Nothing of any great importance.</p> +<p>(<i>He offers his arm and she takes it</i>.)</p> +<p>DENNIS (<i>as they go to the door</i>). Then perhaps I may be +permitted to call round to-morrow morning about eleven, and make +inquiries as to your ladyship's health.</p> +<p>KATE. It would be very obliging of you, sir.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_1"><!-- RULE4 1 --></a> +<h2>THE ROMANTIC AGE</h2> +<h3>A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">HENRY KNOWLE.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">MARY KNOWLE (his wife).<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">MELISANDE (his daughter).<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">JANE BAGOT (his niece).<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">BOBBY COOTE.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">GERVASE MALLORY.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">ERN.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">GENTLEMAN SUSAN.<br></font><br> +<font face="Times">ALICE.<br></font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">This play was first produced +by Mr. Arthur Wontner at the Comedy Theatre on October 18, 1920, +with the following cast:</font><br> +<br> +<font face="Times">Henry Knowle—A. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT.<br> +Mary Knowle—LOTTIE VENNE.<br> +Melisande—BARBARA HOFFE.<br> +Jane—DOROTHY TETLEY.<br> +Bobby—JOHN WILLIAMS.<br> +Gervase Mallory—ARTHUR WONTNER.<br> +Ern—ROY LENNOL.<br> +Gentleman Susan—H.O. NICHOLSON.<br> +Alice—IRENE RATHBONE.<br></font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>THE ROMANTIC AGE</h2> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT I</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>We are looking at the inner hall of</i> MR. HENRY KNOWLE'S +<i>country house, at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors +R. and L.—on the right leading to the drawing-room, on the +left to the entrance hall, the dining-room and the library. At the +back are windows—French windows on the right, then an +interval of wall, then casement windows</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, <i>her daughter</i>, MELISANDE, <i>and her +niece</i>, JANE BAGOT, <i>are waiting for their coffee</i>, MRS. +KNOWLE, <i>short and stoutish, is reclining on the sofa;</i> JANE, +<i>pleasant-looking and rather obviously pretty, is sitting in a +chair near her, glancing at a book;</i> MELISANDE, <i>the +beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows, +gazing into the night</i>.</p> +<p>ALICE, <i>the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands +in front of</i> MRS. KNOWLE, <i>a little embarrassed because</i> +MRS. KNOWLE'S <i>eyes are closed. She waits there until</i> JANE +<i>looks up from her book</i>.</p> +<p>JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>opening her eyes with a start</i>). Coffee. Oh, +yes, coffee. Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr. +Anderson is very firm about that. "No sugar, Mrs. Knowle," he said. +"Oh, Dr. Anderson!" I said.</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>has taken the tray to</i> JANE, <i>who pours out her +own and her aunt's coffee, and takes her cup off the tray</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. Thank you.</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>takes the tray to</i> MRS. KNOWLE.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you.</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>goes over to</i> MELISANDE, <i>who says nothing, but +waves her away</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>as soon as</i> ALICE <i>is gone</i>). Jane!</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, <i>no</i>, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I'm glad of that. It's so bad for the servants. +(<i>She finishes her coffee</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>getting up</i>). Shall I put it down for you?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>puts the two cups down and goes back to her book</i>. +MRS. KNOWLE <i>fidgets a little on her sofa</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (<i>There is no answer</i>) Sandy!</p> +<p>JANE. Melisande!</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>turns round and comes slowly towards her +mother</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn't you hear me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other +things.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the +great poet tells us. "Do noble things, not dream them all day +long." Tennyson, wasn't it? I know I wrote it in your album for you +when you were a little girl. It's so true.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>nodding</i>). Kingsley, that's right.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it's the same thing. I know when <i>my</i> +mother used to call me I used to come running up, saying, "What is +it, Mummy, darling?" And even if it was anything upstairs, like a +handkerchief or a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off +happily, saying to myself, "Do noble things, not dream them all day +long."</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want +doing?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I've forgotten. If only you'd +come at once, dear—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It's a wonderful +night. Midsummer Night.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will +start drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know +where we are. All these changes of the seasons are very +inconsiderate to an invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted, +dear. Can you find me another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it +most important that the small of the back should be well supported +after a meal. (<i>Indicating the place</i>) Just here, dear.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>jumping up with the cushion from her chair</i>). Let +me, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. JANE +<i>arranges it</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. Is that right?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson's +sake.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>goes back to her book and</i> MELISANDE <i>goes back to +her Midsummer Night. There is silence for a little</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy!</p> +<p>JANE. Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coming patiently down to them</i>). Yes, +Mother?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I've just remembered—(MELISANDE +<i>shudders</i>.) What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That +comes of standing by the open window in a treacherous climate like +this. Close the window and come and sit down properly.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It's a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I'm +not cold.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder. +Didn't you see her, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. I'm afraid I wasn't looking, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I didn't shudder because I was cold. I shuddered +because you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder +every time I hear it.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>surprised</i>). What name, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by +such a wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were +going to call me Sandy?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I've told you, that was a +mistake of your father's. I suppose he got it out of some book. I +should certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him +distinctly. I thought he said Millicent—after your Aunt +Milly. And not being very well at the time, and leaving it all to +him, I never really knew about it until it was too late to do +anything. I did say to your father, "Can't we christen her again?" +But there was nothing in the prayer book about it except "riper +years," and nobody seemed to know when riper years began. Besides, +we were all calling you Sandy then. I think Sandy is a very pretty +name, don't you, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, but don't you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary? +I mean really beautiful.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not +for a nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes +me think of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to +whom she has never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest +with her hair coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a +pool. Not at all the thing one wants for one's daughter.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with "Jane," dear. Your +mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child +from floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it +is my duty to do so.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>to her self ecstatically</i>). Melisande!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>to</i> MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about +floating in a pool reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner +to-night. You heard what your father said? You must give cook a +good talking to in the morning. She has been getting very careless +lately. I don't know what's come over her.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. <i>I've</i> come over her. When <i>you</i> were over +her, everything was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you +take an interest in it. I don't. I hate it. How can you expect the +house to be run properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you +ever give it up and make me do it when you know how I hate it?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I'm sure Jane +here doesn't hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a +great help she is.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>warningly</i>). It's no good your saying you like +it, Jane, after what you told me yesterday.</p> +<p>JANE. I don't like it, but it doesn't make me miserable doing +it. But then I'm different. I'm not romantic like Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. One doesn't need to be very romantic not to want to +talk about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of +myself. If I thought about myself I should disregard all the +warnings that Dr. Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on +doing the housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to +think of you. I want to see you married to some nice, steady young +man before I die—my handkerchief, Jane—(JANE <i>gets up +and gives her her handkerchief from the other end of the +sofa</i>)—before I die (<i>she touches her eyes with her +handkerchief</i>), and no nice young man will want to marry you, if +you haven't learnt how to look after his house for him.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>contemptuously</i>). If that's marriage, I shall +never get married.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>shocked</i>). Melisande, darling!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to +make me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live +another hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't +<i>want</i> to live another hundred years. I only want to live +until my dear daughter, Melisande"—I didn't say Sandy to him +because it seemed rather familiar—"I only want to live until +my daughter Melisande is happily married to some nice, steady young +man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson," I said, "and I shall be your +lifelong debtor." He promised to do his best. It was then that he +mentioned about the cushion in the small of the back after meals. +And so don't forget to tell cook about the bread-sauce, will you, +dear?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his +food. I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper +interest in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been +married some years, and told each other everything you did and saw +before you met, there isn't really anything to talk about at meals +except food. And you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. +Nothing breaks up the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, +breakfast doesn't matter, because he has his paper then; and after +you have said, "Is there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has +said, "No," then he doesn't expect anything more. I wonder +sometimes why they go on printing the newspapers. I've been married +twenty years, and there has never been anything in the paper +yet.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage +like that. Wasn't there ever <i>any</i> kind of romance between you +and Father? Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one +magic Midsummer morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald +twinkle in the grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't +there ever one passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with +one long kiss my whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh +dew"? Or did you talk about bread-sauce <i>all</i> the time?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>eagerly</i>). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am +quite sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, +as Sandy suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at +Surbiton. He used to come down from London with his racquet and +play tennis with us. And then he would stay on to supper sometimes, +and then after supper we would go into the garden together—it +was quite dark then, but everything smelt so beautifully, I shall +always remember it—and we talked, oh, I don't know what +about, but I knew somehow that I should marry him one day. I don't +think <i>he</i> knew—he wasn't sure—and then he came to +a subscription dance one evening—I think Mother, your +grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because +she was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me +upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right +pair of shoes on—rather a tight pair—however, I put +them on. And there was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our +last dance together, and he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss +Bagot?" Well, of course, I was only too glad to, and we sat it out +in the hansom, driving all round Surbiton, and what your +grandmother would have said I don't know, but, of course, I never +told her. And when we got home after the dance, I went up to her +room—as soon as I'd got my shoes off—and said, "Mother, +I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "<i>Not</i> Mr. +Knowle—Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, +and wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" +and—Jane, where's my handkerchief? (<i>It has dropped off the +sofa and</i> JANE <i>picks it up</i>) Thank you, dear. (<i>She dabs +her eyes</i>) Well, that's really all, you know, except +that—(<i>she dabs her eyes again</i>)—I'm afraid I'm +feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was +very bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, +dear, why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and +compose myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't +know what I should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (<i>She begins +to get up</i>) And after calling me a Spartan Mother only +yesterday, because I said that if any nice, steady young man came +along and took my own dear little girl away from me, I should bear +the terrible wrench in silence rather than cause either of them a +moment's remorse. (<i>She is up now</i>) There!</p> +<p>JANE. Shall I come with you?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a +little. (<i>She turns back suddenly at the door</i>) Oh! Perhaps +later on, when the men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you +might join me, with your Uncle Henry—if the opportunity +occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of course.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes</i>.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>coming back to the sofa</i>). Poor Aunt Mary! It always +seems so queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have +had their romances too.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and +subscription dances and wearing tight shoes?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well, no, darling, not romance of +course, but you know what I mean.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which +mother has just told us, and compare it with any of the +love-stories of history. Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should +be satisfied now with so little?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt +Mary—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost +everywhere nowadays. There is no romance left.</p> +<p>JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I +do agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is +no—(<i>she searches for the right word</i>)—no +<i>romance</i> left.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one +shudder.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>doing her best</i>). Positively shudder!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He meets Her at—(<i>she shudders</i>)—a +subscription dance, or a tennis party—(<i>she shudders +again</i>) or—at <i>golf</i>. He calls upon her +mother—perhaps in a top hat—perhaps (<i>tragically</i>) +even in a bowler hat.</p> +<p>JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his +income—discovers that he is a nice, steady young +man—and decides that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked +to come again, he is invited to parties; it is understood that he +is falling in love with the daughter. The rest of the family are +encouraged to leave them alone together—if the opportunity +occurs, Jane. (<i>Contemptuously</i>) But, of course, only if it +occurs.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Yes, dear.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>to herself ecstatically</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she +takes to be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and +tells Father. They are engaged. They talk about each other as "my +fiancé." Perhaps they are engaged for months and +months—</p> +<p>JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. For years and years—and wherever they go, +people make silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if +they go into a room where the two of them are. And then they get +married at last, and everybody comes and watches them get married, +and makes more silly jokes, and they go away for what they call a +honeymoon, and they tell everybody—they shout it out in the +newspapers—<i>where</i> they are going for their honeymoon; +and then they come back and start talking about bread-sauce. Oh, +Jane, it's horrible.</p> +<p>JANE. Horrible, darling. (<i>With a French air</i>) But what +would you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>in a low thrilling voice</i>). What would I? Ah, +what would I, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Because you see, Sandy—I mean Melisande—you +see, darling, this <i>is</i> the twentieth century, and—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath +my lattice window.</p> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">All in the blue unclouded +weather</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">Thick-jewelled shone the +saddle leather,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">The helmet and the helmet +feather</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">Burned like one burning +flame together,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">As he rode down to +Camelot.</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">And from his blazoned +baldric slung</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">A mighty silver bugle +hung,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12.0pt">And as he rode his armour +rung</span><br> +<span style="margin:1.2in;font-size:12.0pt">As he rode down to +Camelot.</span><br> +<p>JANE. I know, dear. But of course they <i>don't</i> +nowadays.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, +I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a +gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose—perhaps just +a rose.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awed</i>). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily +hand to him? (<i>She waves one</i>) I mean, wouldn't it be +rather—<i>you</i> know. Rather forward.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Forward!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>upset</i>). Well, I mean—Well, of course, I +suppose it was different in those days.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else +could he wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?</p> +<p>JANE. Well, of course, there <i>is</i> that.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he +comes back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a +rope—for I have been immured in my room—and I let +myself down to him. He places me on the saddle in front of him, and +we ride forth together into the world—together for +always!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>a little uncomfortably</i>). You do get <i>married</i>, +I suppose, darling, or do you—er—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good +priest marries us.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>relieved</i>.) Ah, yes.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince +from Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a +country which is sorely troubled by a dragon.</p> +<p>JANE. By a what, dear?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. A dragon.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, yes, of course.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his +kingdom to anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens +to be passing through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the +dragon devours him.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't <i>the</i> one?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused +no emotion in my heart.</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, I'm so glad.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes +upon the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>sympathetically</i>.) Poor fellow</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in +blue and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be +allowed to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the +great hall on my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our +eyes meet. . . . Oh, Jane!</p> +<p>JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, +Melisande. They would have suited you so well.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Will they never come back again?</p> +<p>JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress +in blue and gold nowadays. I mean men.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No. (<i>She sighs</i>) Well, I suppose I shall never +marry.</p> +<p>JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't +have time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I +quite agree with everything you say, and of course it must have +been thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still +here we are, and (<i>with a wave of the hand</i>)—and what I +mean is—here we are.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and +to make the ordinary commonplace marriage?</p> +<p>JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was +the right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman—I don't +say beautiful—pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not +very clever perhaps, but making enough money——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>carelessly</i>). It sounds rather like Bobby.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>confused</i>). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else +particularly. It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I +was just describing the sort of man without thinking of any one +in——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right.</p> +<p>JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to <i>you</i>.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>firmly</i>). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you +solemnly that if you think you are going to leave me and Bobby +alone together this evening—— (<i>Voices are heard +outside</i>.) Well, I warn you.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>in a whisper</i>). Of course not, darling. (<i>With +perfect tact</i>) And, as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the +most——Ah, here you are at last! We wondered what had +happened to you!</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> BOBBY <i>and</i> MR. KNOWLE. JANE <i>has already +described</i> BOBBY <i>for us</i>. MR. KNOWLE <i>is a pleasant, +middle-aged man with a sense of humour, which he cultivates for his +own amusement entirely</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (<i>He goes towards +them</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>laughing</i>). Very.</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>gets up as</i> BOBBY <i>comes, and moves +away</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget +what I said about the bread-sauce, will you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What +you said?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that +you should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between +bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there +is no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy +chicken, such as we had to-night, but that a properly made +bread-sauce is a necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to +be obtained.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, +Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A +little quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer +Night. Why aren't you two out in the garden looking for +fairies?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be +out. D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take <i>you</i> out. If we meet +any of Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking across warningly at her</i>). +Jane——</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande +and I—I promised Sandy—we——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>putting her arm firmly through his</i>). +Nonsense. I'm not going to have my niece taken away from me, when +she is only staying with us for such a short time. Besides I insist +upon being introduced to Titania. I want to complain about the +rings on the tennis-lawn. They must dance somewhere else.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>looking anxiously at</i> MELISANDE). You see, Uncle +Henry, I'm not feeling very——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>resigned</i>) All right, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>brightly</i>). All right, Uncle Henry.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>very brightly</i>). It's all right, Bobby.</p> +<p>JANE. Come along! (<i>They go to the open windows +together</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>as they go</i>). Any message for Oberon, if we +meet him?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>gravely</i>). No, thank you, Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>laughs as they go out together</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>Left alone</i>, MELISANDE <i>takes up a book and goes to the +sofa with it, while</i> BOBBY <i>walks about the room unhappily, +whistling to himself. He keeps looking across at her, and at last +their eyes meet</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>putting down her book</i>). Well, Bobby?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>angrily</i>). Don't call me that; you know how I +hate it.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And +your father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say +anything.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes +a time when it is almost useless to say things to them.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>eagerly</i>). I never mind your saying things to +<i>me</i>, Sandy—I mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, +really I shan't. Of course, I know I'm not worthy of you, and all +that, but—I say, Melisande, isn't there <i>any</i> hope?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that +again.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming to her</i>). I know you did, but I must. I +can't believe that you—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like +that again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that +it shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not +even Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they +propose to a girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of +the country and shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to +do. But I did try and make it easy for <i>you</i>, Bobby. +(<i>Sadly</i>) And now you're beginning all over again.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>awkwardly</i>). I though perhaps you might have +changed your mind. Lots of girls do.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>contemptuously</i>). Lots of girls! Is that how +you think of me?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, your mother said—(<i>He breaks off +hurriedly</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coldly</i>). Have you been discussing me with my +mother?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean +Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, I didn't <i>discuss</i> you with your mother. She +just happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and +that they always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be +downhearted, because—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. That <i>you</i> needn't? You mean you <i>told</i> +her?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, +you went and <i>told</i> her! And then I suppose you went and told +the cook, and <i>she</i> said that her brother's young woman was +just the same, and then you told the butcher, and <i>he</i> said, +"You stick to it, sir. All women are alike. My missis said 'No' to +me the first time." And then you went and told the +gardeners—I suppose you had all the gardeners together in the +potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it—and when you +had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go and +tell the postman," and then—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, what a world!</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>picking up her book</i>). Father and Jane are +outside, Bobby, if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I +suppose they know already. (<i>She pretends to read</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, you know—(<i>He doesn't quite know what to +say. There is an awkward silence. Then he says humbly</i>) I'm +awfully sorry, Melisande. Please forgive me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him gravely</i>). That's nice of you, +Bobby. Please forgive <i>me</i>. I wasn't fair.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your +mother. And it sort of came out with <i>her</i>. She began talking +about you—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. <i>I</i> know.</p> +<p>BOBBY. But I never told anybody else.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should +mind so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't +help falling in love with you, and—well, it <i>is</i> a sort +of a compliment to you, isn't it?—even if it's only me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the +compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so—so +unromantic. (<i>After a pause</i>) Sometimes I think I shall never +marry.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do <i>like</i> me, don't +you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking +Englishman—I don't say beautiful—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I should hope not!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable—not very +clever, perhaps, but making enough money—</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more!</p> +<p>BOBBY. What sort of things?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so—so ordinary!</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did +you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. So—commonplace. So—unromantic.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry +and all that, if that's what you mean by romantic, +but—commonplace! I'm blessed if I see how you make out +that.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings—</p> +<p>BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass!</p> +<p>(BOBBY <i>goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his +clothes</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>looking back at her</i>). Well?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Well!</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give +myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my +prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how +can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like +that!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>looking at it</i>). What's the matter with it? It's +what every other fellow wears.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>contemptuously</i>). What every other fellow +wears! And you think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what +every other fellow talks, and eat what every other—I suppose +<i>you</i> didn't like the bread-sauce this evening?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>guardedly</i>). Well, not as bread-sauce.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding her head</i>). I thought so, I thought +so.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>struck by an idea</i>). I say, you didn't make it, did +you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I thought perhaps—You know, I really don't know +what you <i>do</i> want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is <i>he</i> +going to do the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I +don't.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>shaking her head gently at him</i>). No, I'm sure +you don't, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>still trying, however</i>). I suppose it's because +he's doing the cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. +He sounds a funny sort of chap; I should like to see him.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>jealously</i>). Have you seen him?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Only in my dreams.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>relieved</i>). Oh, well.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily to herself</i>). Perhaps I shall never +see him in this world—and then I shall never marry. But if he +ever comes for me, he will come not like other men; and because he +is so different from everybody else, then I shall know him when he +comes for me. He won't talk about +bread-sauce—billiards—and the money market. He won't +wear a little black suit, with a little black tie—all +sideways. (BOBBY <i>hastily pulls his tie straight</i>.) I don't +know how he will be dressed, but I know this, that when I see him, +that when my eyes have looked into his, when his eyes have looked +into mine—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, steady!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>waking from her dream</i>). Yes? (<i>She gives a +little laugh</i>) Poor Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>appealingly</i>). I say, Sandy! (<i>He goes up to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>(MRS. KNOWLE <i>has seized this moment to come back for her +handkerchief. She sees them together, and begins to walk out on +tiptoe</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>They hear her and turn round suddenly</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>in a whisper</i>). Don't take any notice of me. +I only just came for my handkerchief. (<i>She continues to walk on +tiptoe towards the opposite door</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>getting up</i>). We were just wondering where you +were, Mother. Here's your handkerchief. (<i>She picks it up from +the sofa</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>still in the voice in which you speak to an +invalid</i>). Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you—I +was just going—</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to +Bobby, won't you?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>with a happy smile, hoping for the best</i>). +Yes, my darling.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>going to the windows</i>). That's right. (<i>She +stops at the windows and holds out her hands to the +night</i>)—</p> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">The moon shines bright: In +such a night as this</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">When the sweet wind did +gently kiss the trees</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">And they did make no noise, +in such a night</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Troilus methinks mounted +the Troyan walls,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">And sighed his soul towards +the Grecian tents,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Where Cressid lay that +night. In such a night</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Stood Dido with a willow in +her hand,</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">Upon the wild sea banks, +and waft her love</span><br> +<span style="margin:1in;font-size:12pt">To come again to +Carthage.</span><br> +<p>(<i>She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling +voice</i>) In such a night! Ah!</p> +<p>[<i>She goes to it</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>in a different voice</i>). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. +Coote?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>turning back to her with a start</i>). +Oh—er—yes?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you +Bobby, mayn't I?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>archly</i>). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of +a better name?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>wondering if he ought to call her</i> MARY). +Er—I'm—I'm afraid I don't quite—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Mother.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, but I say—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>giving him her hand</i>). And now come and sit +on the sofa with me, and tell me all about it.</p> +<p>(<i>They go to the sofa together</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>shaking a finger playfully at him</i>). Not Mrs. +Knowle, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think—I mean Sandy and +I—we aren't—</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has +refused you again.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other +day was true. Girls don't know their own minds.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>ruefully</i>). I think Sandy knows hers—about +me, anyhow.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet +said—Shakespeare, or was it the other man?—"Faint heart +never won fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would +never have won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he +came again—like Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a +revolver, and threatened to shoot himself. I was shaking like an +aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I loved him. "Henry," I said, +"I am yours." He took me in his arms—putting down the +revolver first, of course. I have never regretted my surrender, Mr. +Coote. (<i>With a sigh</i>) Ah, me! We women are strange +creatures.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot +myself.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very +warm-hearted. I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you +are taking too gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her +again. I know when I'm not wanted.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and +I—</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't +mind. I practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to +you this time.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how +should I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, of course—I mean I haven't really said +anything, have I? Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about +things.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she +gets it from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was +all the result of being christened in that irreligious way—I +quite thought he said Millicent—and reading all those books, +instead of visiting the sick as I used to do. I was quite a little +Red Riding Hood until Henry sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE +<i>and</i> JANE <i>come in by the window, and she turns round +towards them</i>.) Ah, there you both are. I was wondering where +you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all about his +prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get your +feet wet, I hope.</p> +<p>JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been +talking to the fairies—haven't we, Jane?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see +Sandy?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania—and Peters. +He had an appointment, apparently—but not with Titania.</p> +<p>JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the +morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an +unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a +mistake.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about +it as you. He is doing his best to remedy the error.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>getting up</i>). Well, I must be going to bed. I +have been through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know +about.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>cheerfully</i>). What's the matter, my love? +Indigestion?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my +lips are sealed. I shall suffer my cross—my mental +cross—in silence.</p> +<p>JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (<i>To Heaven</i>) My only +daughter has left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece +has offered to help me out of my—to help me. (<i>Holding out +her hand</i>) Good-night, Mr. Coote.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (<i>in a loud whisper</i>) +what Shakespeare said. (<i>She presses his hand and holds it</i>) +Good-night! Good-night! . . . Good-night!</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he +said, "Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I +could say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE <i>looks at +him severely, and then, without saying anything, goes over to him +and holds up her cheek</i>.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>(MRS. KNOWLE <i>goes to the door,</i> BOBBY <i>hurrying in front +to open it for her</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>at the door</i>). I shall <i>not</i> sleep well. +I shall lie awake all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much +distressed. "Dr. Anderson," I shall say, "it is not your fault. I +lay awake all night, thinking of my loved ones." In five minutes, +Jane.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the +library, if anybody wants to think of me—or say good-night to +me—or anything like that.</p> +<p>JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now Uncle Henry. +(<i>She goes up to him</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>kissing her</i>). Good-night, dear.</p> +<p>JANE. Good-night.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss +me—what about you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library +and have a smoke first?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather +tired to-day, somehow.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a +business this is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she +should come back, Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she +will find it in the library—just above the back of the +armchair nearest the door. [<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p>JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>gloomily</i>). Yes—about five minutes ago.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>timidly</i>). I'm so sorry, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (<i>After a +pause</i>) Don't let's talk about it.</p> +<p>JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I +<i>had</i> to say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did +you?</p> +<p>BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>gently</i>). I mind very much when my friends are +unhappy.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (<i>He stands up, buttons his coat, and +looks at himself</i>) I say, do <i>you</i> see anything wrong with +it?</p> +<p>JANE. Wrong with what?</p> +<p>BOBBY. My clothes. (<i>He revolves slowly</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she +means half the time.</p> +<p>JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what +you mean. She's so (<i>searching for the right word</i>)—so +<i>romantic</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>eagerly</i>). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of +living up to. I say, have a cigarette, won't you?</p> +<p>JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but +I do feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who +marries her.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes. She's too (<i>getting the right word at +last</i>)—too <i>romantic</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about +doing deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but +when one marries and settles down—you know what I mean?</p> +<p>JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to +Melisande only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I +happen to like the twentieth century. That's all.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I see what you mean.</p> +<p>JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen +on games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else +wears—as long as they fit well, of course—and to talk +about the ordinary things that everybody talks about. Of course, +Melisande would say that that was very stupid and unromantic of +me——</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't think it is at all.</p> +<p>JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do +understand so wonderfully.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>with a laugh</i>). I say, that's rather funny. I was +just thinking the same about you.</p> +<p>JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that +we are really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't +know whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make +friends very easily.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends?</p> +<p>JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly +think of any—not what you call real friends.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each +other all your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I +could never tell even her. (<i>Impressively</i>) I could never show +her my inmost heart.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I +bet there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything.</p> +<p>JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. +That sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be +liked.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit +horrid.</p> +<p>JANE. How nice of you. (<i>She gets up</i>) Well, I must be +going, I suppose.</p> +<p>BOBBY. What's the hurry?</p> +<p>JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes.</p> +<p>BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down +again, won't you?</p> +<p>JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. +(<i>Holding out her hand</i>) Good-night, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>taking it</i>). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light +your candle for you.</p> +<p>JANE. How nice of you!</p> +<p>(<i>She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door +together</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>at the door</i>). Well, if you are, we'd better put the +lights out.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Righto. (<i>He puts them out</i>.) I say, what a night! +(<i>The moonlight streams through the windows on them</i>.) You'll +hardly want a candle.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to +ring. After a little interval</i>, ALICE <i>comes in, turns on the +light, and looks round the hall. She is walking across the hall to +the drawing-room when</i> MR. KNOWLE <i>comes in from behind her, +and she turns round</i>).</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice?</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it?</p> +<p>ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he +wondered if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how +very sorry he was to trouble you——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all—particularly +if Peters is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if +it's not troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And +ask the gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the +door-mat.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is +about to bring in the whiskey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. (<i>She goes out, and returns a moment +later</i>) He says, thank you very much, sir, but he really won't +come in, and he's very sorry indeed to trouble you about the +petrol.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him.</p> +<p>ALICE (<i>hopefully</i>). Yes, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present +Mr. Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much +honoured if he will drink a glass of whiskey with me before +proceeding on his journey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. (<i>She goes out. In a little while she comes +back followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in +a long cloak</i>.) Mr. Gervase Mallory.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see +you. (<i>They shake hands</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for +bothering you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful +nuisance.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty +miles away. Do you know it?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as +far away as that.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a laugh</i>). Well, perhaps only by the way I +came. The fact is I've lost myself rather.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to +have come within five miles of us.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now +that you <i>are</i> here.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you.</p> +<p>ALICE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE <i>puts down the +whiskey</i>.) You've told Peters?</p> +<p>ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE <i>goes out</i>.) You'll have +some whiskey, won't you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thanks very much.</p> +<p>(<i>He comes to the table</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make +yourself comfortable?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Er—thanks. I don't think—— (<i>He +smiles to himself and keeps his cloak on</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>busy with the drinks</i>). Say when.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And soda?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks!</p> +<p>(<i>He takes the glass</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>giving himself one</i>). I'm so glad you came, +because I have a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives +me cough-mixture, I insist on somebody else in the house having +cough-mixture too. A glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just +before going to bed—— (<i>He looks up</i>) But do take +your coat off, won't you, and sit down and be comfortable?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Er—thanks very much, but I don't +think—— (<i>With a shrug and a smile</i>) Oh, well! +(<i>He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. He is in +fancy dress—the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold +of</i> MELISANDE'S <i>dream</i>.)</p> +<p>(MR. KNOWLE <i>turns round to him again just as he has put his +cloak down. He looks at</i> GERVASE <i>in amazement</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>pointing to his whiskey glass</i>). But I haven't +even begun it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder +what on earth I'm doing.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth <i>I'd</i> been +doing.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at +Collingham.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in—or take my +cloak off.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>inspecting him</i>). It becomes you +extraordinarily well, if I may say so.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it +when other people are in ordinary clothes.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. +I don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but +(<i>looking at himself</i>) I am sure that I could have found +something more expressive of my emotions than this.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, +Davy."</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a +whiskey and soda.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (<i>Taking out his case</i>) Have a +cigarette, too?</p> +<p>GERVASE. May I have one of my own?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Do.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>feeling for it</i>). If I can find it. They were +very careless about pockets in the old days. I had a special one +put in somewhere, only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, +here it is. (<i>He takes a cigarette from his case, and after +trying to put the case back in his pocket again, places it on the +table</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Match?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thanks. (<i>Picking up his whiskey</i>) Well, here's +luck, and—my most grateful thanks.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>raising his glass</i>). May you slay all your +dragons.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you. (<i>They drink</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw +a map outside in the hall.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was +too much interested in your prints.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>eagerly</i>). You don't say that you are +interested in prints?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Very much—as an entire amateur.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the +art began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I +have something in the library—but of course I mustn't take up +your time now. If you could bear to come over another +day—after all, we are neighbours——</p> +<p>GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it +because you seem to have lost your way so +completely——</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different +in the moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on +afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your +hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in +one afternoon.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That will be ripping. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well, I +suppose I ought to be getting on. (<i>He picks up his +cloak</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the +way.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's.</p> +<p>(<i>They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking +at the casement windows</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (<i>He switches off +the lights, and the moon streams through the windows</i>) Just +look.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a deep sigh</i>). Wonderful!</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>The hall is empty for a moment. Then</i> GERVASE +<i>reappears. He has forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and +on his way out again stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking +through the casement windows</i>.)</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and +at the same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. +It is He! The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each +other. . . . Silently he makes obeisance to her; silently she +acknowledges it. . . . Then he is gone</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT II</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The +scene is a glade in a wood a little way above the village of +Hedgling</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE MALLORY, <i>still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak +on, comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He +takes off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns +round, and, seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While +he is looking he hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round +with a start; the whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries +to get to his cloak. It is too late</i>. ERN, <i>a very small boy, +comes through the trees into the glade</i>. GERVASE <i>gives a sigh +of resignation and stands there</i>. ERN <i>stops in the middle of +his tune and gazes at him</i>.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo—er! Oo! (<i>He circles slowly round</i> +GERVASE.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. I quite agree with you.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo! Look!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the +back—take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . +. Been all round? Good!</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very +difficult. Do you mind if I sit down?</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>sitting down on a log</i>). I gather that I have +your consent. I thank you.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo! Look! (<i>He points at</i> GERVASE'S <i>legs</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed +those before?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>sitting down in front of</i> GERVASE). Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a +walk in a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say +"Oo." What does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you +don't walk all round <i>him</i> and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle +George wear when he's reaping? I suppose you don't—By the +way, I wish you'd tell me your name. (ERN <i>gazes at him +dumbly</i>.) Oh, come! They must have told you your name when you +got up this moving.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>smiling sheepishly</i>). Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>bowing</i>). How do you do? I am very glad to meet +you, Mr. Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN <i>grins</i>) Thank +you.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>tapping himself</i>). I'm Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory.</p> +<p>ERN. Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, +you know, because then we never get any farther. Once an +introduction is over, Mr. Hearne, we are—</p> +<p>ERN. Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But +now—Oh, I see what you mean. Ern—short for Ernest?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>nodding</i>). They calls me Ern.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger +I shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest— (<i>getting up</i>) +Just excuse me a moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree +has. It must be a Pomeranian. (<i>He folds his cloak upon it and +sits down again</i>) That's better. Now we can talk comfortably +together. I don't know if there's anything you particularly want to +discuss—nothing?—well, then, I will suggest the subject +of breakfast.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>grinning</i>). 'Ad my breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You've <i>had</i> yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of +course, you're wondering why I haven't had mine.</p> +<p>ERN. Bacon fat. (<i>He makes reminiscent noises</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what +happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a +motor car of your own.</p> +<p>ERN. Don't like moty cars.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree +with you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't +broken down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if +you're married or anything of that sort, but I think even your +rough stern heart would have been moved by that vision of +loveliness which I saw last night. (<i>He is silent for a little, +thinking of her</i>.) Well, then, I lost my way. There I +was—ten miles from anywhere—in the middle of what was +supposed to be a short cut—late at night—Midsummer +Night—what would <i>you</i> have done, Ernest?</p> +<p>ERN. Gone 'ome.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know +where home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen +the Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or +any wise man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of +Her.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . +Have you ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer +Night—I don't mean just for a minute or two, but all through +the night until the dawn came? You aren't really alone, you know. +All round you there are little whisperings going on, little +breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is out hunting; somebody +stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt of yesterday; +somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, and then, +finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little head back +under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies are +out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in +them last night. I heard them whispering.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>coming out of his thoughts with a laugh</i>). Well, +of course, I can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about +thinking that there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and +bull's-eyes. Well, then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up +suddenly and it was morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical +morning—but, of course, <i>you</i> were just settling down to +business then.</p> +<p>ERN. Oo! (<i>He makes more reminiscent noises</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, +breakfast.</p> +<p>ERN. 'Ad my breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old +friend, Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, +has got an estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his +simple meal with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you +didn't do, young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on +a pocket-handkerchief—one of my sister's, +unfortunately—and then I came out to look for breakfast. And +suddenly, whom should I meet but my old friend, Ernest, the same +hearty fellow, the same inveterate talker as when we shot +dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay. (<i>Shaking his +hand</i>) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about it?</p> +<p>ERN. 'Ad my—</p> +<p>GERVASE. S'sh. (<i>He gets up</i>) Now then—to business. +Do you mind looking the other way while I try to find my purse. +(<i>Feeling for it</i>.) Every morning when you get up, you should +say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big boy now and I've got pockets in +my trousers." And you should feel very sorry for the poor people +who lived in fairy books and had no trousers to put pockets in. Ah, +here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very carefully. Where do you +live?</p> +<p>ERN. 'Ome.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, +how far away is your home? (ERN <i>grins and says nothing</i>) A +mile? (ERN <i>continues to grin</i>) Half a mile? (ERN +<i>grins</i>) Six inches?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>pointing</i>). Down there.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this— +(<i>giving him half-a-crown</i>)—</p> +<p>ERN. Oo!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you—and I want you +to ask your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, +listen very carefully, because we are coming to the important part. +Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk—and +anything else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because +your old friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is +starving by the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket +quickly, I'll give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a +week. (<i>Very earnestly</i>) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and +emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you +got that?</p> +<p>ERN (<i>nodding</i>). Going 'ome. (<i>He looks at the half-crown +again</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But—returning with breakfast. +Starving man—lost in forest—return with +basket—save life. (<i>To himself</i>) I believe I could +explain it better to a Chinaman. (<i>To</i> ERN) Now then, off you +go.</p> +<p>ERN (<i>as he goes off</i>). 'Ad my breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine.</p> +<p>(GERVASE <i>walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as +he goes down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another +stranger in the distance</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (<i>He walks towards the +log</i>) Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (<i>He +puts on his coat</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of</i> SUSAN, +<i>comes in singing. He sees</i> GERVASE <i>sitting on the +log</i>.)</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>with a bow</i>). Good morning, sir.</p> +<p>GERVASE. (<i>looking round</i>). Good morning.</p> +<p>SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not +discommode you.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (<i>Taking off his +hat</i>) Would it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few +minutes?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? +Have you come far this morning?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Three or four miles—a mere nothing on a morning +like this. Besides, what does the great William say?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say?</p> +<p>SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes.</p> +<p>SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you +merry?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>trying hard</i>). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've +got me there. I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he +say?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of +Empires ridiculous.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Emerson, of <i>course</i>. Silly of me.</p> +<p>SUSAN. So you see, sir—I am well, the day is well, all is +well.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great +Percy—(<i>to himself</i>) that's got him.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>at a loss</i>). The—er—great Percy?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit!</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>eagerly</i>). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, +there's a poet, Mr.—er—I don't think I quite caught +your name.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory—to be referred to +by posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Not a poet, too?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally.</p> +<p>SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit—like myself. I am +very glad to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you +to converse with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE <i>bows</i>.) +Generally called Master Susan in these parts, or sometimes +Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling Peddler by profession.</p> +<p>GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure.</p> +<p>SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (<i>He begins to +undo his pack,</i>) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I +may so far venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, +or collar-studs?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling</i>). Well, no, not at this actual moment. +On almost any other day perhaps—but no, not this morning.</p> +<p>SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing—<i>en +passant</i>, as the French say. (<i>He brings out a paper bag from +his pack</i>.) Would the fact of my eating my breakfast in this +pleasant resting place detract at all from your appreciation of the +beautiful day which Heaven has sent us?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Eating your <i>what</i>?</p> +<p>SUSAN. My simple breakfast.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking his head</i>). I'm very sorry, but I really +don't think I could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest—I +don't know if you know Ernest?</p> +<p>SUSAN. The great Ernest?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>indicating with his hand</i>). No, the very small +one—Well, <i>he</i> was telling me all about the breakfast +he'd just had, and now <i>you're</i> showing me the breakfast +you're just going to have—no, I can't bear it.</p> +<p>SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do +me the honour of joining me at my simple repast?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>jumping up excitedly</i>). The honour of joining +you!—the <i>honour</i>! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why +they call you Gentleman Susan. (<i>Shaking his head sadly</i>) But +no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I should eat too much. Besides, +Ernest may come back. No, I will wait. It wouldn't be fair.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>unpacking his breakfast</i>). Bacon or cheese?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Cheese—I mean bacon—I mean—I say, you +aren't serious?</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>handing him bread and cheese</i>). I trust you will +find it up to your expectations.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking it</i>). I say, you +really—(<i>Solemnly</i>) Master Susan, with all the passion +and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I say "Thank +you." (<i>He takes a bite</i>) Thank you.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>eating also</i>). Please do not mention it. I am more +than repaid by your company.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to +be your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful +cheese.</p> +<p>SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for +this delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your +boot-laces. Nay, more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your +buttons. Your profession would then be gone.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, +nothing less than half-a-crown will satisfy me.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a sigh</i>). Very well, then. (<i>He begins to +feel in his pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress</i>. +SUSAN <i>opens his eyes at it, and then goes on eating</i>. GERVASE +<i>finds his purse and produces sixpence, which he gives to</i> +SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (<i>He resumes his breakfast</i>.)</p> +<p>SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but +you are not by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Do you mean professionally?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and +sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human +Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I +wondered—</p> +<p>(<i>He glances at</i> GERVASE's <i>legs, which are +uncovered</i>. GERVASE <i>hastily wraps his coat round +them</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . +. . Er—my costume—</p> +<p>SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to +have inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free +world.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>with a bow</i>). I congratulate you on your bathing +costume.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Not at all.</p> +<p>SUSAN. You live near here then?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely.</p> +<p>SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>surprised</i>). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have +lost my way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. +And I never knew!</p> +<p>SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No. Not yet.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Get married.</p> +<p>GERVASE. What?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Take my advice and get married.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You recommend it?</p> +<p>SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you +marry the right woman.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh?</p> +<p>SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of +happiness.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife +a good deal.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>smiling</i>). But then I come back to her a good +deal.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>thoughtfully</i>). Yes, that must be rather +jolly.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I +came upon you here this morning?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>modestly</i>). Oh, well——</p> +<p>SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. +When you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You +have your adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have +your adventure again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second +time. You can say the things which you didn't quite say the first +time, and do the things which you didn't quite do. When my week's +travels are ever, and I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole +week's happenings to tell her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. +Mallory. Our little breakfast here this morning—she will love +to hear about that. I can see her happy excited face as I tell her +all that I said to you, and—if I can remember it—all +that you said to me.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>eagerly</i>). I say, how jolly! +(<i>Thoughtfully</i>) You won't forget what I said about the Great +Percy? I thought that was rather good.</p> +<p>SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I +shall find myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. +That's why I say "Get married." Then you can make things fair for +yourself. You can tell her all the good things of mine which +<i>you</i> said.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that.</p> +<p>SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship +is at the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship +means?</p> +<p>GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally?</p> +<p>SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art +of having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of +sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible +to <i>them</i>, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not +impossible to two people who have found what love is.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>solemnly</i>). It is the most romantic thing in the +whole world. . . . Some more cheese?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking it</i>). Thank you. . . . +(<i>Thoughtfully</i>) Do you believe in love at first sight, Master +Susan?</p> +<p>SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not +only the face.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I see. (<i>After a pause</i>) It's rather hard to tell, +you know. I suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have +breakfast with you, and see how you get on.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Well, you might do worse.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). And propose to her after +breakfast?</p> +<p>SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball +as some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss +in the moonlight.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking his head</i>). Nothing like that happened +last night.</p> +<p>SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I never read the <i>Daily Mail</i>.</p> +<p>SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon.</p> +<p>SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem +but to be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have +found in thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the +art of having breakfast with a person. (<i>Getting up</i>) Well, I +must be moving on. <i>We</i> have been companions for a short time; +I thank you for it. I wish you well.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>getting up</i>). I say, I've been awfully glad to +meet you. And I shall never forget the breakfast you gave me.</p> +<p>SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>hesitatingly</i>). You won't mind my having another +one when Ernest comes back—I mean, if Ernest comes back? You +won't think I'm slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor +bathe, you know, one does——</p> +<p>SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an +appetite.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>holding out his hand</i>). Well, good-bye, Mr. +Susan, (SUSAN <i>looks at his hand doubtfully, and</i> GERVASE +<i>says with a laugh</i>) Oh, come on!</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>shaking it</i>). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said.</p> +<p>SUSAN (<i>smiling</i>). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. +Good-bye.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes off</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>calling after him</i>). Because it wasn't the +moonlight, it wasn't really. It was just <i>Her. (To himself</i>) +It was just <i>Her</i>. . . . I suppose the great Whatsisname would +say, "It was just She," but then, that isn't what I mean.</p> +<p>(GERVASE <i>watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to +the other side, says</i>, "Hallo!" <i>suddenly in great +astonishment, and withdraws a few steps</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. It can't be! (<i>He goes cautiously forward and looks +again</i>) It is!</p> +<p>(<i>He comes back, and walks gently off through the +trees</i>.)</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two +plaits to her waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to +any century. She stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, +holds out her hands to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a +sigh of happiness</i>. . . .)</p> +<p>(GERVASE, <i>his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a +moment he is half-hidden by the trees</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>very softly</i>). Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a +little</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE (a <i>little more loudly</i>). Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>She listens and nods to herself</i>, GERVASE <i>steps out +into the open</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>She turns round</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him wonderingly</i>). You!</p> +<p>GERVASE. At your service, Princess.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It was you who came last night.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You +looked at me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I +thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a +dream?</p> +<p>GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland?</p> +<p>GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with a sigh of happiness</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You have been looking for it?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. For so long. (<i>She is silent for a little, and then +says with a smile</i>) May one sit down in an enchanted forest?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (<i>He spreads his cloak over +the log</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking his head</i>). I haven't finished looking at +you yet. . . . You are very lovely, Princess.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Am I?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Haven't they told you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Perhaps I wondered sometimes.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Very lovely. . . . Have you a name which goes with +it?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. My name is Melisande.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>his whole heart in it</i>). Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>content at last</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>solemnly</i>). Now the Princess Melisande was very +beautiful. (<i>He lies down on the grass near her, looks up at her +and is silent for a little</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>smiling shyly</i>). May we talk about <i>you</i>, +now?</p> +<p>GERVASE. It is for the Princess to say what we shall talk about. +If your Royal Highness commands, then I will even talk about +myself.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You see, I don't know your name yet.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I am called Gervase.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Gervase. It is a pretty name.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I have been keeping it for this morning.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It will be Prince Gervase, will it not, if this is +Fairyland?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Alas, no. For I am only a humble woodcutter's son. One +of seven.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Of seven? I thought that humble woodcutters always +had three sons, and that it was the youngest who went into the +world to seek his fortune.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Three—that's right. I said "one of several." Now +that I count them up, three. (<i>Counting on his fingers</i>) +Er—Bowshanks, er—Mulberry-face and myself. Three. I am +the youngest.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And the fairies came to your christening?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Now for the first time I think that they did.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding</i>). They always come to the christening +of the third and youngest son, and they make him the tallest and +the bravest and the most handsome.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>modestly</i>). Oh, well.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You <i>are</i> the tallest and the bravest and the +most handsome, aren't you?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a modest smile</i>). Well, of course, +Mulberry-face is hardly a starter, and then Bowshanks— (<i>he +indicates the curve of his legs</i>)—I mean, there's not much +competition.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I have no sisters.</p> +<p>GERVASE. The Princess never has sisters. She has suitors.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with a sigh</i>). Yes, she has suitors.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking out his dagger</i>). Tell me their names that +I may remove them for you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. There is one dressed in black and white who seeks to +win my hand.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>feeling the point</i>). He bites the dust +to-morrow.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. To-morrow?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Unless it rains in the night. Perhaps it would be safer +if we arranged for him to bite it this afternoon.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How brave you are!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Say no more. It will be a pleasure.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Ah, but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for +me.</p> +<p>GERVASE. The sacrifice will be his.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But are you so certain that <i>you</i> will kill him? +Suppose he were to kill <i>you</i>?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>getting up</i>). Madam, when the third son of a +humble woodcutter engages in mortal combat with one upon whom the +beautiful Princess has frowned, there can be but one end to the +struggle. To doubt this would be to let Romance go.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You are right. I should never have doubted.</p> +<p>GERVASE. At the same time, it would perhaps be as well to ask +the help of my Uncle Otto.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But is it fair to seek the assistance of an uncle in +order to kill one small black and white suitor?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Ah, but he is a wizard. One is always allowed to ask +the help of a wizard. My idea was that he should cast a spell upon +the presumptuous youth who seeks to woo you, so that to those who +gazed upon him he should have the outward semblance of a rabbit. He +would then realise the hopelessness of his suit and . . . go +away.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with dignity</i>). I should certainly never marry +a small black and white rabbit.</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, you couldn't, could you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>gravely</i>). No. (<i>Then their eyes meet. There +is a twinkle in his; hers respond; and suddenly they are laughing +together</i>. What nonsense you talk!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, it's such an absurdly fine morning, isn't it? +There's a sort of sparkle in the air. I'm really trying to be quite +sensible.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>making room for him at her feet</i>). Go on +talking nonsense. (<i>He sits down on the ground and leans against +the log at her side</i>.) Tell me about yourself. You have told me +nothing yet, but that (<i>she smiles at him</i>) your father is a +woodcutter.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes. He—er—cuts wood.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And you resolved to go out into the world and seek +your fortune?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes. You see if you are a third son of a humble +woodcutter, nobody thinks very much of you at home, and they never +take you out with them; and when you are cutting wood, they always +put you where the sawdust gets into your mouth. Because, you see, +they have never read history, and so they don't know that the third +and youngest son is always the nicest of the family.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And the tallest and the bravest and the most +handsome.</p> +<p>GERVASE. <i>And</i> all the other things you mention.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. So you ran away?</p> +<p>GERVASE. So I ran away—to seek my fortune.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. But your uncle the wizard, or your godmother or +somebody, gave you a magic ring to take with you on your travels? +(<i>Nodding</i>) They always do, you know.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>showing the ring on his finger</i>). Yes, my fairy +godmother gave me a magic ring. Here it is.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at it</i>). What does it do?</p> +<p>GERVASE. You turn it round once and think very hard of anybody +you want, and suddenly the person you are thinking of appears +before you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How wonderful! Have you tried it yet?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Once. . . . That's why you are here.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh! (<i>Softly</i>) Have you been thinking of me?</p> +<p>GERVASE. All night.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I dreamed of you all night.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>happily</i>). Did you, Melisande? How dear of you to +dream of me! (<i>Anxiously</i>) Was I—was I all right?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, yes!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>pleased</i>). Ah! (<i>He spreads himself a little +and removes a speck of dust from his sleeve</i>)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>thinking of it still</i>). You were so brave.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, I expect I'm pretty brave in other people's +dreams—I'm so cowardly in my own. Did I kill anybody?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You were engaged in a terrible fight with a dragon +when I woke up.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Leaving me and the dragon still asleep—I mean, +still fighting? Oh, Melisande, how could you leave us until you +knew who had won?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I tried so hard to get back to you.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I expect I was winning, you know. I wish you could have +got back for the finish. . . . Melisande, let me come into your +dreams again to-night.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You never asked me last night. You just came.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you for letting me come.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And then when I woke up early this morning, the world +was so young, so beautiful, so fresh that I had to be with it. It +called to me so clearly—to come out and find its secret. So I +came up here, to this enchanted place, and all the way it whispered +to me—wonderful things.</p> +<p>GERVASE. What did it whisper, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. The secret of happiness.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Ah, what is it, Melisande? (<i>She smiles and shakes +her head</i>). . . . I met a magician in the woods this +morning.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Did he speak to you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. <i>He</i> told <i>me</i> the secret of happiness.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What did he tell you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. He said it was marriage.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Ah, but he didn't mean by marriage what so many +people mean.</p> +<p>GERVASE. He seemed a very potent magician.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Marriage to many people means just food. +Housekeeping. <i>He</i> didn't mean that.</p> +<p>GERVASE. A very wise and reverend magician.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Love is romance. Is there anything romantic in +breakfast—or lunch?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, not so much in lunch, of course, +but——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How well you understand! Why do the others not +understand?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling at her</i>). Perhaps because they have not +seen Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh no, no, that isn't it. All the +others——</p> +<p>GERVASE. Do you mean your suitors?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. They are so unromantic, so material. The clothes +they wear; the things they talk about. But you are so different. +Why is it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I don't know. Perhaps because I am the third son of a +woodcutter. Perhaps because they don't know that you are the +Princess. Perhaps because they have never been in the enchanted +forest.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What would the forest tell them?</p> +<p>GERVASE. All the birds in the forest are singing "Melisande"; +the little brook runs through the forest murmuring "Melisande"; the +tall trees bend their heads and whisper to each other "Melisande." +All the flowers have put on their gay dresses for her. Oh, +Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>awed</i>). Is it true? (<i>They are silent for a +little, happy to be together. . . . He looks back at her and gives +a sudden little laugh</i>.) What is it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Just you and I—together—on the top of the +world like this.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes, that's what I feel, too. (<i>After a pause</i>) +Go on pretending.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Pretending?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. That the world is very young.</p> +<p>GERVASE. <i>We</i> are very young, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>timidly</i>). It is only a dream, isn't it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Who knows what a dream is? Perhaps we fell asleep in +Fairyland a thousand years ago, and all that we thought real was a +dream, until now at last we are awake again.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How wonderful that would be.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Perhaps we are dreaming now. But is it your dream or my +dream, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>after thinking it out</i>). I think I would rather +it were your dream, Gervase. For then I should be in it, and that +would mean that you had been thinking of me.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Then it shall be <i>my</i> dream, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Let it be a long one, my dear.</p> +<p>GERVASE. For ever and for ever.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily</i>). Oh, I know that it is only a dream, +and that presently we shall wake up; or else that you will go away +and I will go away, too, and we shall never meet again; for in the +real world, what could I be to you, or you to me? So go on +pretending.</p> +<p>(<i>He stands up and faces her</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande, if this were Fairyland, or if we were +knights and ladies in some old romance, would you trust yourself to +me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. So very proudly.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You would let me come to your father's court and claim +you over all your other suitors, and fight for you, and take you +away with me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. If this were Fairyland, yes.</p> +<p>GERVASE. You would trust me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I would trust my lord.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling at her</i>). Then I will come for the +Princess this afternoon. (<i>With sudden feeling</i>) Ah, how can I +keep away now that I have seen the Princess?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>shyly—happily</i>). When you saw me last +night, did you know that you would see me again?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I have been waiting for you here.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. How did you know that I would come?</p> +<p>GERVASE. On such a morning—in such a place—how could +the loved one not be here?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking away</i>). The loved one?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I saw you last night.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>softly</i>). Was that enough?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Enough, yes. Enough? Oh no, no, no!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding</i>). I will wait for you this +afternoon.</p> +<p>GERVASE. And you will come away with me? Out into the world with +me? Over the hills and far away with me?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>softly</i>). Over the hills and far away.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>going to her</i>). Princess!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Not Princess.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>holding out her hand to him</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>GERVASE. May I kiss your hands, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. They are my lord's to kiss.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>kissing them</i>). Dear hands.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Now I shall love them, too.</p> +<p>GERVASE. May I kiss your lips, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>proudly</i>). Who shall, if not my lord?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande! (<i>He touches her lips with his</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>breaking away from him</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>triumphantly</i>). I love you, Melisande! I love +you!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>wonderingly</i>). Why didn't I wake up when you +kissed me? We are still here. The dream goes on.</p> +<p>GERVASE. It is no dream, Melisande. Or if it is a dream, then in +my dream I love you, and if we are awake, then awake I love you. I +love you if this is Fairyland, and if there is no Fairyland, then +my love will make a faery land of the world for you. For I love +you, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>timidly</i>). Are we pretending still?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, no, no!</p> +<p>(<i>She looks at him gravely for a moment and then nods her +head</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>pointing</i>). I live down there. You will come +for me?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I will come.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am my lord's servant. I will wait for him. (<i>She +moves away from him. Then she curtsies and says</i>) This +afternoon, my lord.</p> +<p>(<i>She goes down the hill</i>.)</p> +<p>(<i>He stands looking after her. While he is standing there, ERN +comes through the trees with breakfast</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>ACT III</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>It is about four o'clock in the afternoon of the same +day.</i> JANE <i>is sitting on the sofa in the hall, glancing at a +paper, but evidently rather bored with it, and hoping that +somebody—</i>BOBBY, <i>did you say?—will appear +presently. However, it is</i> MR. KNOWLE <i>who comes in</i>.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Jane!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>looking up</i>). Hallo, Uncle Henry. Did you have a +good day?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, Peters and I had a very enjoyable drive.</p> +<p>JANE. But you found nothing at the sale? What a pity!</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>taking a catalogue from his pocket</i>). Nothing +which I wanted myself, but there were several very interesting +lots. Peters was strongly tempted by Lot 29—"Two hip-baths +and a stuffed crocodile." Very useful things to have by you if you +think of getting married, Jane, and setting up house for yourself. +I don't know if you have any thoughts in that direction?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>a little embarrassed</i>). Well, I suppose I shall some +day.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Where's Bobby?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>carelessly</i>). Bobby? Oh, he's about somewhere.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I think Bobby would like to hear about Lot 29. +(<i>Returning to his catalogue</i>) Or perhaps Lot 42. "Lot +42—Twelve aspidistras, towel-horse, and 'The Maiden's +Prayer.'" All for seven and sixpence. I ought to have had Bobby +with me. He could have made a firm offer of eight shillings. . . . +By the way, I have a daughter, haven't I? How was Sandy this +morning?</p> +<p>JANE. I didn't see her. Aunt Mary is rather anxious about +her.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Has she left us for ever?</p> +<p>JANE. There's nothing to be frightened about really.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I'm not frightened.</p> +<p>JANE. She had breakfast before any of us were up, and went out +with some sandwiches afterwards, and she hasn't come back yet.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. A very healthy way of spending the day. (MRS. KNOWLE +<i>comes in</i>) Well, Mary, I hear that we have no daughter +now.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, there you are, Henry. Thank Heaven that +<i>you</i> are back safely.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. My dear, I always meant to come back safely. Didn't +you expect me?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I had given up hope. Jane here will tell you what a +terrible morning I have had; prostrate on the sofa, mourning for my +loved ones. My only child torn from me, my husband—dead.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>surprised</i>). Oh, I was dead?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I pictured the car smashed to atoms, and you lying +in the road, dead, with Peters by your side.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! How was Peters?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>with a shrug</i>). I didn't look. What is a +chauffeur to one who has lost her husband and her only child in the +same morning?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Still, I think you might have looked.</p> +<p>JANE. Sandy's all right, Aunt Mary. You know she often goes out +alone all day like this.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, <i>is</i> she alone? Jane, did you count the +gardeners as I asked you?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Count the gardeners?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. To make sure that none of them is missing too.</p> +<p>JANE. It's quite all right, Aunt Mary. Sandy will be back by +tea-time.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>resigned</i>). It all comes of christening her +Melisande. You know, Henry, I quite thought you said Millicent.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, talking about tea, my dear—at which +happy meal our long-lost daughter will be restored to us—we +have a visitor coming, a nice young fellow who takes an interest in +prints.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I've heard nothing of this, Henry.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No, my dear, that's why I'm telling you now.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. A young man?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Nice-looking?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Rich?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I forgot to ask him, Mary. However, we can remedy +that omission as soon as he arrives.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. It's a very unfortunate day for him to have chosen. +Here's Sandy lost, and I'm not fit to be seen, and—Jane, your +hair wants tidying——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. He is not coming to see you or Sandy or Jane, my +dear; he is coming to see me. Fortunately, I am looking very +beautiful this afternoon.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, you had better be in the garden, dear, and +see if you can stop Sandy before she comes in, and just give her a +warning. I don't know <i>what</i> she'll look like after roaming +the fields all day, and falling into pools——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a +wantonness.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. I will go and tidy myself. Jane, I think your +mother would like you to—but, after all, one must think of +one's own child first. You will tell Sandy, won't you? We had +better have tea in here. . . . Henry, your trousers—(<i>she +looks to see that JANE is not listening, and then says in a loud +whisper</i>) your trousers——</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear, Mary. It's a +young fellow who is coming to see my prints; not the Prince of +Wales who is coming to see my trousers.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>turning to JANE)</i>. You'll remember, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>smiling</i>). Yes, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. That's a good girl.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes out.</i></p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Your aunt wasn't very lucid, Jane. Which +one of you is it who is going to marry the gentleman?</p> +<p>JANE. Don't be so absurd, Uncle Henry.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>taking out his catalogue again</i>). Perhaps +<i>he</i> would be interested in Lot 29. (<i>BOBBY comes in through +the windows</i>.) Ah, here's Bobby. Bobby, they tell me that you +think of setting up house.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>looking quickly at JANE</i>). Who told you that?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Now, starting with two hip-baths and a stuffed +crocodile for nine shillings and sixpence, and working up to twelve +aspidistras, a towel-horse and "The Maiden's Prayer" for eight +shillings, you practically have the spare room furnished for +seventeen and six. But perhaps I had better leave the catalogue +with you. (<i>He presses it into the bewildered BOBBY'S hands</i>) +I must go and tidy myself up. Somebody is coming to propose to me +this afternoon.</p> +<p>[<i>He hurries out.</i></p> +<p>(BOBBY <i>looks after him blankly, and then turns to</i> +JANE.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, what's happened?</p> +<p>JANE. Happened?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Yes, why did he say that about my setting up house?</p> +<p>JANE. I think he was just being funny. He is sometimes, you +know.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You don't think he guessed——</p> +<p>JANE. Guessed what? About you and Melisande?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, shut up, Jane. I thought we agreed not to say +anything more about that.</p> +<p>JANE. But what else could he have guessed?</p> +<p>BOBBY. <i>You</i> know well enough.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>shaking her head</i>). No, I don't.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I told you this morning.</p> +<p>JANE. What did you tell me?</p> +<p>BOBBY. <i>You</i> know.</p> +<p>JANE. No, I don't.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Yes, you do.</p> +<p>JANE. No, I don't.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming closer</i>). All right, shall I tell you +again?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>edging away</i>). I don't want to hear it.</p> +<p>BOBBY. How do you know you don't want to hear it, if you don't +know what it is?</p> +<p>JANE. I can guess what it is.</p> +<p>BOBBY. There you are!</p> +<p>JANE. It's what you say to everybody, isn't it?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>loftily</i>). If you want to know, Miss Bagot, I have +only said it to one other person in my life, and that was in +mistake for you.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>coldly</i>). Melisande and I are not very much alike, +Mr. Coote.</p> +<p>BOBBY. No. You're much prettier.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>turning her head away</i>). You don't really think so. +Anyhow, it isn't true.</p> +<p>BOBBY. It is true, Jane. I swear it.</p> +<p>JANE. Well, you didn't think so yesterday.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Why do you keep talking about yesterday? I'm talking +about to-day.</p> +<p>JANE. A girl has her pride, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. So has a man. I'm awfully proud of being in love with +<i>you</i>.</p> +<p>JANE. That isn't what I mean.</p> +<p>BOBBY. What do you mean?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well—well—well, what it +comes to is that you get refused by Sandy, and then you immediately +come to me and expect me to jump at you.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Suppose I had waited a year and then come to you, would +that have been better?</p> +<p>JANE. Of course it would.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, really I can't follow you, darling.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>indignantly</i>). You mustn't call me darling.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Mustn't call you what?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Darling.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Did I call you darling?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>shortly</i>). Yes.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to himself</i>). "Darling." No, I suppose I mustn't. +But it suits you so awfully well—darling. (<i>She stamps her +foot</i>) I'm sorry, darl—— I mean Jane, but really I +can't follow you. Because you're so frightfully fascinating, that +after twenty-four hours of it, I simply have to tell you how much I +love you, then your pride is hurt. But if you had been so +frightfully unattractive that it took me a whole year to see +anything in you at all, then apparently you'd have been awfully +proud.</p> +<p>JANE. You <i>have</i> known me a whole year, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Not really, you know. Directly I saw you and Sandy +together I knew I was in love with one of you, but—well, love +is a dashed rummy thing, and I thought it was Sandy. And so I +didn't really see you till last night, when you were so awfully +decent to me.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>wistfully</i>). It sounds very well, but the trouble is +that it will sound just as well to the next girl.</p> +<p>BOBBY. What next girl?</p> +<p>JANE. The one you propose to to-morrow.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You know, Jane, when you talk like that I feel that you +don't deserve to be proposed to at all.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>loftily</i>). I'm sure I don't want to be.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming closer</i>). Are you?</p> +<p>JANE. Am I what?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Quite sure.</p> +<p>JANE. I should have thought it was pretty obvious seeing that +I've just refused you.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Have you?</p> +<p>JANE. Have I what?</p> +<p>BOBBY. Refused me.</p> +<p>JANE. I thought I had.</p> +<p>BOBBY. And would you be glad if I went away and never saw you +again? (<i>She hesitates</i>) Honest, Jane. Would you?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>awkwardly</i>). Well, of course, I <i>like</i> you, +Bobby. I always have.</p> +<p>BOBBY. But you feel that you would like me better if I were +somebody else's husband?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>indignantly</i>). Oh, I <i>never</i> said that.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Dash it, you've been saying it all this afternoon.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>weakly</i>). Bobby, don't; I can't argue with you. But +really, dear, I can't say now that I will marry you. Oh, you +<i>must</i> understand. Oh, <i>think</i> what +Sandy——</p> +<p>BOBBY. We won't tell Sandy.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>surprised</i>). But she's bound to know.</p> +<p>BOBBY. We won't tell anybody.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>eagerly</i>). Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>nodding</i>). Just you and me. Nobody else for a long +time. A little private secret.</p> +<p>JANE. Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming to her</i>). Is it a bargain, Jane? Because if +it's a bargain——</p> +<p>JANE (<i>going away from him</i>). No, no, Bobby. Not now. I +must go upstairs and tidy myself—no, I mustn't, I must wait +for Melisande—no, Bobby, don't. Not yet. I mean it, really. +Do go, dear, anybody might come in.</p> +<p>(BOBBY, <i>who has been following her round the hall, as she +retreats nervously, stops and nods to her</i>.)</p> +<p>BOBBY. All right, darling, I'll go.</p> +<p>JANE. You mustn't say "darling." You might say it accidentally +in front of them all.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>grinning</i>). All right, Miss Bagot . . . I am going +now, Miss Bagot. (<i>At the windows</i>) Good-bye, Miss Bagot. +(JANE <i>blows him a kiss. He bows</i>) Your favour to hand, Miss +Bagot. (<i>He turns and sees</i> MELISANDE <i>coming through the +garden</i>) Hallo, here's Sandy! (<i>He hurries off in the opposite +direction</i>!)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, Jane, Jane! (<i>She sinks into a chair</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE. What, dear?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Everything.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, but that's so vague, darling. Do you mean +that——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily</i>). I have seen him; I have talked to +him; he has kissed me.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>amazed). Kissed</i> you? Do you mean that he +has—kissed you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I have looked into his eyes, and he has looked into +mine.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, but who?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. The true knight, the prince, for whom I have been +waiting so long.</p> +<p>JANE. But <i>who</i> is he?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. They call him Gervase.</p> +<p>JANE. Gervase <i>who</i>?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>scornfully</i>). Did Elaine say, "Lancelot who" +when they told her his name was Lancelot?</p> +<p>JANE. Yes, dear, but this is the twentieth century. He must have +a name.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>dreamily</i>). Through the forest he came to me, +dressed in blue and gold.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>sharply</i>). Sandy! (<i>Struck with an idea</i>) Have +you been out all day without your hat, darling?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>vaguely</i>). Have I?</p> +<p>JANE. I mean—blue and gold. They don't do it nowadays.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>nodding to her</i>). <i>He</i> did, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE. But how?—Why? Who can he be?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He said he was a humble woodcutter's son. That means +he was a prince in disguise. He called me his princess.</p> +<p>JANE. Darling, how could he be a prince?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I have read stories sometimes of men who went to +sleep and woke up thousands of years afterwards and found +themselves in a different world. Perhaps, Jane, <i>he</i> lived in +those old days, and——</p> +<p>JANE. Did he <i>talk</i> like an ordinary person?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh no, no!</p> +<p>JANE. Well, it's really extraordinary. . . . Was he a +gentleman?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>smiling at her</i>). I didn't ask him, Jane.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>crossly</i>). You know what I mean.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. He is coming this afternoon to take me away.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>amazed</i>). To take you away? But what about Aunt +Mary?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>vaguely</i>). Aunt Mary? What has <i>she</i> got +to do with it?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>impatiently</i>). Oh, but—— (<i>With a +shrug of</i> <i>resignation</i>) I don't understand. Do you mean +he's coming <i>here</i>? (MELISANDE <i>nods gravely</i>) Melisande, +you'll let me see him?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. I've thought it all out. I wanted you here, +Jane. He will come in; I will present you; and then you must leave +us alone. But I should like you to see him. Just to see how +different, how utterly different he is from every other man. . . . +But you will promise to go when you have seen him, won't you?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>nodding</i>). I'll say, "I'm afraid I must leave you +now, and——" Sandy, how <i>can</i> he be a prince?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. When you see him, Jane, you will say, "How can he not +be a prince?"</p> +<p>JANE. But one has to leave princes backward. I mean—he +won't expect—<i>you</i> know——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't think so. Besides, after all, you are my +cousin.</p> +<p>JANE. Yes. I think I shall get that in; just to be on the safe +side. "Well, cousin, I must leave you now, as I have to attend my +aunt." And then a sort of—not exactly a curtsey, +but—(<i>she practises, murmuring the words to herself</i>). I +suppose you didn't happen to mention <i>me</i> to him this +morning?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>half smiling</i>). Oh no!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>hurt</i>). I don't see why you shouldn't have. What did +you talk about?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't know. (<i>She grips</i> JANE'S <i>arm +suddenly</i>) Jane, I didn't dream it all this morning, did I? It +did happen? I saw him—he kissed me—he is coming for +me—he——</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> ALICE</p> +<p>ALICE. Mr. Gervase Mallory.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>happily)</i>. Ah!</p> +<p>(<i>GERVASE comes in, an apparently ordinary young man in a loud +golfing suit</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. How do you do?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him with growing amazement and +horror</i>). Oh!</p> +<p>(<i>JANE looks from one to the other in bewilderment</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. I ought to explain. Mr. Knowle was kind enough to lend +me some petrol last night; my car broke down; he was good enough to +say I might come this afternoon and see his prints. I am hoping to +be allowed to thank him again for his kindness last night. +And—er—I've brought back the petrol.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>still with her eyes on him</i>). My father will no +doubt be here directly. This is my cousin, Miss Bagot.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>bowing</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>nervously</i>). How do you do? (<i>After a pause</i>) +Well, I'm afraid I must leave you now, as——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with her eyes still on GERVASE, putting out a hand +and clutching at JANE</i>). No!</p> +<p>JANE (<i>startled</i>). What?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Don't go, Jane. Do sit down, won't you, +Mr.—er——</p> +<p>GERVASE. Mallory.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Where will you sit, Mr. Mallory? (<i>She is still +talking in an utterly expressionless voice</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you. Where are you—— (<i>he indicates +the sofa</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>moving to it, but still holding JANE</i>). Thank +<i>you</i>.</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>and</i> JANE <i>sit down together on the sofa</i>. +GERVASE <i>sits on a chair near. There is an awkward +silence</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>half getting up</i>). Well, I'm afraid I +must——</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>pulls her down. She subsides</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Charming weather we are having, are we not, Mr. +Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>enthusiastically</i>). Oh, rather. Absolutely +top-hole.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>to</i> JANE). Absolutely top-hole weather, is it +not, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, I love it.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You play golf, I expect, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, rather. I've been playing this morning. (<i>With a +smile</i>) Pretty rotten, too, I'm afraid.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane plays golf. (<i>To</i> JANE) You're pretty +rotten, too, aren't you, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Bobby and I were both very bad to-day.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I think you will like Bobby, Mr. Mallory. He is +staying with us just now. I expect you will have a good deal in +common. He is on the Stock Exchange.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling</i>). So am I.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>valiantly repressing a shudder</i>). Jane, Mr. +Mallory is on the Stock Exchange. Isn't that curious? I felt sure +that he must be directly I saw him.</p> +<p>(<i>There is another awkward silence</i>.)</p> +<p>JANE (<i>getting up</i>). Well, I'm afraid I +must——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>pulling her down</i>). Don't go, Jane. I suppose +there are a great many of you on the Stock Exchange, Mr. +Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh, quite a lot.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Quite a lot, Jane. . . . You don't know +Bobby—Mr. Coote?</p> +<p>GERVASE. N—no, I don't think so.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I suppose there are so many of you, and you dress so +much alike, and look so much alike, that it's difficult to be quite +sure whom you do know.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes, of course, that makes it more difficult.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. You see that, don't you, Jane? . . . You play +billiards and bridge, of course, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh yes.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. They are absolutely top-hole games, aren't they? Are +you—pretty rotten at them?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>getting up</i>). Ah, here's my father.</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> MR. KNOWLE</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Mr. Mallory, delighted to see you. And Sandy and +Jane to entertain you. That's right.</p> +<p>(<i>They shake hands</i>)</p> +<p>GERVASE. How do you do?</p> +<p>(ALICE <i>comes in with tea</i>)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. I've been wasting my day at a sale. I hope you spent +yours more profitably, (GERVASE <i>laughs pleasantly</i>) And what +have you been doing, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Wasting mine, too, Father.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. Well, they say that the wasted hours are +the best.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>moving to the door</i>). I think I will go +and—— (MRS. KNOWLE <i>comes in with outstretched +hands</i>)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. My dear, this is Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. My dear Mr. Mallory! (<i>Turning round</i>) Sandy, +dear! (MELISANDE <i>comes slowly back</i>) How do you do?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking hands</i>). How do you do?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy, dear! (<i>To</i> GERVASE) My daughter, +Melisande, Mr. Mallory. My only child.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh—er—we——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory and I have met, Mother.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>indicating</i> JANE). And our dear Jane.</p> +<p>My dear sister's only daughter. But dear Jane has a brother. +Dear Harold! In the Civil Service. Sandy, dear, will you pour out +tea?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>resigned</i>). Yes, Mother. (<i>She goes to the +tea-table</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>going to the sofa</i>). I am such an invalid +now, Mr. Mallory——</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>helping her</i>). Oh, I'm so sorry. Can +I——?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. Dr. Anderson insists on my resting as +much as possible. So my dear Melisande looks after the house for +me. Such a comfort. You are not married yourself, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No. Oh no.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>smiling to herself</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane, Mother's tea. (<i>JANE takes it</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>coming forward</i>). Oh, I beg your pardon. Let +me——</p> +<p>JANE. It's all right.</p> +<p>(<i>GERVASE takes up a cake-stand</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Where's Bobby? Bobby is the real expert at this.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I expect Mr. Mallory is an expert, too, Father. You +enjoy tea-parties, I expect, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I enjoy most things, Miss Knowle. (<i>To MRS. +KNOWLE</i>) What will you have?</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. I have to be careful. Dr. Anderson +insists on my being careful, Mr. Mallory. (<i>Confidentially</i>) +Nothing organic, you understand. Both my husband and +I—Melisande has an absolutely sound constitution.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>indicating cup</i>). Jane . . . Sugar and milk, +Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Please. (<i>To MR. KNOWLE</i>) Won't <i>you</i> have +this, sir?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No thank you. I have a special cup.</p> +<p>(<i>He takes a large cup from</i> MELISANDE). A family +tradition, Mr. Mallory. But whether it is that I am supposed to +require more nourishment than the others, or that I can't be +trusted with anything breakable, History does not relate.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). Well, I think you're lucky. I like a +big cup.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Have mine.</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, thanks.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>coming in</i>). Hallo! Tea?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Bobby, you're just in time. (<i>To</i> GERVASE) +This is Mr. Coote. Bobby, this is Mr. Mallory. (<i>They nod to each +other and say, "How do you do?</i> ")</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>indicating a seat next to her</i>). Come and sit +here, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>who was making for</i> JANE). +Oh—er—righto. (<i>He sits down</i>.)</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>to</i> GERVASE). And how did the dance go last +night?</p> +<p>JANE. Oh, were you at a dance? How lovely!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Dance?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And a fancy dress dance, too, Sandy. <i>You</i> +ought to have been there.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>understanding</i>). Ah!</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. My daughter is devoted to dancing, Mr. Mallory. +Dances so beautifully, they all say.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Where was it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Collingham.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. And did they all fall in love with you? You ought to +have seen him, Sandy.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, I'm afraid I never got there.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. . . . Peters is in love just now. . . . +I hope he didn't give you cider in mistake for petrol.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You have a car, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Ah! (<i>To</i> MELISANDE) Won't Mr. Mallory have +some more tea, Sandy?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Will you have some more tea, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you. (<i>To</i> MRS. KNOWLE) Won't +you——</p> +<p>(<i>He begins to get up</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. <i>Please</i> don't trouble. I never have more than +one cup. Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. Only one cup, Mrs. +Knowle.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to</i> MELISANDE). Sandwich? Oh, you're busy. +Sandwich, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE (<i>taking one</i>). Thank you.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to</i> GERVASE). Sandwich?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to</i> MR. KNOWLE). Sandwich?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Thank you, Bobby. Fortunately nobody minds what +<i>I</i> eat or drink.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>to himself</i>). Sandwich, Mr. Coote? Thank you. +(<i>He takes one</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>to</i> GERVASE). Being such an invalid, Mr. +Mallory, it is a great comfort to me to have Melisande to look +after the house.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I am sure it is.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Of course, I can't expect to keep her for ever.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coldly</i>). More tea, Jane?</p> +<p>JANE. Thank you, dear.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. It's extraordinary how she has taken to it. I must +say that I do like a girl to be a good housekeeper. Don't you +agree, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, of course, all that sort of thing <i>is</i> +rather important.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. That's what I always tell Sandy. "Happiness begins +in the kitchen, Sandy."</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I'm sure Mr. Mallory agrees with you, Mother.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>laughing</i>). Well, one must eat.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>passing plate</i>). Have another sandwich?</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking one</i>). Thanks.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Do you live in the neighbourhood, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. About twenty miles away. Little Malling.</p> +<p>JANE (<i>helpfully</i>). Oh, yes.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I hope we shall see you here again.</p> +<p>GERVASE. That's very kind of you indeed. I shall love to +come.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. More tea, Father?</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. No, thank you, my love.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. More tea, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No, thank you.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE (<i>getting up</i>). I don't want to hurry you, Mr. +Mallory, but if you have really finished——</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>getting up</i>). Right.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. You won't go without seeing the garden, Mr. +Mallory? Sandy, when your father has finished with Mr. Mallory, you +must show him the garden. We are very proud of our roses, Mr. +Mallory. Melisande takes a great interest in the roses.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I should like very much to see the garden. (<i>Going to +her</i>) Shall I see you again, Mrs. Knowle. . . . Don't get up, +<i>please</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>getting up</i>). In case we don't—(<i>she +holds out her hand</i>).</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>shaking it</i>). Good-bye. And thank you so +much.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Not good-bye. <i>Au revoir</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>smiling</i>). Thank you. (<i>With a bow to</i> JANE +<i>and</i> BOBBY) Good-bye, in case——</p> +<p>BOBBY. Cheero.</p> +<p>JANE. Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.</p> +<p>MR. KNOWLE. Well, come along. (<i>As they go out</i>) It is +curious how much time one has to spend in saying "How do you do" +and "Good-bye." I once calculated that a man of seventy. . . .</p> +<p>[MR. KNOWLE <i>and</i> GERVASE <i>go out</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, dear, would you mind coming with me to the +drawing-room, and helping me to—er——</p> +<p>JANE (<i>resigned</i>). Of course, Aunt Mary.</p> +<p>[<i>They go towards the door</i>.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>with his mouth full</i>). May I come too, Mrs. +Knowle?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You haven't finished your tea, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I shan't be a moment. (<i>He picks up his cup</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Please come, dear Mr. Coote, when you have +finished.</p> +<p>[MRS. KNOWLE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(JANE <i>turns at the door, sees that</i> MELISANDE <i>is not +looking, and blows a hasty kiss to</i> BOBBY.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. More tea, Bobby?</p> +<p>BOBBY. No thanks.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Something more to eat?</p> +<p>BOBBY. No thanks. (<i>He gets up and walks towards the +door</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Bobby!</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>turning</i>). Yes?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. There's something I want to say to you. Don't go.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh! Righto. (<i>He comes slowly back</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with difficulty, after a pause</i>). I made a +mistake yesterday.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>not understating</i>). A mistake? Yesterday?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes. . . . You were quite right.</p> +<p>BOBBY. How do you mean? When?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. When you said that girls didn't know their own +minds.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh! (<i>With an awkward laugh</i>) Yes. +Well—er—I don't expect any of us do, really, you know. +I mean—er—that is to say——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I'm sorry I said what I did say to you last night, +Bobby. I oughtn't to have said all those things.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, that's all right</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I didn't mean them. And—and Bobby—I +<i>will</i> marry you if you like.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>staggered</i>). Sandy!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. And it was silly of me to mind your calling me Sandy, +and to say what I did about your clothes, and I <i>will</i> marry +you, Bobby. And—and thank you for wanting it so much.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, Sandy. I say! I say——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>offering her cheek</i>). You may kiss me if you +like, Bobby.</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say! . . . Er—er—(<i>he kisses her +gingerly</i>) thanks! . . . Er—I say——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What is it, Bobby?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, you know—(<i>he tries again</i>) I don't +want you to—to feel that—I mean, just because I asked +you twice—I mean I don't want you to feel that—well, I +mean you mustn't do it just for <i>my</i> sake, Sandy. I mean +Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. You may call me Sandy.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that.</p> +<p>BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last +night—afterwards, you know—and I began to see, I began +to see that perhaps you were right. I mean about my not being +romantic and—and all that. I mean, I'm rather an ordinary +sort of chap, and——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>sadly</i>). We are all rather ordinary sort of +chaps.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>eagerly</i>). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, +Sandy. I mean Melisande. You <i>aren't</i> ordinary. I don't say +you'd be throwing yourself away on me, but—but I think you +could find somebody more suitable. (<i>Earnestly</i>). I'm sure you +could. I mean somebody who would remember to call you Melisande, +and who would read poetry with you and—and all that. I mean, +there are lots of fellows——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you <i>want</i> to marry me +now?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>with dignity</i>). I don't want to be married out of +pity.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>coldly</i>). I have told you that it isn't out of +pity.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Well, what <i>is</i> it out of? I mean, after what you +said yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved +me——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to +you?</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>taken aback</i>). W-what?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing +me?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (<i>Carelessly</i>) +It <i>is</i> Jane, isn't it?</p> +<p>BOBBY. I say, look here—— (<i>She doesn't</i>) Of +course, I know you think I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . +well—oh, <i>damn</i>!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you.</p> +<p>BOBBY. Oh—er——</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.</p> +<p>BOBBY (<i>realising that he is not quite at his best</i>). +Er—oh—er, righto. (<i>He goes to the door and hesitates +there</i>) Er—(<i>Now if he can only think of something +really good, he may yet carry it off</i>.) Er—(<i>something +really witty</i>)—er—er, righto! (<i>He goes +out—to join</i> JANE, <i>who is waiting for him</i>.)</p> +<p>MRS. KNOWLE (<i>in a soft gentle voice</i>). Where is your +father, dear? In the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to +speak to him. Just on a little matter of business. . . . Dear +child!</p> +<p>[<i>She goes to the library</i>.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible!</p> +<p>(<i>She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling +herself that she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and +she goes to the open windows, and stands for a moment looking out, +trying to recover herself</i>)</p> +<p>GERVASE <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>gently</i>). Princess! (<i>She hears; her hand +closes and tightens; but she says nothing</i>.) Princess!</p> +<p>(<i>With an effort she controls herself, turns round and speaks +coldly</i>)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Please don't call me by that ridiculous name.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Nor by that one.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Miss Knowle.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Yes? What do you want, Mr. Mallory?</p> +<p>GERVASE. I want to marry you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>taken by surprise</i>). Oh! . . . How dare +you!</p> +<p>GERVASE. But I told you this morning.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I think you had better leave this morning out of +it.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But if I leave this morning out of it, then I have only +just met you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. That is what I would prefer.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh! . . . Then if I have only just met you, perhaps I +oughtn't to have said straight off that I want to marry you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. It is unusual.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Yes. But not unusual to <i>want</i> to marry you.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I am not interested in your wants.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Oh! (<i>Gently</i>) I'm sorry that we've got to forget +about this morning. (<i>Going closer to her</i>) Is it so easy to +forget, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Very easy for you, I should think.</p> +<p>GERVASE. But not for you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>bitterly</i>). You dress up and amuse yourself, +and then laugh and go back to your ordinary life again—you +don't want to remember <i>that</i>, do you, every time you do +it?</p> +<p>GERVASE. You let your hair down and flirt with me and laugh and +go home again, but <i>you</i> can't forget. Why should I?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>furiously</i>). How dare you say I flirted with +you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. How dare you say I laughed at you?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up +to the wood?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Do you think <i>I</i> knew you would be there when +<i>I</i> went up?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Then why were you there all dressed up like that?</p> +<p>GERVASE. My car broke down and I spent the night in it. I went +up the hill to look for breakfast.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Breakfast! That's all you think about.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>cheerfully</i>). Well, it's always cropping up.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>in disgust</i>). Oh! (<i>She moves away from him +and then turns round holding out her hand</i>) Good-bye, Mr. +Mallory.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>taking it</i>). Good-bye, Miss Knowle. . . . +(<i>Gently</i>) May I kiss your hands, Melisande?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>pathetically</i>). Oh, don't! (<i>She hides her +face in them</i>.)</p> +<p>GERVASE. Dear hands. . . . May I kiss your lips, Melisande? +(<i>She says nothing. He comes closer to her</i>) Melisande!</p> +<p>(<i>He is about to put his arms round her, but she breaks away +from him</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Oh, don't, don't! What's the good of pretending? It +was only pretence this morning—what's the good of going on +with it? I thought you were so different from other men, but you're +just the same, just the same. You talk about the things they talk +about, you wear the clothes they wear. You were my true knight, my +fairy Prince, this morning, and this afternoon you come down +dressed like that (<i>she waves her hand at it</i>) and tell me +that you are on the Stock Exchange! Oh, can't you see what you've +done? All the beautiful world that I had built up for you and +me—shattered, shattered.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>going to her</i>). Melisande!</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No, no!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>stopping</i>). All right.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>recovering herself</i>). Please go.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with a smile</i>). Well, that's not quite fair, you +know.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. What do you mean?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, what about <i>my</i> beautiful world—the +world that <i>I</i> had built up?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I don't understand.</p> +<p>GERVASE. What about <i>your</i> pretence this morning? I thought +you were so different from other women, but you're just the same, +just the same. You were my true lady, my fairy Princess, this +morning; and this afternoon the Queen, your mother, disabled +herself by indigestion, tells me that you do all the housekeeping +for her just like any ordinary commonplace girl. Your father, the +King, has obviously never had a battle-axe in his hand in his life; +your suitor, Prince Robert of Coote, is much more at home with a +niblick than with a lance; and your cousin, the Lady +Jane——</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>sinking on to the sofa and hiding her face</i>). +Oh, cruel, cruel!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>remorsefully</i>). Oh, forgive me, Melisande. It was +horrible of me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. No, but it's true. How could any romance come into +this house? Now you know why I wanted you to take me +away—away to the ends of the earth with you.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Well, that's what I want to do.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Ah, don't! When you're on the Stock Exchange!</p> +<p>GERVASE. But there's plenty of romance on the Stock Exchange. +(<i>Nodding his head</i>) Oh yes, you want to look out for it.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>reproachfully</i>). Now you're laughing at me +again.</p> +<p>GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am +laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can +be happy together, Melisande.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want +jokes.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>bewildered</i>). Did you expect me to?</p> +<p>GERVASE. No. (<i>After a pause</i>) I think that's why I put 'em +on. (<i>She looks at him in surprise</i>.) You see, we had to come +back to the twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on +pretending for ever. Well, here we are—(<i>indicating his +clothes</i>)—back. But I feel just as romantic, Melisande. I +want beauty—your beauty—just as much. (<i>He goes to +her</i>.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to +you this morning in the wood, or the one +who—(<i>bitterly</i>) does all the housekeeping for her +mother? (<i>Violently</i>) And badly, badly, badly!</p> +<p>GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her +mother—and badly, badly, badly, <i>bless</i> her, because she +has never realised what a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping +is.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>amazed</i>). Romantic!</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>with enthusiasm</i>). Most gloriously romantic. . . +. Did you ever long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert +island?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>clasping her hands</i>). Oh yes!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You imagined yourself there—alone or with a +companion?</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Often!</p> +<p>GERVASE. And what were you doing? What is the romance of the +desert island which draws us all? Climbing the bread-fruit tree, +following the turtle to see where it deposits its eggs, discovering +the spring of water, building the hut—<i>housekeeping</i>, +Melisande. . . . Or take Robinson Crusoe. When Man Friday came +along and left his footprint in the sand, why did Robinson Crusoe +stagger back in amazement? Because he said to himself, like a good +housekeeper, "By Jove, I'm on the track of a servant at last." +There's romance for you!</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>smiling and shaking her head at him</i>). What +nonsense you talk!</p> +<p>GERVASE. It isn't nonsense; indeed, indeed it isn't. There's +romance everywhere if you look for it. <i>You</i> look for it in +the old fairy-stories, but did <i>they</i> find it there? Did the +gentleman who had just been given a new pair of seven-league boots +think it romantic to be changed into a fish? He probably thought it +a confounded nuisance, and wondered what on earth to do with his +boots. Did Cinderella and the Prince find the world romantic after +they were married? Think of the endless silent evenings which they +spent together, with nothing in common but an admiration for +Cinderella's feet—do you think <i>they</i> didn't long for +the romantic days of old? And in two thousand or two hundred +thousand years, people will read stories about <i>us</i>, and sigh +and say, "Will those romantic days never come back again?" Ah, they +are here now, Melisande, for <i>us</i>; for the people with +imagination; for you and for me.</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were!</p> +<p>GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this +morning. Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. +Look at yourself in the glass—how can you help being a +princess? But if we could be companions, Melisande! That's +difficult; that's worth trying.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>gently</i>). What do you want me to do?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat—see me in a +bowler-hat. Help me with my work; play games with me—I'll +teach you if you don't know how. I want to share the world with you +for all our lives. That's a long time, you know; we can't do it on +one twenty-minutes' practice before breakfast. We can be lovers so +easily—can we be friends?</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>looking at him gravely</i>). You are very +wise.</p> +<p>GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've +been thinking over what he said. (<i>Suddenly</i>) But when you +look at me like that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away +with me now, now, now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, +you adorable child, you funny foolish little girl. (<i>Holding up a +finger</i>) Smile, Melisande. Smile! (<i>Slowly, reluctantly, she +gives him a smile</i>.) I suppose the fairies taught you that. Keep +it for <i>me</i>, will you—but give it to me often. Do you +ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together sometimes—that +makes life so easy.</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>with a happy little laugh</i>). Oh, what can I say +to you?</p> +<p>GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, +Gervase."</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>shyly</i>). I think I should like you for a +companion, Gervase.</p> +<p>GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase."</p> +<p>MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase.</p> +<p>GERVASE (<i>Jumping up and waving his hand</i>) Say, "Hooray for +things!"</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>standing up, but shyly still</i>). Hooray for +things!</p> +<p>GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (<i>He presses +her hand and goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes +back, bends on one knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it</i>) +My Princess!</p> +<p>[<i>Then</i> GERVASE <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>(MELISANDE <i>stays there, looking after him, her hand to her +cheek. . . . But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must +begin. With a little smile at herself, at</i> GERVASE, <i>at +things, she fetches out the Great Book from its hiding-place, where +she had buried it many weeks ago in disgust. Now it comes into its +own. She settles down with it in her favourite chair</i>. . . +.)</p> +<p>MELISANDE (<i>reading</i>). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an +onion, peel and quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . .</p> +<p>(<i>But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with +it, curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish +little girl</i>.)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<a name="RULE4_14"><!-- RULE4 14 --></a> +<h2>THE STEPMOTHER</h2> +<center> +<h4>A PLAY IN ONE ACT</h4> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>CHARACTERS</h4> +</center> +<div align="center"><font face="Times">SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P.<br> +<br> +LADY PEMBURY.<br> +<br> +PERKINS.<br> +<br> +THE STRANGER.</font> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr> +<font face="Times">The first performance of this play was given at +the Alhambra Theatre on November 16, 1920, with the following +cast:</font><br> +<br> +<font face="Times">Sir John Pembury—GILBERT HARE.<br> +Lady Pembury—WINIFRED EMERY.<br> +Perkins—C.M. LOWNE.<br> +The Stranger—GERALD DU MAURIER.</font></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>THE STEPMOTHER</h2> +<p> </p> +<p><i>A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest +room in the London house of</i> SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. <i>For this +reason</i> LADY PEMBURY <i>uses it a good deal, although it is not +officially hers. It is plainly furnished, and probably set out to +be a sort of waiting-room for</i> SIR JOHN'S <i>many callers, +but</i> LADY PEMBURY <i>has left her mark upon it</i>.</p> +<p>PERKINS, <i>the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past +his prime, leads the may in, followed by</i> THE STRANGER, PERKINS +<i>has already placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the +intelligent person in the pit perceives that he is something better +than that, though whether he is in the process of falling from a +higher estate, or of rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty +odd, shabbily dressed (but then, so are most of us nowadays), and +ill at ease; not because he is shabby, but because he is ashamed of +himself. To make up for this, he adopts a blustering manner, as if +to persuade himself that he is a fine fellow after all. There is a +touch of commonness about his voice, but he is not +uneducated</i>.</p> +<p>PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll +see you, mind.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right +enough.</p> +<p>PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well—— (<i>He looks +at</i> THE STRANGER <i>doubtfully</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>bitterly</i>). I suppose you think I've got no +business in a gentleman's house. Is that it?</p> +<p>PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a +constituent? Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty +queer ones at times. All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps +you're a deputation?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). What the hell's it got to do with +you who I am. You go and tell your master I'm here—that's all +you've got to do. See?</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>unruffled</i>). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even +told me your name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. +Bottomley?</p> +<p>STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, +"Somebody from Lambeth"—<i>he'll</i> know what I mean.</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>humorously</i>). Ah, I beg your pardon—the +Archbishop of Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>angrily</i>). It's people like you who make one +sick of the world. Parasites—servile flunkeys, bolstering up +an effete aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to +do?</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>good-naturedly</i>). Now, look here, young man, this +isn't the time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you +want to get off your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever +it may be, keep it till Sunday afternoon—when I'm off duty. +(<i>He comes a little closer to</i> THE STRANGER) Four o'clock +Sunday afternoon—(<i>jerking his thumb over his +shoulder</i>)—just round the corner—in the Bolton Mews. +See? Nobody there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and +secluded, and a friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (<i>He edges +closer as he talks</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>retreating nervously</i>). No offence meant, mate. +We're in the same boat—you and me; we don't want to get +fighting. My quarrel isn't with you. You go and tell Sir John that +there's a gentleman come to see him—wants a few minutes of +his valuable time—from Lambeth way. <i>He'll</i> know. That's +all right.</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>drawing back, disappointedly</i>). Then I shan't be +seeing you Sunday afternoon?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>laughing awkwardly</i>). There, that's all right. +No offence meant. Somebody from Lambeth—that's what +<i>you've</i> got to say. And tell 'im I'm in a hurry. <i>He'll</i> +know what I mean.</p> +<p>PERKINS (<i>going slowly to the door</i>). Well, it's a queer +game, but being in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be +surprised. All sorts, as you might say, <i>all</i> sorts.</p> +<p>[<i>Exit</i> PERKINS.</p> +<p>(THE STRANGER, <i>left alone, walks up and down the room, +nervously impatient</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY <i>comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married +life, she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has +never had a son</i>—<i>her only sorrow. Her motto might be, +"It is just as easy to be kind"; and whether you go to her for +comfort or congratulation, you will come away feeling that she is +the only person who really understands</i>.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh! (<i>She stops and then comes towards</i> THE +STRANGER) How do you do? Are you waiting to see my husband?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>taken aback at seeing her</i>). Yes.</p> +<p>(<i>He is not sure for the moment if this upsets his plans or +forwards them</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. I think he's engaged just now. But he won't be +long. Perkins will tell him as soon as he is free.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>contemptuously</i>). His name is Perkins, is +it?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>surprised</i>). The butler? Yes.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>contemptuously</i>). Mister Perkins, the +Butler.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>with a friendly smile</i>). You don't +<i>mind</i> our having a butler? (<i>She picks up some work from +the table and takes it to the sofa</i>)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>shrugging his shoulders</i>). One more +parasite.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>interested</i>). I always thought parasites +were much smaller than Perkins. (<i>Sitting down</i>) Do sit down, +won't you? (<i>He sits down reluctantly</i>.) You mustn't mind my +being here. This is really my work-room. I expect my husband will +take you into his own room when he's ready.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Your work-room?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>looking up at him with a smile</i>). You don't +seem to like our domestic arrangements.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>waving his hand at her embroidery</i>). You call +that work?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>pleasantly</i>). Other people's work always +seems so contemptible, doesn't it? Now I expect if you tried to do +this, you would find it very difficult indeed, and if I tried to do +yours—what <i>is</i> your work, Mr.—er—Dear me, I +don't even know your name.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>bitterly</i>). Never mind my name. Take it that I +haven't got a name.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. But your friends must call you something.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Take it that I haven't got any friends.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, <i>don't</i> say that! How <i>can</i> you?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>surly</i>). What's it matter to you whether anybody +cares about me?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, never mind whether anybody cares about +<i>you</i>; don't <i>you</i> care about anybody?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Nobody.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Poor, poor man! (<i>Going on with her work</i>) If +you can't tell me your name, I wish you would tell me what work you +do. (<i>Winningly</i>) You don't mind my asking, do you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. I can tell you what work I'm going to do after +to-day.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, do!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). None!</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>surprised</i>). None?</p> +<p>STRANGER. No more work after to-day.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Won't that be rather dull?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, <i>you</i> ought to know. I'm going to be one of +the idle rich—like you and Sir John—and let other +people work for me.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>thoughtfully</i>). I shouldn't have said my +husband was idle. But there it is. No two people ever agree as to +what is work and what isn't.</p> +<p>STRANGER. What do you know about work—you aristocrats?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>mildly</i>). My husband is only a K.B.E., you +know. Quite a recent creation.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>not heeding her</i>). You, who've been brought up +in the lap of luxury—never known a day's discomfort in your +life——</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. My dear young man, you really mustn't tell a woman +who has had five children that she has never known a day's +discomfort in her life. . . . Ask any woman.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>upset</i>). What's that? . . . I didn't come here +to argue with you. You began it. Why can't you let me alone?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>going to a side-table and taking up a +photograph</i>). Five children—all girls—and now I'm a +grandmother. (<i>Showing him the photograph</i>) There! That's my +eldest daughter with her eldest son and my eldest grandchild. Isn't +he a duck? He's supposed to be like me. . . . I never had a son of +my own. (THE STRANGER <i>has taken the photograph in his hand and +is holding it awkwardly</i>.) Oh, let me take it away from you. +Other's people's relations are so uninteresting, aren't they? +(<i>She takes it away and puts it back in its place. Then she +returns to her seat and goes on with her work</i>.) So you've made +a lot of money? How exciting for you!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>grimly</i>). I haven't got it yet, but it's +coming.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Soon?</p> +<p>STRANGER. To-day.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. You're not married, are you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. You want to know a lot, don't you? Well, I'm not +married.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. I was thinking how much nicer it is when you can +share that sort of news with somebody else, somebody you love. It +makes good news so much better, and bad news so much more +bearable.</p> +<p>STRANGER. That's what you and your husband do, is it?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>nodding</i>). Always. For eight-and-twenty +years.</p> +<p>STRANGER. He tells you everything, eh?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Well, not his official secrets, of course. +Everything else.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Ha! I wonder.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. But you have nobody, you say. Well, you must share +your good news with <i>me</i>. Will you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Oh yes, you shall hear about it all right.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. That's nice of you. Well then, first question. How +much money is it going to be?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>thoughtfully</i>). Well, I don't quite know yet. +What do you say to a thousand a year?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh, but what a lot!</p> +<p>STRANGER. You think a thousand a year would be all right. Enough +to live on?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. For a bachelor, ample.</p> +<p>STRANGER. For a bachelor.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. There's no one dependent on you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Not a soul. Only got one relation living.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Oh?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>enjoying a joke of his own</i>). A father. But I +shall not be supporting <i>him</i>. Oh no. Far from it.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>a little puzzled by this, though the is not +going to show it</i>) Then I think you will be very rich with a +thousand a year.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Yes, that's what <i>I</i> thought. I should think it +would stand a thousand.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. What is it? An invention of some sort?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Oh no, not an invention. . . . A discovery.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. How proud she would have been!</p> +<p>STRANGER. Who?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Your wife if you had had one; your mother if she +had been alive.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). Look here, you leave my mother out +of it. My business is with Sir John—— +(<i>sneeringly</i>) Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. If I want to talk +about my mother, he and I will have a nice little talk together +about her. Yes, and about my father, too.</p> +<p>(LADY PEMBURY <i>understands at last. She stands up slowly, and +looks at him, horrified</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. What do you mean?</p> +<p>STRANGER. A thousand a year. You said so yourself. Yes, I think +it's worth a thousand a year.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? +(<i>Bitterly</i>) And if you want to know why, ask Sir John +Pembury, K.B.E.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>in a whisper</i>). He's your father.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son—come to see him at +last, after all these years.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>hardly able to ask it</i>). How—how old +are you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Thirty.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>sitting down on the sofa</i>). Oh, thank God! +Thank God!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>upset by her emotion</i>). Look here, I didn't want +all this. I ask you—did I begin it? It was you who kept +asking questions. I just came for a quiet talk with Sir +John—Father and Son talking together quietly—talking +about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did you want to come +into it for?</p> +<p>(LADY PEMBURY <i>is quiet again now. She wipes away a tear or +two, and sits up, looking at him thoughtfully</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. So <i>you</i> are the son that I never had.</p> +<p>STRANGER. What d'you mean?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>almost to herself</i>). The son whom I wanted +so. Five girls—never a boy. Let me look at you. (<i>She goes +up to him</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>edging away</i>). Here, none of that.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>looking at him earnestly to see if she can see +a likeness</i>). No—and yet—(<i>shaking her head +sadly</i>) Poor boy! What an unhappy life you must have had!</p> +<p>STRANGER. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to get my +rightful allowance—same as any other son.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>to herself</i>). Poor boy! (<i>She goes back to +her seat and then says</i>) You don't mind my asking you questions +<i>now</i>, do you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Go on. There's no mistake about it. I can promise you +that.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. How did you find out? Did your Mother tell +you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Never a word. "Don't ask questions, +sonny——" "Father's dead"—all that sort of +thing.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Does Sir John know? Did he ever know?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>feeling in his pocket</i>). <i>He</i> knew right +enough. (<i>Bringing out letters</i>) Look here—here you are. +This was how I found out. (<i>Selecting one</i>) There—read +that one.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>taking it</i>). Yes—that's John's +writing. (<i>She holds it out to him</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER. Aren't you going to read it?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>shaking her head pathetically</i>). He didn't +write it to <i>me</i>.</p> +<p>STRANGER. He didn't write it to <i>me</i>, if it comes to +that.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. You're her son—you have a right. +I'm—nobody.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>putting it back in his pocket</i>). Oh well, please +yourself.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Did Sir John provide for your mother?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, why shouldn't he? He was a rich man.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Not in those days. . . . But indeed—why +shouldn't he? What else could he do? I'm glad he did.</p> +<p>STRANGER. And now he's going to provide for his loving son. He's +rich enough for that in these days.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. He's never seen you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Never. The historic meeting of Father and Son will +take place this afternoon. (<i>With a feeble attempt at what he +thinks is the aristocratic manner</i>) Afraid the Governor will be +in the deuce of a rage. Been exceedin' my allowance—what? +Make it a thousand, dear old Gov.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Don't they call that blackmail?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>violently</i>). Now look here, I'd better tell you +straight that there's no blackmail about this at all. He's my +father, isn't he? Well, can't a son come to his father if he's hard +up? Where are your threatening letters? Where's the blackmail? +Anyway, what's he going to do about it? Put his son in prison?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>following her own thoughts</i>). You're thirty. +Thank God for that. We hadn't met then. . . . Ah, but he ought to +have told me. He ought to have told me.</p> +<p>STRANGER. P'raps he thought you wouldn't marry him, if he +did.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Do you think that was it? (<i>Earnestly to him, as +if he were an old friend</i>) You know men—young men. I never +had a son; I never had any brothers. Do they tell? They ought to, +oughtn't they?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well—well, if you ask <i>me</i>—I say, +look here, this isn't the sort of thing one discusses with a +lady.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Isn't it? But one can talk to a friend.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>scornfully</i>). You and me look like friends, +don't we?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>smiling</i>). Well, we do, rather.</p> +<p>(<i>He gets up hastily and moves further away from her</i>.)</p> +<p>STRANGER. I know what <i>your</i> game is. Don't think I don't +see it.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. What is it?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Falling on your knees, and saying with tears in your +eyes: "Oh, kind friend, spare me poor husband!" <i>I</i> know the +sort of thing. And trying to work me up friendly before you +begin.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>shaking her head</i>). No, if I went on my +knees to you, I shouldn't say that. How can you hurt my husband +now?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, I don't suppose the scandal will do him much +good. Not an important Member of Parliament like <i>him</i>.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Ah, but it isn't the outside things that really +hurt you, the things which are done to you, but the things which +you do to yourself. And so if I went on my knees to you, it would +not be for my husband's sake. For I should go on my knees, and I +should say: "Oh, my son that might have been, think before you give +up everything that a man should have. Ambition, hope, pride, +self-respect—are not these worth keeping? Is your life to end +now? Have you done all that you came into the world to do, so that +now you can look back and say, 'It is finished; I have given all +that I had to give; henceforward I will spend'?" (<i>Very +gently</i>) Oh, my son that might have been!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>very uncomfortable</i>). Here, I say, that isn't +fair.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>gently</i>). When did your mother die?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Look here, I wish you wouldn't keep on about +mothers.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. When did she die, proud mother?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>sulkily</i>). Well, why shouldn't she be proud? +(<i>After a pause</i>) Two years ago, if you want to know.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. It was then that you found out who your father +was?</p> +<p>STRANGER. That's right. I found these old letters. She'd kept +them locked up all those years. Bit of luck for me.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>almost to herself</i>). And that was two years +ago. And for two years you had your hopes, your ambitions, for two +years you were proud and independent. . . . Why did you not come to +us then?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>with a touch of vanity</i>). Well, I was getting on +all right, you know—and——</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. And then suddenly, after two years, you lost +hope.</p> +<p>STRANGER. I lost my job.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Poor boy! And couldn't get another.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>bitterly</i>). It's a beast of a world if you're +down. He's in the gutter—kick him down—trample on him. +Nobody wants him. That's the way to treat them when they're down. +Trample on 'em.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. And so you came to your father to help you up +again. To help you out of the gutter.</p> +<p>STRANGER. That's right.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>pleadingly</i>). Ah, but give him a chance!</p> +<p>STRANGER. Now, look here, I've told you already that I'm not +going to have any of <i>that</i> game.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>shaking her head sadly</i>). Foolish boy! You +don't understand. Give him a chance to help you out of the +gutter.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, I'm——! Isn't that what I am +doing?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. No, no. You're asking him to trample you right +down into it, deeper and deeper into the mud and slime. I want you +to let him help you back to where you were two years ago—when +you were proud and hopeful.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>looking at her in a puzzled way</i>). I can't make +out what your game is. It's no good pretending you don't hate the +sight of me—it stands to reason you must.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>smiling</i>). But then women <i>are</i> +unreasonable, aren't they? And I think it is only in fairy-stories +that stepmothers are always so unkind.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>surprised</i>). Stepmother!</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Well, that's practically what I am, isn't it? +(<i>Whimsically</i>) I've never been a stepmother before. +(<i>Persuasively</i>) Couldn't you let me be proud of my +stepson?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Well, you <i>are</i> a one! . . . Do you mean to say +that you and your husband aren't going to have a row about +this?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. It's rather late to begin a row, isn't it, thirty +years after it's happened? . . . Besides, perhaps you aren't going +to tell him anything about it.</p> +<p>STRANGER. But what else have I come for except to tell him?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. To tell <i>me</i>. . . . I asked you to give him a +chance of helping you out of your troubles, but I'd rather you gave +<i>me</i> the chance. . . . You see, John would be very unhappy if +he knew that I knew this; and he would have to tell me, because +when a man has been happily married to anybody for twenty-eight +years, he can't really keep a secret from the other one. He +pretends to himself that he can, but he knows all the time what a +miserable pretence it is. And so John would tell me, and say he was +sorry, and I would say: "It's all right, darling, I knew," but it +would make him ashamed, and he would be afraid that perhaps I +wasn't thinking him such a wonderful man as I did before. And it's +very bad for a public man like John when he begins to lose faith in +what his wife is thinking about him. . . . So let <i>me</i> be your +friend, will you? (<i>There is a silence between them for a little. +He looks at her wonderingly. Suddenly she stands up, her finger to +her lips</i>) H'sh! It's John. (<i>She moves away from him</i>)</p> +<p>SIR JOHN PEMBURY <i>comes in quickly; big, good-looking, +decisive, friendly; a man who wears very naturally, and without any +self-consciousness, an air of being somebody</i>.</p> +<p>PEMBURY (<i>walking hastily past his wife to her +writing-desk</i>). Hallo, darling! Did I leave a cheque-book in +here? I was writing a cheque for you this morning. Ah, here we are. +(<i>As he comes back, he sees</i> THE STRANGER) I beg your pardon, +Kate. I didn't see—— (<i>He is making for the door with +the cheque-book in his hand, and then stops and says with a +pleasant smile to</i> THE STRANGER) But, perhaps you are waiting to +see <i>me</i>? Perkins said something——</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>coming forward</i>). Yes, I came to see you, Sir +John.</p> +<p>(<i>He stands close in front of</i> SIR JOHN, <i>looking at +him</i>. LADY PEMBURY <i>watches them steadfastly</i>.)</p> +<p>PEMBURY (<i>tapping his cheque-book against his hand</i>). +Important?</p> +<p>STRANGER. I came to ask your help.</p> +<p>PEMBURY (<i>looking at his cheque-book and then back with a +smile at</i> THE STRANGER). A good many people do that. Have you +any special claim on me?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>after a long pause</i>). No.</p> +<p>(PEMBURY <i>looks at him, undecided</i>, LADY PEMBURY <i>comes +forward</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. All right, dear. (<i>Meaning that she will look +after</i> THE STRANGER <i>till he comes back</i>.)</p> +<p>PEMBURY. I'll be back in a moment. (<i>He nods and hurries +out</i>)</p> +<p>(<i>There is silence for a little, and then</i> LADY PEMBURY +<i>claps her hands gently</i>.)</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>with shining eyes</i>). Oh, brave, brave! Ah, +but I am a proud stepmother to-day. (<i>She holds out her hand to +him</i>) Thank you, son.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>not seeing it, and speaking in a hard voice</i>). +I'd better go.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Mayn't I help you?</p> +<p>STRANGER. I'd better go.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>distressed</i>). You can't go like this. I +don't even know your name, nor where you live.</p> +<p>STRANGER. Don't be afraid—you shan't hear from <i>me</i> +again.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>gently</i>). Not even when you've got back to +where you were two years ago? Mayn't I then?</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>looking at her, and then nodding slowly</i>). Yes, +you shall then.</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Thank you. I shall wait. I shall hope. I shall +pray. (<i>She holds out her hand again</i>) Good-bye!</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>shaking his head</i>). Wait till you hear from me. +(<i>He goes to the door, and then stops and comes slowly back. He +says awkwardly</i>) Wish you'd do one thing for me?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Yes?</p> +<p>STRANGER. That fellow—what did you say his name +was—Perkins?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>surprised</i>). The butler? +Perkins—yes?</p> +<p>STRANGER. Would you give him a message from me?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Of course.</p> +<p>STRANGER (<i>still awkwardly</i>). Just to say—I'll +<i>be</i> there—at the Mews—on Sunday afternoon. +<i>He'll</i> know. Tell him I'll be there. (<i>He squares his +shoulders and walks out defiantly—ready to take the world on +again—beginning with</i> PERKINS <i>on Sunday +afternoon</i>)</p> +<p>(LADY PEMBURY <i>stands watching him as he goes. She waits after +he has gone, thinking her own thoughts, out of which she comes with +something of a shock as the door opens and</i></p> +<p>SIR JOHN <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p>PEMBURY. Hallo! Has he gone?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. Yes.</p> +<p>PEMBURY. What did he want? Five pounds—or a place in the +Cabinet?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY. He came for—a subscription.</p> +<p>PEMBURY. And got it, if I know my Kate. (<i>Carelessly</i>) What +did he take from you?</p> +<p>LADY PEMBURY (<i>with a wistful little sigh</i>). Yes; he took +something from me. Not very much, I think. But +just—something. (<i>She takes his arm, leads him to the sofa, +and says affectionately</i>) And now tell me all that you've been +doing this morning.</p> +<p>(<i>So he begins to tell her—just as he has told her a +thousand times before. . . . But it isn't quite the same</i>)</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4><b><i>Printed in Great Britain by</i> R. & R. CLARK, +LIMITED, <i>Edinburgh</i>.</b></h4> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Plays, by A. A. 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Milne + +Release Date: January 19, 2005 [EBook #14734] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Rick Niles, John Hagerson, Karen Cotton and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +FIRST PLAYS +THE DAY'S PLAY +THE HOLIDAY ROUND +ONCE A WEEK +ONCE ON A TIME +NOT THAT IT MATTERS +IF I MAY +MR. PIM +THE SUNNY SIDE + + + + + +SECOND PLAYS + +by A.A. MILNE + + + + + + +New York +ALFRED A. KNOPF + + +Printed in Great Britain by +R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh. + + + + +To + +D.M. + +SO LITTLE IN RETURN FOR SO MUCH + + + + +CONTENTS + +MAKE-BELIEVE +MR. PIM PASSES BY +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE +THE ROMANTIC AGE +THE STEPMOTHER + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Encouraged by the reviewer who announced that the Introduction to my +previous collection of plays was the best part of the book, I venture +to introduce this collection in a similar manner. But I shall be +careful not to overdo it this time, in the hope that I may win from my +critic some such tribute as, "Mr. Milne has certainly improved as a +dramatist, in that his plays are now slightly better than his +Introduction." + +Since, then, I am trying to make this preface as distasteful as +possible, in order that the plays may shine out the more pleasantly, I +shall begin (how better?) with an attack on the dramatic critics. I +will relate a little conversation which took place, shortly after the +publication of "First Plays," between myself and a very much more +eminent dramatist. + +EMINENT DRAMATIST (kindly) Your book seems to have been well reviewed. + +MYSELF (ungratefully). Not bad--by those who reviewed it. But I doubt +if it was noticed by more than three regular dramatic critics. And +considering that two of the plays in it had never been produced-- + +EMINENT DRAMATIST (amused by my innocence). My dear fellow, _you_ +needn't complain. I published an unproduced play a little while ago, +and it didn't get a single notice from anybody. + +Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays which +follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be disturbed by +this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in the theatre are +accustomed to read, and sometimes to make, ridiculous accusations +against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn the mercenary fellow +because he will not risk a loss of two or three thousand pounds on the +intellectual masterpiece of a promising young dramatist, preferring to +put on some contemptible but popular rubbish which is certain to fill +his theatre. But now we see that the dramatic critic, that stern +upholder of the best interests of the British Drama, will not himself +risk six shillings (and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in +order to read the intellectual masterpiece of the promising young +dramatist, and so to be able to tell us with authority whether the +Manager really _is_ refusing masterpieces or no. He will not +risk six shillings in order to encourage that promising young +dramatist--discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his hopes of +fame and fortune--by telling him that he _is_ right, and that his +plays are worth something, or (alternatively) to prevent him from +wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form to which he is not +suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but he will write an +important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) article, informing us that +the British Drama is going to the dogs, and that no promising young +dramatist is ever given a fair chance. + +Absurd, isn't it? + +Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask ourselves +why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three reasons--in +their order of importance. + +(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of not +writing. He gets this anyhow. + +(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the +criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank, +_reclame_--call it what you will. But it is obvious that he cannot +have it unless the masterpiece is given to the world, either by +manager or publisher. + +(3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if +produced, possibly a great deal. + +As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest with +ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a desert +island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps all of us; +for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves, our +manuscripts--written on bark with a burnt stick--clutched in a +skeleton hand--might be recovered later by some literary sea-captain. +(As it might be, Conrad.) But how many of us would write masterpieces +if we had to burn them immediately afterwards, or if we were alone +upon the world, the last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to +write? Could we bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we +can admit this much without reserve; it is the second reward which +tears at us, and, lacking it, we should lose courage. + +So when the promising young dramatist has his play refused by the +Managers--after what weeks, months, years of hope and fear, +uncertainty and bitter disappointment--he has this great consolation: +"Anyway, I can always publish it." Perhaps, after a dozen refusals, a +Manager offers to put on his play, on condition that he alters the +obviously right (and unhappy) ending into the obviously foolish, but +happy, ending which will charm the public. Does he, the artist, +succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must get his play before the +public somehow, and that, even if it is not _his_ play now, yet the +first two acts are as he wrote them, and that, if only to feel the +thrill of the audience at that great scene between the Burglar and the +Bishop (his creations!) he must deaden his conscience to the absurdity +of a happy ending. But does he succumb? No. Heroically he tells +himself: "Anyway, I can publish it; and I'm certain that the critics +will agree with me that----" But the critics are too busy to bother +about him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is +going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets a +fair chance. + +Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt if any +dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the critics, the +managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever right I have I +renounce, in return for the good things which I have received from +them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our craft. I say that, in +the case of all dramatists, it is the business of the dramatic critics +to review their unacted plays when published. Some of them do; most of +them do not. It is ridiculous for those who do not to pretend that +they take any real interest in the British Drama. But I say "review," +not "praise." Let them damn, by all means, if the plays are unworthy; +and, by damning, do so much of justice to the Managers who refused +them. + +We can now pass on safely to the plays in this volume. + +We begin with a children's play. The difficulty in the way of writing +a children's play is that Barrie was born too soon. Many people must +have felt the same about Shakespeare. We who came later have no +chance. What fun to have been Adam, and to have had the whole world of +plots and jokes and stories at one's disposal. Possibly, however, one +would never have thought of the things. Of course, there are still +others to come after us, but our works are not immortal, and they will +plagiarise us without protest. Yet I have hopes of _Make-Believe_, for +it had the honour of inaugurating Mr. Nigel Playfair's management at +the Lyric, Hammersmith. It is possible that the historians will +remember this, long after they have forgotten my plays; more likely +(alas!) that their history will be dated A.D. (After Drinkwater) and +that the honour will be given to "Abraham Lincoln." I like to think +that in this event my ghost will haunt them. _Make-Believe_ appeared +with a Prologue by the Manager, lyrics by C.E. Burton, and music by +Georges Dorlay. As the title-page states that this book is, in the +language of children's competitions, "my own unaided work," I print +the play with a new Prologue, and without the charming lyrics. But the +reader is told when he may burst into an improvisation of his own, +though I warn him that he will not make such a good show of it as did +my collaborators. + +_Mr. Pim Passes By_ appeared at several theatres. Let us admit +cheerfully that it was a success--in spite of the warning of an +important gentleman in the theatrical world, who told me, while I was +writing it, that the public wouldn't stand any talk of bigamy, and +suggested that George and Olivia should be engaged only, not married. +(Hence the line, "Bigamy! . . . It _is_ an ugly word," in the Second +Act.) But, of course, nobody sees more clearly than I how largely its +success was due to Mr. Dion Boucicault and Miss Irene Vanbrugh. + +_The Romantic Age_ appeared first at the Comedy, and (like _Mr. Pim_) +found, in its need, a home at The Playhouse. Miss Gladys Cooper has a +charming way of withdrawing into a nursing home whenever I want a +theatre, but I beg her not to make a habit of it. My plays can be +spared so much more easily than she. By the way, a word about +Melisande. Many of the critics said that nobody behaved like that +nowadays. I am terrified at the thought of arguing with them, for they +can always reduce me to blushes with a scornful, "My dear man, you +_can't_ do that in a _play_!" And when they tell me to remember what +Strindberg said in '93 (if he were alive then; I really don't know) or +what Aristotle wrote in--no, I shan't even guess at Aristotle, well, +then, I want to burst into tears, my ignorance is so profound. So, +very humbly, I just say now that, when Melisande talks and behaves in +a certain way, I do not mean that a particular girl exists (Miss +Jones, of 999 Bedford Park) who talks and behaves like this, but I do +mean that there is a type of girl who, in her heart, secretly, +_thinks_ like this. If, from your great knowledge of the most secret +places of a young girl's heart, you tell me that there is no such +type, then I shall only smile. But if you inform me sternly that a +dramatist has no business to express an attitude in terms of an +actress, then you reduce me to blushes again. For I really know +nothing about play-writing, and I am only sustained by two beliefs. +The first is that rules are always made for the other people; the +second is that, if a play by me is not obviously by me, and as +obviously not by anybody else, then (obviously) I had no business to +write it. + +Of the one-act plays, _The Camberley Triangle_ and _The Stepmother_, +nothing much need be said. The former was played at the Coliseum; the +latter, written for Miss Winifred Emery, was deemed by the management +too serious for that place of amusement. This, however, was to the +great advantage of the play, for now it has appeared only at Charity +_matinees_ with an "all-star" cast. + +As before, the plays are printed in the order in which they were +written; in this case between October 1918 and June 1920. May the +reader get as much enjoyment from them as I had in their writing. But +no; that is plainly impossible. + +A.A. MILNE. + + + + +MAKE-BELIEVE + +A CHILDREN'S PLAY IN A PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS + + +_Make-Believe_ was first produced at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, +on December 24, 1918. The chief parts were played by Marjory Holman, +Jean Cadell, Rosa Lynd, Betty Chester, Roy Lennol, John Barclay, +Kinsey Peile, Stanley Drewitt, Ivan Berlyn, and Herbert +Marshall--several parts each. + + + + +MAKE-BELIEVE + +PROLOGUE + + +The playroom of the HUBBARD FAMILY--nine of them. Counting MR. and +MRS. HUBBARD, we realize that there are eleven HUBBARDS in all, and +you would think that one at least of the two people we see in the room +would be a HUBBARD of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is JAMES, +the HUBBARDS' butler, for the HUBBARDS are able to afford a butler +now. How different from the time when Old Mother Hubbard--called "old" +because she was at least twenty-two, and "mother" because she had a +passion for children--could not even find a bone for her faithful +terrier; but, of course, that was before HENRY went into work. Well, +the tall figure is JAMES, the butler, and the little one is ROSEMARY, +a friend of the HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY is going in for literature +this afternoon, as it's raining, and JAMES is making her quite +comfortable first with pens and ink and blotting-paper--always so +important when one wants to write. He has even thought of a stick of +violet sealing-wax; after that there can be no excuse. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (She sits down.) If any one calls I am not +at home. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my +auto--autobiography. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James? + +JAMES. I believe so, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you. (He goes to the door.) Oh, James? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss? + +ROSEMARY. What _is_ an autobiography? + +JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss--not to explain it properly. + +ROSEMARY (dismayed). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew everything. + +JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and then---- + +ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead? Very +easy work, they tell me. + +ROSEMARY (nodding). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a play. Thank +you, James. + +JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out. + +(ROSEMARY bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the inspiration +comes.) + +ROSEMARY (as she writes). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen B-e-l---- (she +stops and frowns) Now which way _is_ it? (She tries it on the +blotting-paper) _That_ looks wrong. (She tries it again) So does that. +Oh, dear! (She rings the bell . . . JAMES returns.) + +JAMES. Yes, Miss? + +ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play Make-Believe. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (carelessly). When you spell "believe," it is "i-e," isn't +it? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i." + +JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (reproachfully). Oh, James! Aren't you certain? + +JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l---- (He stops and scratches his whiskers.) + +ROSEMARY. Yes. _I_ got as far as that. + +JAMES. B-e-l---- + +ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an accident +to the very first word of it. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l----I've noticed sometimes that if one writes a +word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then looks at it with +the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct comes over one, as +makes one say (with a shake of the head) "Rotten." One can then write +it the other way more hopeful. + +ROSEMARY. I've tried that. + +JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name +altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy words +to spell, or "Red Revenge," or---- + +ROSEMARY. I _must_ call it Make-Believe, because it's all of the play +I've thought of so far. + +JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on +purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes. + +ROSEMARY. Does it? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh. + +ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which _is_ the wrong way? + +JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss. + +ROSEMARY (inspired). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it "i-e"; and if +it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then I'm funny. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest. + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. + +JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out. + +ROSEMARY (writing). Make-Believe. A Christmas Entertainment---- (She +stops and thinks, and then shakes her head.) No, play--a Christmas +Play in three acts. Er---- (She is stuck.) + +_Enter JAMES_. + +JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are +without, and crave admittance. + +ROSEMARY. All nine of them? + +JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the +majority of them were present. + +ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home? + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and you +being a visitor, if you _had_ been at home, then you wouldn't have +been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram, Miss. + +ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting when you're writing a play. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more the +merrier, as you might say. + +ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them. + +JAMES. Yes, Miss. (He opens the door and says very rapidly) The Misses +Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and Isabel Hubbard, The Masters +Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold Hubbard. (They come in.) + +ROSEMARY. How do you do? + +ADA. Rosemary, darling, what _are_ you doing? + +BERTRAM. It's like your cheek, bagging our room. + +CAROLINE (primly). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be polite to our +visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if Rosemary wants our +room---- + +DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! + +ADA (at ROSEMARY'S shoulder). Oh, I say, she's writing a play! + +(Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at ROSEMARY.) + +{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What's +{ it about? Bet it's awful rot. +{ +{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am _I_ in it? Do tell us +{ about it. Is it for Christmas? + +ROSEMARY (in alarm). James, could you----? + +JAMES (firmly). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis, down! Miss +Gwendoline, if you wouldn't mind---- (He picks her up and places her +on the floor.) Thank you. (Order is restored.) + +ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. . . . Yes, it's a play for Christmas, and it +is called "Make-Believe," and that's all I'm certain about yet, except +that we're all going to be in it. + +BERTRAM. Then I vote we have a desert island---- + +DENNIS. And pirates---- + +FRANK. And cannibals---- + +HAROLD (gloatingly). Cannibals eating people--Oo! + +CAROLINE (shocked). Harold! How would _you_ like to be eaten by a +cannibal? + +DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! How would _you_ like to be a cannibal and have +nobody to eat? (CAROLINE is silent, never having thought of this +before.) + +ADA. Let it be a fairy-story, Rosemary, darling. It's so much +_prettier_. + +ELSIE. With a lovely princess---- + +GWENDOLINE. And a humble woodcutter who marries her---- + +ISABEL (her only contribution). P'itty P'incess. + +BERTRAM. Princesses are rot. + +ELSIE (with spirit). So are pirates! (Deadlock.) + +CAROLINE. _I_ should like something about Father Christmas, and snow, +and waits, and a lovely ball, and everybody getting nice presents and +things. + +DENNIS (selfishly, I'm afraid). Bags I all the presents. + +(Of course, the others aren't going to have that. They all say so +together.) + +ROSEMARY (above the turmoil). James, I _must_ have silence. + +JAMES. Silence, all! + +ROSEMARY. Thank you. . . . You will be interested to hear that I have +decided to have a Fairy Story _and_ a Desert Island _and_ a Father +Christmas. + +ALL. Good! (Or words to that effect) + +ROSEMARY (biting her pen). I shall begin with the Fairy Story. (There +is an anxious silence. None of them has ever seen anybody writing a +play before. How does one do it? Alas, ROSEMARY herself doesn't know. +She appeals to JAMES.) James, how _do_ you begin a play? I mean when +you've _got_ the title. + +JAMES (a man of genius). Well, Miss Rosemary, seeing that it's to be +called "Make-Believe," why not make-believe as it's written already? + +ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James! + +JAMES. All that is necessary is for the company to think very hard of +what they want, and--there we are! Saves all the bother of writing and +spelling and what not. + +ROSEMARY (admiringly.) James, how clever you are! + +JAMES. So-so, Miss Rosemary. + +ROSEMARY. Now then, let's all think together. Are you all ready? + +ALL. Yes! (They clench their hands.) + +ROSEMARY. Then one, two, three--Go! + +(They think. . . . The truth is that JAMES, who wasn't really meant to be +in it, thinks too. If there is anything in the play which you don't +like, it is JAMES thinking.) + + + + +ACT I.--THE PRINCESS AND THE WOODCUTTER + + +(The WOODCUTTER is discovered singing at his work, in a glade of the +forest outside his hut. He is tall and strong, and brave and handsome; +all that a woodcutter ought to be. Now it happened that the PRINCESS +was passing, and as soon as his song is finished, sure enough, on she +comes.) + +PRINCESS. Good morning, Woodcutter. + +WOODCUTTER. Good morning. (But he goes on with his work.) + +PRINCESS (after a pause). Good morning, Woodcutter. + +WOODCUTTER. Good morning. + +PRINCESS. Don't you ever say anything except good morning? + +WOODCUTTER. Sometimes I say good-bye. + +PRINCESS. You _are_ a cross woodcutter to-day. + +WOODCUTTER. I have work to do. + +PRINCESS. You are still cutting wood? Don't you ever do anything else? + +WOODCUTTER. Well, you are still a Princess; don't _you_ ever do +anything else? + +PRINCESS (reproachfully). Now, that's not fair, Woodcutter. You can't +say I was a Princess yesterday, when I came and helped you stack your +wood. Or the day before, when I tied up your hand where you had cut +it. Or the day before that, when we had our meal together on the +grass. Was I a Princess then? + +WOODCUTTER. Somehow I think you were. Somehow I think you were saying +to yourself, "Isn't it sweet of a Princess to treat a mere woodcutter +like this?" + +PRINCESS. I think you're perfectly horrid. I've a good mind never to +speak to you again. And--and I would, if only I could be sure that you +would notice I wasn't speaking to you. + +WOODCUTTER. After all, I'm just as bad as you. Only yesterday I was +thinking to myself how unselfish I was to interrupt my work in order +to talk to a mere Princess. + +PRINCESS. Yes, but the trouble is that you _don't_ interrupt your +work. + +WOODCUTTER (interrupting it and going up to her with a smile). Madam, +I am at your service. + +PRINCESS. I wish I thought you were. + +WOODCUTTER. Surely you have enough people at your service already. +Princes and Chancellors and Chamberlains and Waiting Maids. + +PRINCESS. Yes, that's just it. That's why I want your help. +Particularly in the matter of the Princes. + +WOODCUTTER. Why, has a suitor come for the hand of her Royal Highness? + +PRINCESS. Three suitors. And I hate them all. + +WOODCUTTER. And which are you going to marry? + +PRINCESS. I don't know. Father hasn't made up his mind yet. + +WOODCUTTER. And this is a matter which father--which His Majesty +decides for himself? + +PRINCESS. Why, of course! You should read the History Books, +Woodcutter. The suitors to the hand of a Princess are always set some +trial of strength or test of quality by the King, and the winner +marries his daughter. + +WOODCUTTER. Well, I don't live in a Palace, and I think my own +thoughts about these things. I'd better get back to my work. (He goes +on with his chopping.) + +PRINCESS (gently, after a pause). Woodcutter! + +WOODCUTTER (looking up). Oh, are you there? I thought you were married +by this time. + +PRINCESS (meekly). I don't want to be married. (Hastily) I mean, not +to any of those three. + +WOODCUTTER. You can't help yourself. + +PRINCESS. I know. That's why I wanted _you_ to help me. + +WOODCUTTER (going up to her). Can a simple woodcutter help a Princess? + +PRINCESS. Well, perhaps a simple one couldn't, but a clever one might. + +WOODCUTTER. What would his reward be? + +PRINCESS. His reward would be that the Princess, not being married to +any of her three suitors, would still be able to help him chop his +wood in the mornings. . . . I _am_ helping you, aren't I? + +WOODCUTTER (smiling). Oh, decidedly. + +PRINCESS (nodding). I thought I was. + +WOODCUTTER. It is kind of a great lady like yourself to help so humble +a fellow as I. + +PRINCESS (meekly). I'm not _very_ great. (And she isn't. She is the +smallest, daintiest little Princess that ever you saw.) + +WOODCUTTER. There's enough of you to make a hundred men unhappy. + +PRINCESS. And one man happy? + +WOODCUTTER. And one man very, very happy. + +PRINCESS (innocently). I wonder who he'll be. . . . Woodcutter, if _you_ +were a Prince, would you be my suitor? + +WOODCUTTER (scornfully). One of three? + +PRINCESS (excitedly). Oo, would you kill the others? With that axe? + +WOODCUTTER. I would not kill them, in order to help His Majesty make +up his mind about his son-in-law. But if the Princess had made up her +mind--and wanted me---- + +PRINCESS. Yes? + +WOODCUTTER. Then I would marry her, however many suitors she had. + +PRINCESS. Well, she's only got three at present. + +WOODCUTTER. What is that to me? + +PRINCESS. Oh, I just thought you might want to be doing something to +your axe. + +WOODCUTTER. My axe? + +PRINCESS. Yes. You see, she _has_ made up her mind. + +WOODCUTTER (amazed). You mean--But--but I'm only a woodcutter. + +PRINCESS. That's where you'll have the advantage of them, when it +comes to axes. + +WOODCUTTER. Princess! (He takes her in his arms) My Princess! + +PRINCESS. Woodcutter! My woodcutter! My, oh so very slow and +uncomprehending, but entirely adorable woodcutter! + +(They sing together. They just happen to feel like that) + +WOODCUTTER (the song finished). But what will His Majesty say? + +PRINCESS. All sorts of things. . . . Do you really love me, woodcutter, +or have I proposed to you under a misapprehension? + +WOODCUTTER. I adore you! + +PRINCESS (nodding). I thought you did. But I wanted to hear you say +it. If I had been a simple peasant, I suppose you would have said it a +long time ago? + +WOODCUTTER. I expect so. + +PRINCESS (nodding). Yes. . . . Well, now we must think of a plan for +making Mother like you. + +WOODCUTTER. Might I just kiss you again before we begin? + +PRINCESS. Well, I don't quite see how I am to stop you. + +(The WOODCUTTER picks her up in his arms and kisses her.) + +WOODCUTTER. There! + +PRINCESS (in his arms). Oh, Woodcutter, woodcutter, why didn't you do +that the first day I saw you? Then I needn't have had the bother of +proposing to you. (He puts her down suddenly) What is it? + +WOODCUTTER (listening). Somebody coming. (He peers through the trees +and then says in surprise) The King! + +PRINCESS. Oh! I must fly! + +WOODCUTTER. But you'll come back? + +PRINCESS. Perhaps. + + [She disappears quickly through the trees. + +(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and is discovered at it a minute +later by the KING and QUEEN.) + +KING (puffing). Ah! and a seat all ready for us. How satisfying. (They +sit down, a distinguished couple--reading from left to right, "KING, +QUEEN"--on a bench outside the WOODCUTTER'S hut.) + +QUEEN (crossly--she was like that). I don't know why you dragged me +here. + +KING. As I told you, my love, to be alone. + +QUEEN. Well, you aren't alone. (She indicates the WOODCUTTER.) + +KING. Pooh, he doesn't matter. . . . Well now, about these three Princes. +They are getting on my mind rather. It is time we decided which one of +them is to marry our beloved child. The trouble is to choose between +them. + +QUEEN. As regards appetite, there is nothing to choose between them. +They are three of the heartiest eaters I have met for some time. + +KING. You are right. The sooner we choose one of them, and send the +other two about their business, the better. (Reflectively) There were +six peaches on the breakfast-table this morning. Did I get one? No. + +QUEEN. Did _I_ get one? No. + +KING. Did our darling child get one--not that it matters? No. + +QUEEN. It is a pity that the seven-headed bull died last year. + +KING. Yes, he had a way of sorting out competitors for the hand of our +beloved one that was beyond all praise. One could have felt quite sure +that, had the three competitors been introduced to him, only one of +them would have taken any further interest in the matter. + +QUEEN (always the housekeeper). And even he mightn't have taken any +interest in his meals. + +KING (with a sigh). However, those days are over. We must think of a +new test. Somehow I think that, in a son-in-law, moral worth is even +more to be desired than mere brute strength. Now my suggestion is +this: that you should disguise yourself as a beggar woman and approach +each of the three princes in turn, supplicating their charity. In this +way we shall discover which of the three has the kindest heart. What +do you say, my dear? + +QUEEN. An excellent plan. If you remember, I suggested it myself +yesterday. + +KING (annoyed). Well, of course, it had been in my mind for some time. +I don't claim that the idea is original; it has often been done in our +family. (Getting up) Well then, if you will get ready, my dear, I will +go and find our three friends and see that they come this way. + + [They go out together. + +(As soon as they are out of sight the PRINCESS comes back.) + +PRINCESS. Well, Woodcutter, what did I tell you? + +WOODCUTTER. What did you tell me? + +PRINCESS. Didn't you listen to what they said? + +WOODCUTTER. I didn't listen, but I couldn't help hearing. + +PRINCESS. Well, _I_ couldn't help listening. And unless you stop it +somehow, I shall be married to one of them to-night. + +WOODCUTTER. Which one? + +PRINCESS. The one with the kindest heart--whichever that is. + +WOODCUTTER. Supposing they all three have kind hearts? + +PRINCESS (confidently). They won't. They never have. In our circles +when three Princes come together, one of them has a kind heart and the +other two haven't. (Surprised) Haven't you read any History at all? + +WOODCUTTER. I have no time for reading. But I think it's time History +was altered a little. We'll alter it this afternoon. + +PRINCESS. What do you mean? + +WOODCUTTER. Leave this to me. I've got an idea. + +PRINCESS (clapping her hands). Oh, how clever of you! But what do you +want me to do? + +WOODCUTTER (pointing). You know the glade over there where the brook +runs through it? Wait for me there. + +PRINCESS. I obey my lord's commands. + + [She blows him a kiss and runs off + +(The WOODCUTTER resumes his work. By and by the RED PRINCE comes +along. He is a--well, you will see for yourself what he is like.) + +RED PRINCE. Ah, fellow. . . . Fellow! . . . I said fellow! (Yes, that sort +of man.) + +WOODCUTTER (looking up.) Were you speaking to me, my lord? + +RED PRINCE. There is no other fellow here that I can see. + +(The WOODCUTTER looks round to make sure, peers behind a tree or two, +and comes back to the PRINCE.) + +WOODCUTTER. Yes, you must have meant me. + +RED PRINCE. Yes, of course I meant you, fellow. Have you seen the +Princess come past this way? I was told she was waiting for me here. + +WOODCUTTER. She is not here, my lord. (Looking round to see that they +are alone) My lord, are you one of the Princes who is seeking the hand +of the Princess. + +RED PRINCE (complacently). I am, fellow. + +WOODCUTTER. His Majesty the King was here a while ago. He is to make +his decision between you this afternoon. (Meaningly) I think I can +help you to be the lucky one, my lord. + +RED PRINCE. You suggest that I take an unfair advantage over my +fellow-competitors? + +WOODCUTTER. I suggest nothing, my lord. I only say that I can help +you. + +RED PRINCE (magnanimously). Well, I will allow you to help me. + +WOODCUTTER. Thank you. Then I will give you this advice. If a beggar +woman asks you for a crust of bread this afternoon, remember--it is +the test! + +RED PRINCE (staggered). The test! But I haven't _got_ a crust of +bread! + +WOODCUTTER. Wait here and I will get you one. + +(He goes into the hut) + +RED PRINCE (speaking after him as he goes). My good fellow, I am +extremely obliged to you, and if ever I can do anything for you, such +as returning a crust to you of similar size, or even lending you +another slightly smaller one, or---- (The WOODCUTTER comes back with +the crust.) Ah, thank you, my man, thank you. + +WOODCUTTER. I would suggest, my lord, that you should take a short +walk in this direction (pointing to the opposite direction to that +which the PRINCESS has taken), and stroll back casually in a few +minutes' time when the Queen is here. + +RED PRINCE. Thank you, my man, thank you. + +(He puts the crust in his pocket and goes off.) (The WOODCUTTER goes +on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE comes in and stands watching him in +silence for some moments.) WOODCUTTER (looking up). Hullo! + +BLUE PRINCE. Hullo! + +WOODCUTTER. What do you want? + +BLUE PRINCE. The Princess. + +WOODCUTTER. She's not here. + +BLUE PRINCE. Oh! + +(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and the PRINCE goes on looking +at him.) + +WOODCUTTER (struck with an idea). Are you one of the Princes who is +wooing the Princess? + +BLUE PRINCE. Yes. + +WOODCUTTER (coming towards him). I believe I could help your Royal +Highness. + +BLUE PRINCE. DO. + +WOODCUTTER (doubtfully). It would perhaps be not Quite fair to the +others. + +BLUE PRINCE. Don't mind. + +WOODCUTTER. Well then, listen. (He pauses a moment and looks round to +see that they are alone.) + +BLUE PRINCE. I'm listening. + +WOODCUTTER. If you come back in five minutes, you will see a beggar +woman sitting here. She will ask you for a crust of bread. You must +give it to her, for it is the way His Majesty has chosen of testing +your kindness of heart. + +BLUE PRINCE (feeling in his pockets). No bread. + +WOODCUTTER. I will give you some. + +BLUE PRINCE. Do. + +WOODCUTTER (taking a piece from his pocket). Here you are. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thanks. + +WOODCUTTER. Not at all, I'm very glad to have been able to help you. + +(He goes on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE remains looking at him.) + +BLUE PRINCE (with a great effort). Thanks. + +(He goes slowly away. A moment later the YELLOW PRINCE makes a +graceful and languid entry.) + +YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, come hither, my man, come hither. + +WOODCUTTER (stopping his work and looking up). You want me, sir? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Come hither, my man. Tell me, has her Royal Highness +the Princess passed this way lately? + +WOODCUTTER. The Princess? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, the Princess, my bumpkin. But perhaps you have +been too much concerned in your own earthy affairs to have noticed +her. You--ah--cut wood, I see. + +WOODCUTTER. Yes, sir, I am a woodcutter. + +YELLOW PRINCE. A most absorbing life. Some day we must have a long +talk about it. But just now I have other business waiting for me. With +your permission, good friend, I will leave you to your faggots. (He +starts to go.) + +WOODCUTTER. Beg your pardon, sir, but are you one of those Princes +that want to marry our Princess? + +YELLOW PRINCE. I had hoped, good friend, to obtain your permission to +do so. I beg you not to refuse it. + +WOODCUTTER. You are making fun of me, sir. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Discerning creature. + +WOODCUTTER. All the same, I _can_ help you. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Then pray do so, log-chopper, and earn my everlasting +gratitude. + +WOODCUTTER. The King has decided that whichever of you three Princes +has the kindest heart shall marry his daughter. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Then you will be able to bear witness to him that I +have already wasted several minutes of my valuable time in +condescending to a mere faggot-splitter. Tell him this and the prize +is mine. (Kissing the tips of his fingers) Princess, I embrace you. + +WOODCUTTER. The King will not listen to me. But if you return here in +five minutes, you will find an old woman begging for bread. It is the +test which their Majesties have arranged for you. If you share your +last crust with her-- + +YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, but do I look as if I carried a last crust about +with me? + +WOODCUTTER. But see, I will give you one. + +YELLOW PRINCE (taking it between the tips of his fingers). Yes, but-- + +WOODCUTTER. Put it in your pocket, and when-- + +YELLOW PRINCE. But, my dear bark-scraper, have you no feeling for +clothes at all? How can I put a thing like this in my pocket? (Handing +it back to him) I beg you to wrap it up. Here take this. (Gives him a +scarf) Neatly, I pray you. (Taking an orange ribbon out of his pocket) +Perhaps a little of this round it would make it more tolerable. You +think so? I leave it to you. I trust your taste entirely. . . . Leaving a +loop for the little finger, I entreat you . . . so. (He hangs it on his +little finger) In about five minutes, you said? We will be there. +(With a bow) We thank you. + +(He departs delicately. The WOODCUTTER smiles to himself, puts down +his axe and goes off to the PRINCESS. And just in time. For behold! +the KING and QUEEN return. At least we think it is the QUEEN, but she +is so heavily disguised by a cloak which she wears over her court +dress, that for a moment we are not quite sure.) + +KING. Now then, my love, if you will sit down on that log +there--(placing her)--excellent--I think perhaps you should remove the +crown. (Removes it) There! Now the disguise is perfect. + +QUEEN. You're sure they are coming? It's a very uncomfortable seat. + +KING. I told them that the Princess was waiting for them here. Their +natural disappointment at finding I was mistaken will make the test of +their good nature an even more exacting one. My own impression is that +the Yellow Prince will be the victor. + +QUEEN. Oh, I hate that man. + +KING (soothingly). Well, well, perhaps it will be the Blue one. + +QUEEN. If anything, I dislike him _more_ intensely. + +KING. Or even the Red. + +QUEEN. Ugh! I can't bear him. + +KING. Fortunately, dear, you are not called upon to marry any of them. +It is for our darling that we are making the great decision. Listen! I +hear one coming. I will hide in the cottage and take note of what +happens. + +(He disappears into the cottage as the BLUE PRINCE comes in.) + +QUEEN. Oh, sir, can you kindly spare a crust of bread for a poor old +woman! Please, pretty gentleman! + +BLUE PRINCE (standing stolidly in front of her and feeling in his +pocket). Bread . . . Bread . . . Ah! Bread! (He offers it.) + +QUEEN. Oh, thank you, sir. May you be rewarded for your gentle heart. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. + +(He stands gazing at her. There is an awkward pause.) + +QUEEN. A blessing on you, sir. + +BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. (He indicates the crust) Bread. + +QUEEN. Ah, you have saved the life of a poor old woman---- + +BLUE PRINCE. Eat it. + +QUEEN (embarrassed). I--er--you--er---(She takes a bite and mumbles +something.) + +BLUE PRINCE. What? + +QUEEN (swallowing with great difficulty). I'm almost too happy to eat, +sir. Leave a poor old woman alone with her happiness, and--- + +BLUE PRINCE. Not too happy. Too weak. Help you eat. (He breaks off a +piece and holds it to her mouth. With a great effort the QUEEN +disposes of it.) Good! . . . Again! (She does it again.) Now! (She +swallows another piece.) Last piece! (She takes it in. He pats her +kindly on the back, and she nearly chokes.) Good. . . . Better now? + +QUEEN (weakly). Much. + +BLUE PRINCE. Good day. + +QUEEN (with an effort). Good day, kind gentleman. + + [He goes out. + +(The KING is just coming from the cottage, when he returns suddenly. +The KING slips back again.) + +BLUE PRINCE. Small piece left over. (He gives it to her. She looks +hopelessly at him.) Good-bye. + + [He goes. + +QUEEN (throwing the piece down violently). Ugh! What a man! + +KING (coming out). Well, well, my dear, we have discovered the winner. + +QUEEN (from the heart). Detestable person! + +KING. The rest of the competition is of course more in the nature of a +formality-- + +QUEEN. Thank goodness. + +KING. However, I think that it will prevent unnecessary discussion +afterwards if we--Take care, here is another one. (He hurries back.) + +_Enter the RED PRINCE_. + +QUEEN (with not nearly so much conviction). Could you spare a crust of +bread, sir, for a poor hungry old woman? + +RED PRINCE. A crust of bread, madam? Certainly. As luck will have it, +I have a crust on me. My last one, but--your need is greater than +mine. Eat, I pray. + +QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. + +RED PRINCE. Not at all. Come, eat. Let me have the pleasure of seeing +you eating. + +QUEEN. M-might I take it home with me, pretty gentleman? + +RED PRINCE (firmly). No, no. I must see you eating. Come! I will take +no denial. + +QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. (Hopefully) Won't you share it with me? + +RED PRINCE. No, I insist on your having it all. I am in the mood to be +generous. Oblige me by eating it now for I am in a hurry; yet I will +not go until you have eaten. (She does her best.) You eat but slowly. +(Sternly) Did you deceive me when you said you were hungry? + +QUEEN. N-no. I'm very hungry. (She eats) + +RED PRINCE. That's better. Now understand--however poor I am, I can +always find a crust of bread for an old woman. Always! Remember this +when next you are hungry. . . . You spoke? (She shakes her head and goes +on eating.) Finished? + +QUEEN (with great difficulty). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman. + +RED PRINCE. There's a piece on the ground there that you dropped. (She +eats it in dumb agony) Finished? + +QUEEN (huskily). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman. + +RED PRINCE. Then I will leave you, madam. Good morning. + + [He goes out. + +(The QUEEN rises in fury. The KING is about to come out of the +cottage, when the YELLOW PRINCE enters. The QUEEN sits down again and +mumbles something. It is certainly not an appeal for bread, but the +YELLOW PRINCE is not to be denied.) + +YELLOW PRINCE (gallantly). My poor woman, you are in distress. It +pains me to see it, madam, it pains me terribly. Can it be that you +are hungry? I thought so, I thought so. Give me the great pleasure, +madam, of relieving your hunger. See (holding up his finger), my own +poor meal. Take it! It is yours. + +QUEEN (with difficulty). I am not hungry. + +YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, madam, I see what it is. You do not wish to deprive +me. You tell yourself, perchance, that it is not fitting that one in +your station of life should partake of the meals of the highly born. +You are not used, you say, to the food of Princes. Your rougher +palate---- + +QUEEN (hopefully). Did you say food of princes? + +YELLOW PRINCE. Where was I, madam? You interrupted me. No matter--eat. +(She takes the scarf and unties the ribbon.) Ah, now I remember. I was +saying that your rougher palate--- + +QUEEN (discovering the worst). No! No! Not bread! + +YELLOW PRINCE. Bread, madam, the staff of life. Come, madam, will you +not eat? (She tries desperately.) What can be more delightful than a +crust of bread by the wayside? + +(The QUEEN shrieks and falls back in a swoon. The KING rushes out to +her.) + +KING (to YELLOW PRINCE). Quick, quick, find the Princess. + +YELLOW PRINCE. The Princess--find the Princess! (He goes vaguely off +and we shall not see him again. But the WOODCUTTER and the PRINCESS do +not need to be found. They are here.) + +WOODCUTTER (to PRINCESS). Go to her, but don't show that you know me. + +(He goes into the cottage, and the PRINCESS hastens to her father.) + +PRINCESS. Father! + +KING. Ah, my dear, you're just in time. Your mother--- + +PRINCESS. My mother? + +KING. Yes, yes. A little plan of mine--of hers--your poor mother. +Dear, dear! + +PRINCESS. But what's the matter? + +KING. She is suffering from a surfeit of bread, and--- + +(The WOODCUTTER comes up with a flagon of wine) + +WOODCUTTER. Poor old woman! She has fainted from exhaustion. Let me +give her some--- + +QUEEN (shrieking). No, no, not bread! I will _not_ have any more +bread. + +WOODCUTTER. Drink this, my poor woman. + +QUEEN (opening her eyes). Did you say drink? (She seizes the flagon +and drinks) + +PRINCESS. Oh, sir, you have saved my mother's life! + +WOODCUTTER. Not at all. + +KING. I thank you, my man, I thank you. + +QUEEN. My deliverer! Tell me who you are! + +PRINCESS. It is my mother, the Queen, who asks you. + +WOODCUTTER (amazed, as well he may be). The Queen! + +KING. Yes, yes. Certainly, the Queen. + +WOODCUTTER (taking off his hat). Pardon, your Majesty. I am a +woodcutter, who lives alone here, far away from courts. + +QUEEN. Well, you've got more sense in your head than any of the +Princes that _I've_ seen lately. You'd better come to court. + +PRINCESS (shyly). You will be very welcome, sir. + +QUEEN. And you'd better marry the Princess. + +KING. Isn't that perhaps going a _little_ too far, dear? + +QUEEN. Well, you wanted kindness of heart in your son-in-law, and +you've got it. And he's got common sense too. (To WOODCUTTER) Tell me, +what do you think of bread as--as a form of nourishment? + +WOODCUTTER (cautiously). One can have too much of it. + +QUEEN. Exactly my view. (To KING) There you are, you see. + +KING. Well, if you insist. The great thing, of course, is that our +darling child should be happy. + +PRINCESS. I will do my best, father. (She takes the WOODCUTTER'S +hand.) + +KING. Then the marriage will take place this evening. (With a wave of +his wand) Let the revels begin. + +(They begin) + + + + +ACT II.--OLIVER'S ISLAND + + +SCENE I.--The Schoolroom (Ugh!) + +(OLIVER is discovered lying flat on his--well, lying flat on the +floor, deep in a book. The CURATE puts his head in at the door.) + +CURATE. Ah, our young friend, Oliver! And how are we this morning, +dear lad? + +OLIVER (mumbling). All right, thanks. + +CURATE. That's well, that's well. Deep in our studies, I see, deep in +our studies. And what branch of Knowledge are we pursuing this +morning? + +OLIVER (without looking up). "Marooned in the Pacific," or "The +Pirate's Bride." + +CURATE. Dear, dear, what will Miss Pinniger say to this interruption +of our studies? + +OLIVER. Silly old beast. + +CURATE. Tut-tut, dear lad, that is not the way to speak of our mentors +and preceptors. So refined and intelligent a lady as Miss Pinniger. +Indeed I came here to see her this morning on a little matter of +embroidered vestments. Where is she, dear lad? + +OLIVER. It isn't nine yet. + +CURATE (looking at his watch). Past nine, past nine. + +OLIVER (jumping up). Je-hoshaphat! + +CURATE. Oliver! Oliver! My dear lad! Swearing at _your_ age! Really, I +almost feel it my duty to inform your aunt--- + +OLIVER. Fat lot of swearing in just mentioning one of the Kings of +Israel. + +CURATE. Of Judah, dear boy, of Judah. To be ignorant on such a vital +matter makes it even more reprehensible. I cannot believe that our +dear Miss Pinniger has so neglected your education that---- + +_Enter our dear MISS PINNIGER, the Governess_. + +GOVERNESS. Ah, Mr. Smilax; how pleasant to see you! + +CURATE. My dear Miss Pinniger! You will forgive me for interrupting +you in your labours, but there is a small matter of--ah!--- + +GOVERNESS. Certainly, Mr. Smilax. I will walk down to the gate with +you. Oliver, where is Geraldine? + +OLIVER. Aunt Jane wanted her. + +GOVERNESS. Well, you should be at your lessons. It's nine o'clock. The +fact that I am momentarily absent from the room should make no +difference to your zeal. + +OLIVER (without conviction). No, Miss Pinniger. (He sits down at his +desk, putting "Marooned in the Pacific" inside it.) + +CURATE (playfully). For men must work, Oliver, men must work. How doth +the little busy bee--Yes, Miss Pinniger, I am with you. [They go +out. + +OLIVER (opening his poetry book and saying it to himself). It was a +summer evening--It was a summer evening--(He stops, refers to the +book, and then goes on to himself) Old Kaspar's work was done. It was +a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done--- + +_Enter GERALDINE--or JILL_. + +JILL. Where's Pin? + +OLIVER. Hallo, Jill. Gone off with Dearly Beloved. Her momentary +absence from the room should make no difference to your zeal, my dear +Geraldine. And what are we studying this morning, dear child? (To +himself) It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done. + +JILL (giggling). Is that Pin? + +OLIVER. Pin and Dearly Beloved between them. She's a bit batey this +morning. + +JILL (at her desk). And all my sums have done themselves wrong. (Hard +at it with paper and pencil) What's nine times seven, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Fifty-six. Old Kaspar's work was done. Jolly well wish mine +was. And he before his cottage door. Fat lot of good my learning this +stuff if I'm going to be a sailor. I bet Beatty didn't mind what +happened to rotten old Kaspar when he saw a German submarine. + +JILL. Six and carry five. Aunt Jane has sent for the doctor to look at +my chest. + +OLIVER. What's the matter with your chest? + +JILL. I blew my nose rather loud at prayers this morning. + +OLIVER. I say, Jill, you _are_ going it! + +JILL. It wasn't my fault, Oliver. Aunt Jane turned over two pages at +once and made me laugh, so I had to turn it into a blow. + +OLIVER. Bet you what you like she knew. + +JILL. Of course she did, and she'll tell the doctor, and he'll be as +beastly as he can. What did she say to you for being late? + +OLIVER. I said somebody had bagged my sponge, and she wouldn't like me +to come down to prayers all unsponged, and she said, "Excuses, Oliver, +_always_ excuses! Leave me. I will see you later." Suppose that means +I've got to go to bed this afternoon. Jill, if I do, be sporty and +bring me up "Marooned in the Pacific." + +JILL. They'll lock the door. They always do. + +OLIVER. Then I shall jolly well go up for a handkerchief this morning, +and shove it in the bed, just in case. Cave--here's Pin. + +MISS PINNIGER _returns to find them full of zeal_. + +GOVERNESS (sitting down at her desk). Well, Oliver, have you learnt +your piece of poetry? + +OLIVER (nervously). I--I think so, Miss Pinniger. + +GOVERNESS. Close the book, and stand up and say it. (Oliver takes a +last despairing look, and stands up.) Well? + +OLIVER. It was a summer evening--- + +GOVERNESS. The title and the author first, Oliver. Everything in its +proper order. + +OLIVER. Oh, I say, I didn't know I had to learn the title. + +JILL (in a whisper). After Blenheim. + +GOVERNESS. Geraldine, kindly attend to your own work. + +OLIVER. After Blenheim. It was a summer evening. + +GOVERNESS. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey. One of our greatest +poets. + +OLIVER. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey, one of our greatest poets. +It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done--er--Old Kaspar's +work was done--er--work was done, er . . . + +GOVERNESS. And he before--- + +OLIVER. Oh yes, of course. And he before--er--and he before--er--It +was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, and he +before--er--and he before--- Er, it _was_ a summer evening--- + +GOVERNESS. So you have already said, Oliver. + +OLIVER. I just seem to have forgotten this bit, Miss Pinniger. And he +before--- + +GOVERNESS. Well, what was he before? + +OLIVER (hopefully). Blenheim? Oh no, it was _after_ Blenheim. + +GOVERNESS (wearily). His cottage door. + +OLIVER. Oo, yes. And he before his cottage door was sitting in the +sun. (He clears his throat) Was sitting in the sun. Er--(He coughs +again)--er--- + +GOVERNESS. You have a cough, Oliver. Perhaps the doctor had better see +you when he comes to see Geraldine. + +OLIVER. It was just something tickling my throat, Miss Pinniger. +Er--it was a summer evening. + +GOVERNESS. You haven't learnt it, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Yes, I have, Miss Pinniger, only I can't quite remember it. +And he before his cottage door--- + +GOVERNESS. Is it any good, Geraldine, asking you if you have got any +of your sums right? + +JILL. I've got one, Miss Pinniger . . . nearly right . . . except for some +of the figures. + +GOVERNESS. Well, we shall have to spend more time at our lessons, +that's all. This afternoon--ah--er--- + +(She stands up as AUNT JANE and the DOCTOR come in.) + +AUNT JANE. I'm sorry to interrupt lessons, Miss Pinniger, but I have +brought the Doctor to see Geraldine. (To DOCTOR) You will like her to +go to her room? + +DOCTOR. No, no, dear lady. There is no need. Her pulse--(He feels +it)---dear, dear! Her tongue--(She puts it out)--tut-tut! A milk diet, +plenty of rice-pudding, and perhaps she would do well to go to bed +this afternoon. + +AUNT JANE. I will see to it, doctor. + +JILL (mutinously). I _feel_ quite well. + +DOCTOR (to AUNT JANE). A dangerous symptom. _Plenty_ of rice-pudding. + +GOVERNESS. Oliver was coughing just now. + +OLIVER (to himself). Shut up! + +DOCTOR (turning to OLIVER). Ah! His pulse--(Feels it)--tut-tut! His +tongue--(OLIVER puts it out) Dear, dear! The same treatment, dear +lady, as prescribed in the other case. + +OLIVER (under his breath). Beast! + +AUNT JANE. Castor-oil, liquorice-powder, ammoniated quinine--anything +of that nature, doctor? + +DOCTOR. _As_ necessary, dear lady, _as_ necessary. The system must be +stimulated. Nature must be reinforced. + +AUNT JANE (to GOVERNESS). Which do they dislike least? + +OLIVER and JILL (hastily). Liquorice-powder! + +DOCTOR. Then concentrate on the other two, dear lady. + +AUNT JANE. Thank you, doctor. [They go out. + +GOVERNESS. We will now go on with our lessons. Oliver, you will have +opportunities in your bedroom this afternoon of learning your poetry. +By the way, I had better have that book which you were reading when I +came in just now. + +OLIVER (trying to be surprised). Which book? + +JILL (nobly doing her best to save the situation). Miss Pinniger, if +you're multiplying rods, poles, or perches by nine, does it matter +if--- + +GOVERNESS. I am talking to Oliver, Geraldine. Where is that book, +Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oh, _I_ know the one you mean. I must have put it down +somewhere. (He looks vaguely about the room.) + +GOVERNESS. Perhaps you put it in your desk. + +OLIVER. My desk? + +JILL (going up to MISS PINNIGER with her work). You see, it's all gone +wrong here, and I think I must have multiplied---- (Moving in front of +her as she moves) I think I must have multiplied---- + +(Under cover of this, OLIVER makes a great effort to get the book into +JILL'S desk, but it is no good.) + +GOVERNESS (brushing aside JILL and advancing on OLIVER). Thank you, +_I_ will take it. + +OLIVER (looking at the title). Oh yes, this is the one. + +GOVERNESS. And I will speak to your aunt at _once_ about the behaviour +of both of you. [She goes out. + +OLIVER (gallantly). _I_ don't care. + +JILL. I did try to help you, Oliver. + +OLIVER. You wait. Won't I jolly well bag something of hers one day, +just when she wants it. + +JILL. I'm afraid you'll find the afternoon rather tiring without your +book. What will you do? + +OLIVER. I suppose I shall have to think. + +JILL. What shall you think about? + +OLIVER. I shall think I'm on my desert island. + +JILL. Which desert island? + +OLIVER. The one I always pretend I'm on when I'm thinking. + +JILL. Isn't there any one else on it ever? + +OLIVER. Oo, lots of pirates and Dyaks and cannibals and--other people. + +JILL. What sort of other people? + +OLIVER. I shan't tell you. This is a special think I thought last +night. As soon as I thought of it, I decided to keep it for +(impressively) a moment of great emergency. + +JILL (silenced). Oh! . . . Oliver? + +OLIVER Yes? + +JILL. Let me be on your desert island this time. Because I did try to +help you. + +OLIVER. Well--well---- (Generously) Well, you can if you like. + +JILL. Oh, thank you, Oliver. Won't you tell me what it's about, and +then we can both think it together this afternoon. + +OLIVER. I expect you'll think all sorts of silly things that _never_ +happen on a desert island. + +JILL. I'll try not to, Oliver, if you tell me. + +OLIVER. All right. + +JILL (coming close to him). Go on. + +OLIVER. Well, you see, I've been wrecked, you see, and the ship has +foundered with all hands, you see, and I've been cast ashore on a +desert island, you see. + +JILL. Haven't I been cast ashore too? + +OLIVER. Well, you will be this afternoon, of course. Well, you see, we +land on the island, you see, and it's a perfectly ripping island, you +see, and--and we land on it, you see, and. . . . + +* * * * * + +(But we are getting on too fast. When the good ship crashed upon the +rock and split in twain, it seemed like that all aboard must perish. +Fortunately OLIVER was made of stern mettle. Hastily constructing a +raft and placing the now unconscious JILL upon it, he launched it into +the seething maelstrom of waters and pushed off. Tossed like a +cockle-shell upon the mountainous waves, the tiny craft with its +precious freight was in imminent danger of foundering. But OLIVER was +made of stern mettle. With dauntless courage he rigged a jury-mast, +and placed a telescope to his eye. "Pull for the lagoon, JILL," cried +the dauntless OLIVER, and in another moment. . . .) + +(As the raft glides into the still waters beyond the reef, we can see +it more clearly. Can it be JILL'S bed, with OLIVER in his pyjamas +perched on the rail, and holding up his bath-towel? Does he shorten +sail for a moment to thump his chest and say, "But OLIVER was made of +stern mettle"? Or is it----) + +(But the sun is sinking behind the swamp where the rattlesnakes bask. +For a moment longer the sail gleams like copper in its rays, and +then--fizz-z--we have lost it. See! Is that speck on the inky black +waters the dauntless Oliver? It is. Let us follow to the island and +see what adventures befall him.) + + +SCENE II.--It is the island which we have dreamed about all our lives. +But at present we cannot see it properly, for it is dark. In one of +those tropical darknesses which can be felt rather than seen OLIVER +hands JILL out of the boat. + +OLIVER. Tread carefully, Jill, there are lots of deadly rattlesnakes +about. + +JILL (stepping hastily back into the boat). Oli-ver! + +OLIVER. You hear the noise of their rattles sometimes when the sun is +sinking behind the swamp. (The deadly rattle of the rattlesnake is +heard) There! + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, are they very deadly? Because if they are, I don't +think I shall like your island. + +OLIVER. Those aren't. I always have their teeth taken out when ladies +are coming. Besides, it's daylight now. + +(With a rapidity common in the tropics--although it may just be +OLIVER'S gallantry--the sun climbs out of the sea, and floods the +island, JILL, no longer frightened, steps out of the boat, and they +walk up to the clearing in the middle.) + +JILL (looking about her). Oh, what a lovely island! I think it's +lovely, Oliver. + +OLIVER (modestly). It's pretty decent, isn't it? Won't you lie down? I +generally lie down here and watch the turtles coming out of the sea to +deposit their eggs on the sand. + +JILL (lying down). How many do they de-deposit usually, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oh, three--or a hundred. Just depends how hungry I am. Have a +bull's-eye, won't you? + +JILL (excitedly). Oh, did you bring some? + +OLIVER (annoyed). Bring some? (Brightening up) Oh, you mean from the +wreck? + +JILL (hastily). Yes, from the wreck. I mean besides the axe and the +bag of nails and the gunpowder. + +OLIVER. Couldn't. The ship sank with all hands before I could get +them. But it doesn't matter, because (going up to one of the trees) I +recognise this as the bull's-eye tree. (He picks a couple of +bull's-eyes and gives one to her.) + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, how lovely! Thank you. (She puts it in her mouth.) + +OLIVER (sucking hard). There was nothing but breadfruit trees here the +first time I was marooned on it. Rotten things to have on a decent +island. So I planted a bull's-eye tree, and a barley-sugar-cane grove, +and one or two other things, and made a jolly ripping place of it. + +JILL (pointing). What's that tree over there? + +OLIVER. That one? Rice-pudding tree. + +JILL (getting up indignantly). Oliver! Take me back to the boat at +once. + +OLIVER. I say, shut up, Jill. You didn't think I meant it for _you_, +did you? + +JILL. But there's only you and me on the island. + +OLIVER. What about the domestic animals? I suppose _they've_ got to +eat. + +JILL. Oh, how lovely! Have we got a goat and a parrot, and a--a-- + +OLIVER. Much better than that. Look in that cage there. + +JILL. Oh, is that a cage? I never noticed it. What do I do? + +OLIVER (going to it). Here, I'll show you (He draws the blind, and the +DOCTOR is exposed sitting on a stump of wood and blinking at the +sudden light) What do you think of that? + +JILL. Oliver! + +OLIVER (proudly). I thought of that in bed one night. Spiffing idea, +isn't it? I've got some other ones in the plantation over there. +Awfully good specimens. I feed 'em on rice-pudding. + +JILL. Can this one talk? + +OLIVER. I'm teaching it. (Stirring it up with a stick) Come up there. + +DOCTOR (mumbling). Ninety-nine, ninety-nine . . . + +OLIVER. That's all it can say at present. I'm going to give it a swim +in the lagoon to-morrow. I want to see if there are any sharks. If +there aren't, then we can bathe there afterwards. + +(The DOCTOR shudders.) + +JILL. Have you given it a name yet? I think I should like to call it +Fluffkins. + +OLIVER. Righto! Good night, Fluffkins. Time little doctors were in +bed. (He pulls down the blind.) + +JILL (lying down again). Well, I think it's a lovely island. + +OLIVER (lying beside her). If there's anything you want, you know, +you've only got to say so. Pirates or anything like that. There's a +ginger-beer well if you're thirsty. + +JILL (closing her eyes). I'm quite happy, Oliver, thank you. + +OLIVER (after a pause, a little awkwardly). Jill, you didn't ever want +to marry a pirate, did you? + +JILL (still on her back with her eyes shut). I hadn't thought about it +much, Oliver dear. + +OLIVER. Because I can get you an awfully decent pirate, if you like, +and if I was his brother-in-law it would be ripping. I've often been +marooned with him, of course, but never as his brother-in-law. + +JILL. Why don't you marry his daughter and be his son-in-law? + +OLIVER. He hasn't got a daughter. + +JILL. Well, you could think him one. + +OLIVER. I don't want to. If ever I'm such a silly ass as to marry, +which I'm jolly well not going to be, I shall marry a--a dusky maiden. +Jill, be sporty. All girls have to get married some time. It's +different with men. + +JILL. Very well, Oliver. I don't want to spoil your afternoon. + +OLIVER. Good biz. (He stands up, shuts his eyes and waves his hands +about.) + + [Enter the PIRATE CHIEF. + +PIRATE CHIEF (with a flourish). Gentles, your servant. Commodore +Crookshank, at your service. Better known on the Spanish Main as +One-eared Eric. + +OLIVER. Glad to meet you, Commodore. I'm--er-- Two-toed Thomas, the +Terror of the Dyaks. But you may call me Oliver, if you like. This is +my sister Jill--the Pride of the Pampas. + +PIRATE CHIEF (with another bow). Charmed! + +JILL (politely). Don't mention it, Commodore. + +OLIVER. My sister wants to marry you. Er--carry on. (He moves a little +away from them and lies down.) + +JILL (sitting down and indicating a place beside her). Won't you sit +down, Commodore? + +PIRATE CHIEF. Thank you, madam. The other side if I may. I shall hear +better if you condescend to accept me. (He sits down on the other side +of her.) + +JILL. Oh, I'm so sorry! I was forgetting about your ear. + +PIRATE CHIEF. Don't mention it. A little discussion in the La Plata +river with a Spanish gentleman. At the end of it I was an ear short +and he was a head short. It was considered in the family that I had +won. + +(There is an awkward pause.) + +JILL (shyly). Well, Commodore? + +PIRATE CHIEF. Won't you call me Eric? + +JILL. I am waiting, Eric. + +PIRATE CHIEF. Madam, I am not a marrying man, not to any extent, but +if you would care to be Mrs. Crookshank, I'd undertake on my part to +have the deck swabbed every morning, and to put a polish on the +four-pounder that you could see your pretty face in. + +JILL. Eric, how sweet of you. But I think you must speak to my brother +in the library first. Oli-ver! + +OLIVER (coming up). Hallo! Settled it? + +JILL. It's all settled, Oliver, between Eric and myself, but you will +want to ask him about his prospects, won't you? + +OLIVER. Yes, yes, of course. + +PIRATE. I shall be very glad to tell you anything I can, sir. I think +I may say that I am doing fairly well in my profession. + +OLIVER. What's your ship? A sloop or a frigate? + +PIRATE. A brigantine. + +JILL (excited). Oh, that's what Oliver puts on his hair when he goes +to a party. + +OLIVER (annoyed). Shut up, Jill! A brigantine? Ah yes, a rakish craft, +eh, Commodore? + +PIRATE (earnestly). Extremely rakish. + +OLIVER. And how many pieces of eight have you? + +PIRATE. Nine thousand. + +OLIVER. Ah! (To JILL) What's nine times eight? + +JILL (to herself). Nine times eight. + +OLIVER (to himself). Nine times eight. + +PIRATE (to himself). Nine times eight. + +JILL. Seventy-two. + +PIRATE. I made it seventy-one, but I expect you're right. + +OLIVER. Then you've seventy-two thousand pieces altogether? + +PIRATE. Yes, sir, about that. + +OLIVER. Any doubloons? + +PIRATE. Hundreds of 'em. + +OLIVER. Ingots of gold? + +PIRATE. Lashings of 'em. + +JILL. And he's going to polish up the four-pounder until I can see my +face in it. + +OLIVER. I was just going to ask you about your guns. You've got 'em +fore and aft of course? + +PIRATE. Yes, sir. A four-pounder fore and a half-pounder haft. + +OLIVER (a little embarrassed). And do you ever have brothers-in-law in +your ship? + +PIRATE. Well, I never have had yet, but I have always been looking +about for one. + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, isn't Eric a _nice_ man? + +OLIVER (casually). I suppose the captain's brother-in-law is generally +the first man to board the Spaniard with his cutlass between his +teeth? + +PIRATE. You might almost say always. Many a ship on the Spanish Main +I've had to leave unboarded through want of a brother-in-law. They're +touchy about it somehow. Unless the captain's brother-in-law comes +first they get complaining. + +OLIVER (bashfully). And there's just one other thing. If the +brigantine happened to put in at an island for water, and the +captain's brother-in-law happened--just happened--to be a silly ass +and go and marry a dusky maiden, whom he met on the beach--- + +PIRATE. Bless you, it's always happening to a captain's +brother-in-law. + +OLIVER (in a magnificent manner). Then, Captain Crookshank, you may +take my sister! + +JILL. Thank you, Oliver. + +(It is not every day that one-eared ERIC, that famous chieftain, +marries into the family of the TERROR OF THE DYAKS. Naturally the +occasion is celebrated by the whole pirate crew with a rousing chorus, +followed by a dance in which the dusky maidens of the Island join. At +the end of it, JILL finds herself alone with TUA-HEETA, the Dusky +Princess.) + +JILL (fashionably). I'm so pleased to meet my brother's future wife. +It's so nice of you to come to see me. You will have some tea, won't +you? (She puts out her hand and presses an imaginary bell) I wanted to +see you, because I can tell you so many little things about my +brother, which I think you ought to know. You see, Eric--my husband-- + +TUA-HEETA. Ereec? + +JILL. Yes. I wish you could see him. He's so nice-looking. But I'm +afraid he won't be home to tea. That's the worst of marrying a sailor. +They are away so much. Well, I was telling you about Oliver. I think +it would be better if you knew at once that--he doesn't like +rice-pudding. + +TUA-HEETA. Rice-poodeeng? + +JILL. Yes, he hates it. It is very important that you should remember +that. Then there's another thing--(An untidy looking servant comes in. +Can it be--can it possibly be AUNT JANE? Horrors!) He dislikes--Oh, +there you are, Jane. You've been a very long time answering the bell. + +AUNT JANE. I'm so sorry ma'am, I was just dressing. + +JILL. Excuses, Jane, always excuses. Leave me. Take a week's notice. +(To TUA-HEETA) YOU must excuse my maid. She's very stupid. Tea at +once, Jane. (AUNT JANE sniffs and goes off) What was I saying? Oh yes, +about Oliver. He doesn't care for cod-liver oil in the way that some +men do. You would be wise not to force it on him just at first. . . . +Have you any idea where you are going to live? + +TUA-HEETA. Live? (These dusky maidens are no conversationalists.) + +JILL. I expect Oliver will wish to reside at Hammersmith, so +convenient for the City. You'll like Hammersmith. You'll go to St. +Paul's Church, I expect. The Vicar will be sure to call. (Enter AUNT +JANE with small tea-table.) Ah, here's tea. (To JANE) You're very +slow, Jane. + +AUNT JANE. I'm sorry, ma'am. + +JILL. It's no good being sorry. Take another week's notice. (To +TUA-HEETA) You must forgive my talking to my maid. She wants such a +lot of looking after. (JANE puts down the table) That will do, Jane, +(JANE bumps against the table) Dear, dear, how clumsy you are. What +wages am I giving you now? + +AUNT JANE. A shilling a month, ma'am. + +JILL. Well, we'd better make it ninepence. (JANE goes out in tears.) +Servants are a great nuisance, aren't they? Jane is a peculiarly +stupid person. She used to be aunt to my brother, and I have only +taken her on out of charity. (She pours out from an imaginary tea-pot) +Milk? Sugar? (She puts them in and hands the imaginary cup to +TUA-HEETA.) + +TUA-HEETA. Thank you. (Drinks.) + +JILL (pouring herself a cup). I hope you like China. (She drinks, and +then rings an imaginary bell) Well, as I was saying---(Enter AUNT +JANE.) You can clear away, Jane. + +AUNT JANE. Yes, ma'am. + +(She clears away the tea and TUA-HEETA and--very quickly--herself, as +OLIVER comes back. OLIVER has been discussing boarding-tactics with +his brother-in-law. CAPTAIN CROOKSHANK belongs to the now +old-fashioned Marlinspike School; OLIVER is for well-primed pistols.) + +JILL. Oh, Oliver, I love your island. I've been thinking things all by +myself. You're married to Tua-heeta. You don't mind, do you? + +OLIVER. Not at all, Jill. Make yourself at home. I've just been trying +the doctor in the lagoon. There _were_ sharks there, after all, so +we'll have to find another place for bathing. Oh, and I shot an +elephant. What would you like to do now? + +JILL. Just let's lie here and see what happens. (What happens is that +a cassowary comes along.) Oh, what a lovely bird! Is it an ostrich? + +(The cassowary sniffs the air, puts its beak to the ground and goes +off again.) + +OLIVER. Silly! It's a cassowary, of course. + +JILL. What's a cassowary? + +OLIVER. Jill! Don't you remember the rhyme? + +I wish I were a cassowary + Upon the plains of Timbuctoo +And then I'd eat a missionary-- + And hat and gloves and hymn-book too! + +JILL. Is that all they're for? + +OLIVER. Well, what else would you want them for? + +(A MISSIONARY, pith-helmet, gloves, hymn-book, umbrella, all +complete--creeps cautiously up. He bears a strong likeness to the +curate, the REVEREND SMILAX.) + +MISSIONARY. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, dear friends, but +have you observed a cassowary on this island, apparently looking for +something? + +OLIVER. Yes, we saw one just now. + +MISSIONARY (shuddering). Dear, dear, dear. You didn't happen to ask +him what was the object of his researches? + +JILL. He went so quickly. + +MISSIONARY (coming out of the undergrowth to them). I wonder if you +have ever heard of a little rhyme which apparently attributes to the +bird in question, when residing in the level pastures of Timbuctoo, an +unholy lust for the body and appurtenances thereto of an unnamed +clerical gentleman? + +OLIVER and JILL (shouting together). Yes! Rather! + +MISSIONARY. Dear, dear! Fortunately--I say fortunately--this is not +Timbuctoo! (OLIVER slips away and comes back with a notice-board +"Timbuctoo," which he places at the edge of the trees, unseen by the +MISSIONARY, who goes on talking to JILL) I take it that a cassowary +residing in other latitudes is of a more temperate habit. His +appetite, I venture to suggest, dear lady, would be under better +restraint. That being so, I may perhaps safely---- (He begins to move +off, and comes suddenly up to the notice-board) Dear, dear, dear, +dear, dear! This is terrible! You said, I think, that the--ah--bird in +question was moving in _this_ direction? + +OLIVER. That's right. + +MISSIONARY. Then I shall move, hastily yet with all due precaution, in +_that_ direction. (He walks off on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder +in case the cassowary should reappear. Consequently, he does not +observe the enormous CANNIBAL who has appeared from the trees on the +right, until he bumps into him) I beg your---- (He looks up) Dear, +dear, dear, dear, dear! + +CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. Yes, my dear sir, it is as you say, a beautiful morning. + +CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. But I was just going a little walk--in this direction--if +you will permit me. + +CANNIBAL (threateningly). Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. I have noticed it, my dear sir, I have often made that +very observation to my parishioners. + +CANNIBAL (very threateningly). Boria, boria, boo! + +MISSIONARY. Oh, what's he saying? + +OLIVER. He says it's his birthday to-morrow. + +CANNIBAL. Wurra, wurra wug! + +OLIVER. And will you come to the party? + +MISSIONARY (to CANNIBAL). My dear sir, it is most kind of you to +invite me, but a prior engagement in a different part of the +country--a totally unexpected call upon me in another locality--will +unfortunately---- + +(While he is talking, the cassowary comes back, sidles up to him, and +taps with his beak on the MISSIONARY'S pith-helmet.) + +MISSIONARY (absently, without looking round). Come in! . . . As I was +saying, my dear sir---- (The bird taps again. The MISSIONARY turns +round annoyed) Can't you see I'm engaged----Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, +dear! + +(He clasps the CANNIBAL in his anguish, recoils from the CANNIBAL and +clasps the cassowary. The three of them go off together, OLIVER and +JILL following eagerly behind to see who gets most.) + +(The PIRATES come back, each carrying a small wooden ammunition-box, +and sit round in a semicircle, the PIRATE CHIEF in the middle.) + +PIRATE. Steward! Steward! + +STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. + +CHIEF. Now then, tumble up, my lad. I would carouse. Circulate the dry +ginger. + +STEWARD (hurrying out). Yes, sir, going, sir. + +CHIEF. Look lively, my lad, look lively. + +STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. (He hands round mugs to +them all.) + +CHIEF (rising). Gentlemen! (They all stand up) The crew of the +_Cocktail_ will carouse---- (They all take one step to the right, one +back, and one left--which brings them behind their boxes--and then +place their right feet on the boxes together) One! (They raise their +mugs) Two! (They drink) Three! (They bang down their mugs) Four! (They +wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands) So! . . . Steward! + +STEWARD. Yes, sir, here, sir. + +CHIEF. The carouse is over. + +STEWARD. Yes, sir. (He collects the mugs and goes out.) (The PIRATES +sit down again.) + +CHIEF (addressing the men). Having passed an hour thus in feasting and +song---- + +(Hark! is it the voice of our dear MISS PINNIGER? It is.) + +GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Oliver! Jill! You may get up now and come +down to tea. + +CHIEF. Having, as I say, slept off our carouse--- + +GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Jill! (She comes in) Oh, I beg your pardon, +I--er--- + +(All the PIRATES rise and draw their weapons) + +CHIEF. Pray do not mention it. (Polishing his pistol lovingly) You +were asking--- + +GOVERNESS. I--I was l-looking for a small boy--Oliver-- + +CHIEF. Oliver? (To 1ST PIRATE) Have we any Olivers on board? + +1ST PIRATE. NO, Captain. Only Bath Olivers. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to my brother-in-law, +hight Two-Toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks? + +GOVERNESS. Oh no, no--Just a small boy and his sister--Jill. + +CHIEF (to 2ND PIRATE). Have we any Jills on board? + +2ND PIRATE. No, Captain. Only gills of rum. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to Mrs. Crookshank, +styled the Pride of the Pampas? + +GOVERNESS. Oh no, no, I am so sorry. Perhaps I--er-- + +CHIEF. Wait, woman. (to 6TH PIRATE) Ernest, offer your seat to the +lady. + +(The 6TH PIRATE stands up.) + +GOVERNESS (nervously). Oh please don't trouble, I'm getting out at the +next station--I mean I-- + +6TH PIRATE (thunderously). Sit down! + +(She sits down tremblingly and he stands by her with his pistol.) + +CHIEF. Thank you. (to 1ST PIRATE) Cecil, have you your pencil and +notebook with you? + +1ST PIRATE (producing them). Ay, ay, Captain. + +CHIEF. Then we will cross-examine the prisoner. (to GOVERNESS) Name? + +GOVERNESS. Pinniger. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Pincher. + +CHIEF. Christian names, if any? + +GOVERNESS. Letitia. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Letisher--how would you spell it, Captain? + +CHIEF. Spell it like a sneeze. Age? + +GOVERNESS. Twenty-three. + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Habits--untruthful. Appearance--against her. +Got that? + +1ST PIRATE. Yes, sir. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). And what are you for? + +GOVERNESS. I teach. Oliver and Jill, you know. + +CHIEF. And what do you teach them? + +GOVERNESS. Oh, everything. Arithmetic, French, Geography, History, +Dancing---- + +CHIEF (holding up his hand). A moment! I would take counsel with +Percy. (to 2ND PIRATE) Percy, what shall we ask her in Arithmetic? +(The 2ND PIRATE whispers to him.) Excellent. (To her) If you really +are a teacher as you say, answer me this question. The brigantine +_Cocktail_ is in longitude 40 deg. 39' latitude 22 deg. 50', sailing +closehauled on the port tack at 8 knots in a 15-knot nor'-nor' +westerly breeze--how soon before she sights the Azores? + +GOVERNESS. I--I--I'm afraid I---You see--I---- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Arithmetic rotten. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Arithmetic rotten. + +CHIEF (to 3RD PIRATE). Basil, ask her a question in French. + +3RD PIRATE. What would the mate of a French frigate say if he wanted +to say in French, "Avast there, ye lubbering swab" to a friend like? + +GOVERNESS. Oh, but I hardly--I--- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). French futile. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). French futile. + +CHIEF (to 4TH PIRATE). I don't suppose it's much use, Francis. But try +her in Geography. + +4TH PIRATE. Well now, lady. If you was wanting a nice creek to lay up +cosy in, atween Dago Point and the Tortofitas, where would you run to? + +GOVERNESS. It-run to? But that isn't--of course I--- + +CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Geography ghastly. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Geography ghastly. + +CHIEF (to 5TH PIRATE). Give her a last chance, Mervyn. See if she +knows any history. + +5TH PIRATE. I suppose you couldn't tell me what year it was when old +John Cann took the _Saucy Codfish_ over Black Tooth Reef and laid her +alongside the Spaniard in the harbour there, and up comes the Don in +his nightcap. "Shiver my timbers," he says in Spanish, "but there's +only one man in the whole of the Spanish Main," he says, "and that's +John Cann," he says, "who could---" + +(The GOVERNESS looks dumbly at him.) + +CHIEF. She couldn't. History hopeless. + +1ST PIRATE. History hopeless. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). What else do you teach? + +GOVERNESS. Music, dancing--er--but I don't think--- + +CHIEF. Steward! + +STEWARD (coming in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. + +CHIEF. Concertina. + +STEWARD (going out). Yes, sir, going, sir. + +CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). Can you dance a hornpipe? + +GOVERNESS. No, I--- + +CHIEF. Dancing dubious. + +1ST PIRATE (writing). Dancing dubious. + +STEWARD (coming in). Concertina, sir. + +CHIEF. Give it to the woman. (He takes it to her.) + +GOVERNESS. I'm afraid I---(She produces one ghastly noise and drops +the concertina in alarm.) + +1ST PIRATE (writing). What shall I say, sir? Music mouldy or music +measly? + +CHIEF (standing up). Gentlemen, I think you will agree with me that +the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly incapable of +teaching anybody anything. Twenty-five years, man and boy, I have +sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible exception of a dumb and +half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in '64, I have never met any +one so profoundly lacking in intellect. I propose, therefore, that for +the space of twenty-four hours the woman Pinniger should be +incarcerated in the smuggler's cave, in the company of a black beetle +of friendly temperament. + +GOVERNESS. Mercy! Mercy! + +1ST PIRATE. I should like to second that. + +CHIEF. Those in favour--ay! (They all say "Ay.") Contrary--No! (The +GOVERNESS says "No.") The motion is carried. + +(One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave. The GOVERNESS rushes +to the CHIEF and throws herself at his feet. OLIVER and JILL appear in +the nick of time.) + +OLIVER. A maiden in distress! I will rescue her. (She looks up and +OLIVER recognises her) Oh! Carry on, Commodore. + +(The GOVERNESS is lowered into the cave and the door is shut.) + +CHIEF (to his men). Go, find that black beetle, and having found it, +introduce it circumspectly by the back door. + +PIRATES. Ay, ay, sir. [They go out. + +OLIVER. All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to rescue +somebody. + +JILL (excitedly). Oo, rescue me, Oliver. + +CHIEF (solemnly). Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks, and Pest of +the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one. Wilt fight me +for the wench? (He puts an arm round JILL.) + +OLIVER. I will. + +CHIEF. Swords? + +OLIVER. Pistols. + +CHIEF. At twenty paces? + +OLIVER. Across a handkerchief. + +CHIEF. Done! (Feeling in his pockets) Have you got a handkerchief? I +think I must have left mine on the dressing-table. + +OLIVER (bringing out his and putting it hastily back again). Mine's +rather--Jill, haven't you got one? + +JILL (feeling). I know I had one, but I---- + +CHIEF. This is an ill business. Five-and-thirty duels have I +fought--and never before been delayed for lack of a handkerchief. + +JILL. Ah, here it is. (She produces a very small one and lays it on +the ground. They stand one each side of it, pistols ready.) + +OLIVER. Jill, you must give the word. JILL. Are you ready? + +(The sound of a gong is heard.) + +CHIEF. Listen! (The gong is heard again) The Spanish Fleet is engaged! + +JILL. _I_ thought it was our tea gong. + +CHIEF. Ah, perhaps you're right. + +OLIVER. I say, we oughtn't to miss tea. (Holding out his hand to her) +Come on, Jill. + +CHIEF. But you'll come back? We shall always be waiting here for you +whenever you want us. + +JILL. Yes, we'll come back, won't we, Oliver? + +OLIVER. Oo, rather. + +(The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and Dusky +Maidens, come on. They sing as they wave good-bye to the children who +are making their way to the boat.) + +JILL (from the boat). Good-bye, good-bye. + +OLIVER. Good-bye, you chaps. + +JILL (politely). And thank you all for a very pleasant afternoon. + + [They are all singing as the boat pushes off. Night comes on with + tropical suddenness. The singing dies slowly down. + + + + +ACT III.--FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE HUBBARD FAMILY + + +SCENE I.--The drawing-room of the HUBBARDS before Fame and Prosperity +came to them. It is simply furnished with a deal table and two cane +chairs. + +MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, in faultless evening dress, are at home, MR. +HUBBARD reading a magazine, MRS. HUBBARD with her hands in her lap. +She sighs. + +MR. HUBBARD (impetuously throwing down his magazine). Dearest, you +sighed? + +MRS. HUBBARD (quickly). No, no, Henry. In a luxurious and +well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh? + +MR. HUBBARD. True, dear. Not only is it artistically furnished, as you +say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all things--(he +lifts up the magazine)--a library. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful for. + +MR. HUBBARD. We have indeed. But I am selfish. Would you care to read? +(He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to her.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry. + +(They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs again.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves you. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me. + +MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully). Isabel? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she comes +after Harold? + +MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers). A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I--dear +me, have we got nine already? + +MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly). Darling, say you don't think it's too +many. + +MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it isn't as +if they were real children. + +MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly). Henry! How can you say they are not real? + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they're only the children we thought we'd +like to have if Father Christmas gave us any. + +MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here in the +house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis, pretty Elsie +with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired Frank-- + +MR. HUBBARD (firmly). Darling one, Frank has curly brown hair. It was +an understood thing that you should choose the girls, and _I_ should +choose the boys. When we decided to take--A, B, C, D, E, F--a sixth +child, it was my turn for a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly +brown hair and a fondness for animals. + +MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you're right, dear. Of course it is a little +confusing when you never see your children. + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will give +us some. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our +stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a +diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order +would be something. + +MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the chimney +has not been swept for some years may have something to do with it. Or +he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot help feeling +that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this way he would be +very much annoyed. + +MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I am +standing up in--I mean sitting down in. + +MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of us in +the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening dress. We +are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately cuts us off in +this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go on reading or would +you like to walk up and down the room? Fortunately these simple +pleasures are left to us. + +MRS. HUBBARD. I've finished this page. + +MR. HUBBARD (tearing out one). Have another, my love. (They read for a +little while, until interrupted by a knock at the door.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Some one at the door! Who could it be? + +MR. HUBBARD (getting up). Just make the room look a little more homey, +dear, in case it's any one important. + +(He goes out, leaving her to alter the position of the chairs +slightly.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Well? + +MR. HUBBARD (coming in). A letter. (He opens it.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Quick! + +MR. HUBBARD (whistling with surprise). Father Christmas! An invitation +to Court! (Reading) "Father Christmas at Home, 25th December. +Jollifications, 11.59 P.M." My love, he has found us at last! (They +embrace each other.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry, how gratifying! + +MR. HUBBARD. Yes. (Sadly, after a pause) But we can't go. + +MRS. HUBBARD (sadly). No, I have no clothes. + +MR. HUBBARD. Nor I. + +MRS. HUBBARD. How can I possibly go without a diamond necklace? None +of the Montmorency-Smythe women has ever been to Court without a +diamond necklace. + +MR. HUBBARD. The Hubbards are a proud race. No male Hubbard would +dream of appearing at Court without a gentleman's gold Albert +watch-chain. . . . Besides, there is another thing. There will be many +footmen at Father Christmas's Court, who will doubtless require +coppers pressed into their palms. My honour would be seriously +affected, were I compelled to whisper to them that I had no coppers. + +MRS. HUBBARD. It is very unfortunate. Father Christmas may have +hundreds of presents waiting for us. + +MR. HUBBARD. True. But how would it be to hang up our stockings again +this evening--now that we know he knows we are here? I would suggest +tied on to the door-knocker, to save him the trouble of coming down +the chimney. + +MRS. HUBBARD (excitedly). Henry, I wonder! But of course we will. + +(They begin to take off--the one a sock, the other a stocking.) + +MR. HUBBARD. I almost wish now that my last suit had been a +knickerbocker one. However, we must do what we can with a sock. + +MRS. HUBBARD (holding up her stocking and looking at it a little +anxiously). I hope Father Christmas won't give me a bicycle. A +stocking never sets so well after it has had a bicycle in it. + +MR. HUBBARD (taking it from her). Now, dear, I will go down and put +them in position. Let us hope that fortune will be kind to us. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Let us hope so, darling. And quickly. For (picking up +her page of the magazine) it is a trifle cold. + + [He goes out and she is left reading. + + + +SCENE II.--Outside the house the snow lies deep. The stocking and sock +are tied on to the door-knocker. There is a light in the window. + +A party of carol-singers, with lanterns, come by and halt in the snow +outside the house. + +PETER ABLEWAYS. Friends, are we all assembled? + +JONAS HUMPHREY. Ay, ay, Peter Ableways, assembled and met together in +a congregation, for the purpose of lifting up our voices in joyous +thanksgiving, videlicet the singing of a carol or other wintry melody. + +JENNIFER LING. Keep your breath for your song, Master Humphrey. That +last "Alleluia" of yours was a poor windy thing, lacking grievously in +substance. + +JONAS (sadly). It is so. I never made much of an Alleluia. It is not +in my nature somehow. 'Tis a vain boastful thing an Alleluia. + +MARTHA PORRITT. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are +cold. + +JONAS. What matter the feet, Martha Porritt, if the heart be warm with +loving-kindness and seasonable emotions? + +MARTHA. Well, nothing of me will be warm soon. + +JENNIFER. Ay, let's begin, Peter Ableways, while we carry the tune in +our heads. It is ill searching for the notes in the middle of the +carol, as some singers do. + +PETER. Well spoken, Mistress Jennifer. Now listen all, while I unfold +the nature of the entertainment. _Item_--A carol or birth song to draw +the attention of all folk to the company here assembled and the +occasion celebrated. _Item_--Applause and the clapping of hands. +_Item_--A carol or song of thanksgiving. _Item_--A collection. + +JONAS. An entertainment well devised, Master Ableways, sobeit the +words of the second song remain with me after I am delivered of the +first. + +MARTHA. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are cold. + +PETER. Are we all ready, friends? I will say one--two--three--and at +"three" I pray you all to give it off in a hearty manner from the +chest. One--two-- + +JONAS. Hold, hold, Master Ableways! Does it begin--No, that's the +other one. (JENNIFER whispers the first line to him) Ay, ay--I have it +now--and bursting to get out of me. Proceed, Peter Ableways. + +PETER. One--two--three--(They carol.) + +PETER. Well sung, all. + +HUMPHREY. The applause followed, good Master Peter, as ordained. +Moreover, I have the tune of the second song ready within me. Likewise +a la-la-la or two to replace such words as I have forgotten. + +MARTHA. Don't forget the collection, Master Ableways. + +PETER. Ay, the collection. (He takes off his hat and places it on the +ground.) + +HUMPHREY. Nay, not so fast, Master Peter. It would be ill if the good +folk thought that our success this night were to be estimated by an +empty hat. Place some of our money in it, Master Ableways. Where money +is, money will come. + +JENNIFER. Ay, it makes a pleasing clink. + +PETER. True, Mistress Jennifer. Master Humphrey speaks true. (He pours +some coppers from his pockets into his hat.) + +MARTHA. Are we to go on, Master Ableways? My feet are cold. + +PETER (shaking the hat). So, a warming noise. + +HUMPHREY. To it again, gentles. + +PETER. Are all ready? One--two--three! (They carol.) + +PETER. Well sung, all. + +HUMPHREY. Have you the hat, Master Peter? + +PETER (picking it up). Ay, friend, all is ready. + +(The door opens and MR. HUBBARD appears at the entrance.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Good evening, friends. + +PETER. Good evening, sir. (He holds out the hat.) + +MR. HUBBARD (looking at it). What is this? (PETER shakes it) Aha! +Money! + +PETER. Remember the carol singers, sir. + +MR. HUBBARD (helping himself). My dear friends, I will always remember +you. This is most generous. I shall never forget your kindness. This +is most unexpected. But not the less welcome, not the less--I think +there's a ha'penny down there that I missed--thank you. As I was +saying, unexpected but welcome. I thank you heartily. Good evening, +friends. + + [He goes in and shuts the door. + +PETER (who has been too surprised to do anything but keep his mouth +open). Well! . . . Well! . . . Well, friends, let us to the next house. We +have got all that we can get here. + + [They trail off silently. + +MARTHA (as they go off). Master Ableways! + +PETER. Ay, lass! + +MARTHA. My feet aren't so cold now. + +(But this is to be an exciting night. As soon as they are gone, a +Burglar and a Burglaress steal into view) + +BILL. Wotcher get, Liz? (She holds up a gold watch and chain. He nods +and holds up a diamond necklace) 'Ow's that? + +LIZ (starting suddenly). H'st! + +BILL (in a whisper). What is it? + +LIZ. Copper! + +BILL (desperately). 'Ere, quick, get rid of these. 'Ide 'em in the +snow, or--- + +LIZ. Bill! (He turns round) Look! (She points to the stocking and sock +hanging up) We can come back for 'em as soon as 'e's gone. + +(BILL looks at them, and back at her, and grins. He drops the necklace +into one and the watch into the other. As the POLICEMAN approaches +they strike up, "While shepherds watched their flock by night," with +an air of great enthusiasm.) + +POLICEMAN. Now then, move along there. + +(They move along. The POLICEMAN flashes his light on the door to see +that all is well. The stocking and sock are revealed. He beams +sentimentally at them.) + + +SCENE III.--We are inside the house again. MRS. HUBBARD is still +reading a page of the magazine. In dashes MR. HUBBARD with the sock +and stocking. + +MR. HUBBARD. My darling, what do you think? Father Christmas has sent +you a little present. (He hands her the stocking.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Has he sent you one too? + +MR. HUBBARD (holding up his sock). Observe! + +MRS. HUBBARD. How sweet of him! I wonder what mine is. What is yours, +darling? + +MR. HUBBARD. I haven't looked yet, my love. Perhaps just a few nuts or +something of that sort, with a card attached saying, "To wish you the +old, old wish." We must try not to be disappointed, whatever it is, +darling. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, Henry. After all, it is the kindly thought +which really matters. + +MR. HUBBARD. Certainly. All the same, I hope--Will you look in yours, +dear, first, or shall I? + +MRS. HUBBARD. I think I should like to, darling. (Feeling it) It feels +so exciting. (She brings out a diamond necklace) Henry! + +MR. HUBBARD. My love! (They embrace) Now you will be able to go to +Court. You must say that your husband is unfortunately in bed with a +bad cold. You can tell me all about it when you come home. I shall be +able to amuse myself with--(He is feeling in his sock while talking, +and now brings out the watch and chain.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! My love! + +MR. HUBBARD. A gentleman's gold hunter and Albert watch-chain. My +darling! + +(They put down their presents on the table and embrace each other +again.) + +MRS. HUBBARD. Let's put them on at once, Henry, and see how they suit +us. + +MR. HUBBARD. Allow me, my love. (He fastens her necklace.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (happily). Now I feel really dressed again! Oh, I wish we +had a looking-glass. + +MR. HUBBARD (opening his gold watch). Try in here, my darling. + +MRS. HUBBARD (surveying herself). How perfectly sweet! . . . Now let me +put your watch-chain on for you, dear. (She arranges it for him--HENRY +very proud.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Does it suit me, darling? + +MRS. HUBBARD. You look fascinating, Henry! + +(They strut about the room with an air.) + +MR. HUBBARD (taking out his watch and-looking at it ostentatiously). +Well, well, we ought to be starting. My watch makes it 11.58. (He +holds it to her ear) Hasn't it got a sweet tick? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Sweet! But starting where, Henry? Do you mean we can +really--But you haven't any money. + +MR. HUBBARD. Money? (Taking out a handful) Heaps of it. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Father Christmas? + +MR. HUBBARD. Undoubtedly, my love. Brought round to the front door +just now by some of his messengers. By the way, dear--(indicating the +sock and stocking)--hadn't we better put these on before we start? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course. How silly of me! + +(They sit down and put them on.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Really this is a very handsome watch-chain. + +MRS. HUBBARD. It becomes you admirably, Henry. + +MR. HUBBARD. Thank you, dear. There's just one little point. Father +Christmas is sometimes rather shy about acknowledging the presents he +gives. He hates being thanked. If, therefore, he makes any comment on +your magnificent necklace or my handsome watch-chain, we must say that +they have been in the family for some years. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, dear. (They get up.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Well, now we're ready. + +MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, don't you think we might bring the +children? + +MR. HUBBARD. Of course, dear! How forgetful of me! . . . Children--'shun! +(Listen! Their heels click as they come to attention) Number! (Their +voices--alternate boy and girl, one to nine--are heard) Right _turn_! + +MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, I almost seem to hear them! + +MR. HUBBARD. Are you ready, my love? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, Henry. + +MR. HUBBARD. Quick march! + +(The children are heard tramping off. Very proudly MR. and MRS. +HUBBARD bring up the rear.) + + +SCENE IV.--The Court of FATHER CHRISTMAS. Shall we describe it? No. +But there is everything there which any reasonable person could want, +from ices to catapults. And the decorations, done in candy so that you +can break off a piece whenever you are hungry, are superb. + +1ST USHER (from the back). Father Christmas! + +SEVERAL USHERS (from the front). Father Christmas! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (genially). Good evening, everybody. + +(I ought to have said that there are already some hundreds of people +there, though how some of them got invitations--but, after all, that +is not our business. Wishing to put them quite at their ease, FATHER +CHRISTMAS, who has a very creditable baritone, gives them a song. +After the applause which follows it, he retires to the throne at the +back, and awaits his more important guests. The USHERS take up their +places, one at the entrance, one close to the throne.) + +1ST USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard! (They come in.) + +MR. HUBBARD (pressing twopence into his palm). Thank you, my man, +thank you. + +2ND USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard. + +MR. HUBBARD (handing out another twopence). Not at all, my man, not at +all. + +(MRS. HUBBARD curtsies and MR. HUBBARD bows to FATHER CHRISTMAS.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. I am delighted to welcome you to my Court. How are +you both? + +MR. HUBBARD. Very well, thank you, sir. My wife has a slight cold in +one foot, owing to-- + +MRS. HUBBARD (hastily). A touch of gout, sir, inherited from my +ancestors, the Montmorency-Smythes. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. Dear me, it won't prevent you dancing, I hope? + +MRS. HUBBARD. Oh no, sir. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. That's right. We shall have a few more friends +coming in soon. You have been giving each other presents already, I +see. I congratulate you, madam, on your husband's taste. + +MRS. HUBBARD (touching her necklace). Oh no, this is a very old +heirloom of the Montmorency-Smythe family. + +MR. HUBBARD. An ancestress of Mrs. Hubbard's--a lady-in-waiting at the +Tottenham Court--at the Tudor Court--was fortunate enough to catch the +eye of--er-- + +MRS. HUBBARD. Elizabeth. + +MR. HUBBARD. Queen Elizabeth, and--er-- + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. I see. You are lucky, madam, to have such beautiful +jewels. (Turning to MR. HUBBARD) And this delightful gold Albert +watch-chain-- + +MR. HUBBARD. Presented to an ancestor of mine, Sir Humphrey de +Hubbard, at the battle of--er-- + +MRS. HUBBARD. Agincourt. + +MR. HUBBARD. As you say, dear, Agincourt. By King Richard the--I +should say William the--well, by the King. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How very interesting. + +MR. HUBBARD. Yes. My ancestor clove a scurvy knave from the chaps to +the chine. I don't quite know how you do that, but I gather that he +inflicted some sort of a scratch upon his adversary, and the King +rewarded him with this handsome watch-chain. + +USHERS (announcing). Mr. Robinson Crusoe! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +CRUSOE (bowing). I'm a little late, I'm afraid, sir. My raft was +delayed by adverse gales. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS introduces him to the HUBBARDS, who inform him that +the weather is very seasonable.) + +USHERS. Miss Riding Hood! (She comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +RIDING HOOD (curtseying). I hope I am in time, sir. I had to look in +on my grandmother on the way here. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS makes the necessary introductions.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (to CRUSOE). Do come and see me, Mr. Crusoe. Any Friday. +I should like your advice about my parrot. He's moulting in all the +wrong places. + +MR. HUBBARD (to RED RIDING HOOD). I don't know if you're interested in +wolves at all, Miss Hood. I heard a very good story about one the +other day. (He begins to tell it, but she has hurried away before he +can remember whether it was Thursday or Friday.) + +USHERS. Baron Bluebeard! (He comes in.) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +BLUEBEARD (bowing). I trust you have not been waiting for me, sir. I +had a slight argument with my wife before starting, which delayed me +somewhat. + +(FATHER CHRISTMAS forgives him.) + +USHERS. Princess Goldilocks! + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do? + +GOLDILOCKS (curtseying). I brought the youngest bear with me--do you +mind? (She introduces the youngest bear to FATHER CHRISTMAS and the +other guests) Say, how do you do, darling? (To an USHER) Will you give +him a little porridge, please, and if you have got a nice bed where he +could rest a little afterwards--he gets tired so quickly. + +USHER. Certainly, your Royal Highness. + +(Music begins.) + +GOLDILOCKS (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Are we going to dance? How lovely! + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (to the HUBBARDS). You will dance, won't you? + +MRS. HUBBARD. I think not just at first, thank you. + +GOLDILOCKS (to CRUSOE). Come along! + +CRUSOE. I am a little out of practice--er--but if you don't +mind--er--(He comes.) + +BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). May I have the pleasure? + +MRS. HUBBARD (to RIDING HOOD). Be careful, dear; he has a very bad +reputation. + +RIDING HOOD (to BLUEBEARD). You don't eat people, do you? + +BLUEBEARD (pained by this injustice). Never! + +RIDING HOOD. Oh then, I don't mind. But I do hate being eaten. + +(Now we can't possibly describe the whole dance to you, for in every +corner of the big ballroom couples were revolving and sliding, and +making small talk with each other. So we will just take two specimen +conversations.) + +CRUSOE (nervous, poor man). Princess Goldilocks, may I speak to you on +a matter of some importance to me? + +GOLDILOCKS. I wish you would. + +CRUSOE (looking across at BLUEBEARD and RED RIDING HOOD, who are +revolving close by). Alone. + +GOLDILOCKS (to BLUEBEARD). Do you mind? You can have your turn +afterwards. + +BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). Shall we adjourn to the Buffet? + +RIDING HOOD. Oh, do let's. [They adjourn. + +CRUSOE (bravely). Princess, I am a lonely man. + +GOLDILOCKS (encouragingly). Yes, Robinson? + +CRUSOE. I am not much of a one for society, and I don't quite know how +to put these things, but--er--if you would like to share my island, +I--I should so love to have you there. + +GOLDILOCKS. Oh, Robbie! + +CRUSOE (warming to it). I have a very comfortable house, and a +man-servant, and an excellent view from the south windows, and several +thousands of acres of good rough-shooting, and--oh, do say you'll +come! + +GOLDILOCKS. May I bring my bears with me? + +CRUSOE. Of course! I ought to have said that. I have a great fondness +for animals. + +GOLDILOCKS. How sweet of you! But perhaps I ought to warn you that we +all like porridge. Have you--- + +CRUSOE. I have a hundred acres of oats. + +GOLDILOCKS. Then, Robinson, I am yours. (They embrace) There! Now tell +me--did you make all your clothes yourself? + +CRUSOE (proudly). All of them. + +GOLDILOCKS (going off with him). How wonderful of you! Really you +hardly seem to want a wife. + + [They go out. Now it is the other couple's turn. + +Enter, then, BLUEBEARD and RIDING HOOD + +BLUEBEARD. Perhaps I ought to tell you at once, Miss Riding Hood, that +I have been married before. + +RIDING HOOD. Yes? + +BLUEBEARD. My last wife unfortunately died just before I started out +here this evening. + +RIDING HOOD (calmly). Did you kill her? + +BLUEBEARD (taken aback). I--I--I-- + +RIDING HOOD. Are you quite a nice man, Bluebeard? + +BLUEBEARD. W-what do you mean? I am a very _rich_ man. If you will +marry me, you will live in a wonderful castle, full of everything that +you want. + +RIDING HOOD. That will be rather jolly. + +BLUEBEARD (dramatically) But there is one room into which you must +never go. (Holding up a key) Here is the key of it. (He offers it to +her.) + +RIDING HOOD (indifferently) But if I'm never to go into it, I shan't +want the key. + +BLUEBEARD (upset). You--you _must_ have the key. + +RIDING HOOD. Why? + +BLUEBEARD. The--the others all had it. + +RIDING HOOD (coldly). Bluebeard, you aren't going to talk about your +_other_ wives all the time, are you? + +BLUEBEARD. N--no. + +RIDING HOOD. Then don't be silly. And take this key, and go and tidy +up that ridiculous room of yours, and when it's nice and clean, and +when you've shaved off that absurd beard, perhaps I'll marry you. + +BLUEBEARD (furiously drawing his sword). Madam! + +RIDING HOOD. Don't do it here. You'll want some hot water. + +BLUEBEARD (trying to put his sword back). This is too much, this is-- + +RIDING HOOD. You're putting it in the wrong way round. + +BLUEBEARD (stiffly). Thank you. (He manages to get it in.) + +RIDING HOOD. Well, do you want to marry me? + +BLUEBEARD. Yes! + +RIDING HOOD. Sure? + +BLUEBEARD (admiringly). More than ever. You're the first woman I've +met who hasn't been afraid of me. + +RIDING HOOD (surprised). Are you very alarming? Wolves frighten me +sometimes, but not just silly men. . . . (Giving him her hand) All right +then. But you'll do what I said? + +BLUEBEARD. Beloved one, I will do anything for you. + +(CRUSOE and GOLDILOCKS come back. Probably it will occur to the four +of them to sing a song indicative of the happy family life awaiting +them. On the other hand they may prefer to dance. . . .) + +But enough of this. Let us get on to the great event of the evening. +Ladies and gentlemen, are you all assembled? Then silence, please, for +FATHER CHRISTMAS. + +FATHER CHRISTMAS. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to +see you here at my Court this evening; and in particular my friends +Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, of whom I have been too long neglectful. +However, I hope to make up for it to-night. (To an USHER) Disclose the +Christmas Tree! + +(The Christmas Tree is disclosed, and--what do you think? Children +disguised as crackers are hanging from every branch! Well, I never!) + +FATHER CHRISTMAS (quite calmly). Distribute the presents! + +(An USHER takes down the children one by one and places them in a row, +reading from the labels on them. "MRS. HUBBARD, MR. HUBBARD" +alternately.) + +USHER (handing list to MR. HUBBARD). Here is the nominal roll, sir. + +MR. HUBBARD (looking at it in amazement). What's this? (MRS. HUBBARD +looks over his shoulder) Ada, Bertram, Caroline--My darling one! + +MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Our children at last! Oh, are they all--_all_ +there? + +MR. HUBBARD. We'll soon see, dear. Ada! + +ADA (springing to attention). Father! (She stands at ease.) + +MR. HUBBARD. Bertram! . . . (And so on up to ELSIE) . . . Frank! + +FRANK. Father! + +MR. HUBBARD. There you are, darling, I told you he had curly brown +hair. . . . Gwendoline! (And so on.) + +MRS. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Oh thank you so much. It is sweet +of you. + +MR. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). We are slightly overcome. Do you +mind if we just dance it off. (FATHER CHRISTMAS nods genially.) Come +on, children! + +(He holds out his hands, and he and his wife and the children dance +round in a ring singing, "Here we go round the Christmas Tree, all on +a Christmas evening. . . .") + +(And then--But at this moment JAMES and ROSEMARY and the HUBBARD +children stopped thinking, so of course the play came to an end. And +if there were one or two bits in it which the children didn't quite +understand, that was JAMES'S fault. He never ought to have been +thinking at all, really.) + + + + +MR. PIM PASSES BY + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + + +CHARACTERS + + +GEORGE MARDEN, J.P. +OLIVIA (his wife). +DINAH (his niece). +LADY MARDEN (his aunt). +BRIAN STRANGE. +CARRAWAY PIM. +ANNE. + + + * * * * * + +The first performance of this play in London took place at the New +Theatre on January 5, 1920, with the following cast: + + +George Marden--BEN WEBSTER. +Olivia--IRENE VANBRUGH. +Dinah--GEORGETTE COHAN. +Lady Marden--ETHEL GRIFFIES. +Brian Strange--LESLIE HOWARD. +Carraway Pim--DION BOUCICAULT. +Anne--ETHEL WELLESLEY. + + + + +MR. PIM PASSES BY + +ACT I + + +(The morning-room at Marden House (Buckinghamshire) decided more than +a hundred years ago that it was all right, and has not bothered about +itself since. Visitors to the house have called the result such +different adjectives as "mellow" "old-fashioned," "charming"--even +"baronial" and "antique"; but nobody ever said it was "exciting." +Sometimes OLIVIA wants it to be more exciting, and last week she let +herself go over some new curtains. At present they are folded up and +waiting for her; she still has the rings to put on. It is obvious that +the curtains alone will overdo the excitement; they will have to be +harmonised with a new carpet and cushions. OLIVIA has her eye on just +the things, but one has to go carefully with GEORGE. What was good +enough for his great-great-grandfather is good enough for him. +However, we can trust OLIVIA to see him through it, although it may +take time.) + +(There are two ways of coming into the room; by the open windows +leading from the terrace or by the door. On this pleasant July morning +MR. PIM chooses the latter way--or rather ANNE chooses it for him; and +old MR. PIM, wistful, kindly, gentle, little MR. PIM, living in some +world of his own whither we cannot follow, ambles after her.) + +ANNE. I'll tell Mr. Marden you're here, sir. Mr. Pim, isn't it? + +PIM (coming back to this world). Yes--er--Mr. Carraway Pim. He doesn't +know me, you understand, but if he could just see me for a +moment--er--(He fumbles in his pockets) I gave you that letter? + +ANNE. Yes, sir, I'll give it to him. + +PIM (bringing out a letter which is not the one he was looking for, +but which reminds him of something else he has forgotten). Dear me! + +ANNE. Yes, sir? + +PIM. I ought to have sent a telegram, but I can do it on my way back. +You have a telegraph office in the village? + +ANNE. Oh yes, sir. If you turn to the left when you get outside the +gates, it isn't more than a hundred yards down the hill. + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. Very stupid of me to have forgotten. + + [ANNE goes out. + +(MR. PIM wanders about the room humming to himself, and looking +vaguely at the pictures. He has his back to the door as DINAH comes +in. She is nineteen, very pretty, very happy, and full of boyish high +spirits and conversation.) + +DINAH. Hullo! + +PIM (turning round). Ah, good morning, Mrs. Marden. You must forgive +my--er-- + +DINAH. Oh I say, I'm not Mrs. Marden. I'm Dinah. + +PIM (with a bow). Then I will say, Good morning, Miss Diana. + +DINAH (reproachfully). Now, look here, if you and I are going to be +friends you mustn't do that. Dinah, _not_ Diana. Do remember it, +there's a good man, because I get so tired of correcting people. Have +you come to stay with us? + +PIM. Well no, Miss--er--Dinah. + +DINAH (nodding). That's right. I can see I shan't have to speak to +_you_ again. Now tell me _your_ name, and I bet you I get it right +first time. And do sit down. + +PIM (sitting down). Thank you. My name is--er--Pim, Carraway Pim-- + +DINAH. Pim, that's easy. + +PIM. And I have a letter of introduction to your father-- + +DINAH. Oh no; now you're going wrong again, Mr. Pim. George isn't my +father; he's my uncle. _Uncle_ George--he doesn't like me calling him +George. Olivia doesn't mind--I mean she doesn't mind being called +Olivia, but George is rather touchy. You see, he's been my guardian +since I was about two, and then about five years ago he married a +widow called Mrs. Telworthy--that's Olivia--so she became my Aunt +Olivia, only she lets me drop the Aunt. Got that? + +PIM (a little alarmed). I--I think so, Miss Marden. + +DINAH (admiringly). I say, you _are_ quick, Mr. Pim. Well, if you take +my advice, when you've finished your business with George, you will +hang about a bit and see if you can't see Olivia. She's simply +devastating. I don't wonder George fell in love with her. + +PIM. It's only the merest matter of business--just a few minutes with +your uncle--I'm afraid I shall hardly-- + +DINAH. Well, you must please yourself, Mr. Pim. I'm just giving you a +friendly word of advice. Naturally, I was awfully glad to get such a +magnificent aunt, because, of course, marriage _is_ rather a toss up, +isn't it, and George might have gone off with anybody. It's different +on the stage, where guardians always marry their wards, but George +couldn't marry _me_ because I'm his niece. Mind you, I don't say that +I should have had him, because between ourselves he's a little bit +old-fashioned. + +PIM. So he married--er--Mrs. Marden instead. + +DINAH. Mrs. Telworthy--don't say you've forgotten already, just when +you were getting so good at names. Mrs. Telworthy. You see, Olivia +married the Telworthy man and went to Australia with him, and he drank +himself to death in the bush, or wherever you drink yourself to death +out there, and Olivia came home to England, and met my uncle, and he +fell in love with her and proposed to her, and he came into my room +that night--I was about fourteen--and turned on the light and said, +"Dinah, how would you like to have a beautiful aunt of your very own?" +And I said: "Congratulations, George." That was the first time I +called him George. Of course, I'd seen it coming for _weeks_. +Telworthy, isn't it a funny name? + +PIM. Very singular. From Australia, you say? + +DINAH. Yes, I always say that he's probably still alive, and will turn +up here one morning and annoy George, because that's what first +husbands always do in books, but I'm afraid there's not much chance. + +PIM (shocked). Miss Marden! + +DINAH. Well, of course, I don't really _want_ it to happen, but it +_would_ be rather exciting, wouldn't it? However, things like that +never seem to occur down here, somehow. There was a hay-rick burnt +last year about a mile away, but that isn't quite the same thing, is +it? + +PIM. No, I should say that that was certainly different. + +DINAH. Of course, something very, very wonderful did happen last +night, but I'm not sure if I know you well enough---- (She looks at +him hesitatingly.) + +PIM (uncomfortably). Really, Miss Marden, I am only a--a passer-by, +here to-day and gone to-morrow. You really mustn't---- + +DINAH. And yet there's something about you, Mr. Pim, which inspires +confidence. The fact is--(in a stage whisper)--I got engaged last +night! + +PIM. Dear me, let me congratulate you. + +DINAH. I expect that's why George is keeping you such a long time. +Brian, my young man, the well-known painter--only nobody has ever +heard of him--he's smoking a pipe with George in the library and +asking for his niece's hand. Isn't it exciting? You're really rather +lucky, Mr. Pim--I mean being told so soon. Even Olivia doesn't know +yet. + +PIM (getting up). Yes, yes. I congratulate you, Miss Marden. Perhaps +it would be better---- + + [ANNE comes in. + +ANNE. Mr. Marden is out at the moment, sir---- Oh, I didn't see you, +Miss Dinah. + +DINAH. It's all right, Anne. _I'm_ looking after Mr. Pim. + +ANNE. Yes, Miss. + + [She goes out. + +DINAH (excitedly). That's me. They can't discuss me in the library +without breaking down, so they're walking up and down outside, and +slashing at the thistles in order to conceal their emotion. _You_ +know. I expect Brian---- + +PIM (looking at his watch). Yes, I think, Miss Marden, I had better go +now and return a little later. I have a telegram which I want to send, +and perhaps by the time I came back---- + +DINAH. Oh, but how disappointing of you, when we were getting on +together so nicely. And it was just going to be your turn to tell me +all about _your_self. + +PIM. I have really nothing to tell, Miss Marden. I have a letter of +introduction to Mr. Marden, who in turn will give me, I hope, a letter +to a certain distinguished man whom it is necessary for me to meet. +That is all. (Holding out his hand) And now, Miss Marden---- + +DINAH. Oh, I'll start you on your way to the post office. I want to +know if you're married, and all that sort of thing. You've got heaps +to tell me, Mr. Pim. Have you got your hat? That's right. Then +we'll--hullo, here's Brian. + +(BRIAN STRANGE comes in at the windows. He is what GEORGE calls a +damned futuristic painter-chap, aged twenty-four. To look at, he is a +very pleasant boy, rather untidily dressed.) + +BRIAN (nodding). How do you do? + +DINAH (seizing him). Brian, this is Mr. Pim. Mr. Carraway Pim. He's +been telling me all about himself. It's so interesting. He's just +going to send a telegram, and then he's coming back again. Mr. Pim, +this is Brian--_you_ know. + +BRIAN (smiling and shaking hands). How do you do? + +DINAH (pleadingly). You _won't_ mind going to the post office by +yourself, will you, because, you see, Brian and I--(she looks lovingly +at BRIAN). + +PIM (because they are so young). Miss Dinah and Mr.--er--Brian, I have +only come into your lives for a moment, and it is probable that I +shall now pass out of them for ever, but you will allow an old man---- + +DINAH. Oh, not old! + +PIM (chuckling happily). Well, a middle-aged man--to wish you both +every happiness in the years that you have before you. Good-bye, +good-bye. + + [He disappears gently through the windows. + +DINAH. Brian, he'll get lost if he goes that way. + +BRIAN (going to the windows and calling after him). Round to the left, +sir. . . . That's right. (He comes back into the room) Rum old bird. Who +is he? + +DINAH. Darling, you haven't kissed me yet. + +BRIAN (taking her in his arms). I oughtn't to, but then one never +ought to do the nice things. + +DINAH. Why oughtn't you? + +(They sit on the sofa together.) + +BRIAN. Well, we said we'd be good until we'd told your uncle and aunt +all about it. You see, being a guest in their house---- + +DINAH. But, darling child, what _have_ you been doing all this morning +_except_ telling George? + +BRIAN. _Trying_ to tell George. + +DINAH (nodding). Yes, of course, there's a difference. + +BRIAN. I think he guessed there was something up, and he took me down +to see the pigs--he said he had to see the pigs at once--I don't know +why; an appointment perhaps. And we talked about pigs all the way, and +I couldn't say, "Talking about pigs, I want to marry your niece----" + +DINAH (with mock indignation). Of course you couldn't. + +BRIAN. No. Well, you see how it was. And then when we'd finished +talking about pigs, we started talking _to_ the pigs---- + +DINAH (eagerly). Oh, _how_ is Arnold? + +BRIAN. The little black-and-white one? He's very jolly, I believe, but +naturally I wasn't thinking about him much. I was wondering how to +begin. And then Lumsden came up, and wanted to talk pig-food, and the +atmosphere grew less and less romantic, and--and I gradually drifted +away. + +DINAH. Poor darling. Well, we shall have to approach him through +Olivia. + +BRIAN. But I always wanted to tell her first; she's so much easier. +Only you wouldn't let me. + +DINAH. That's _your_ fault, Brian. You would tell Olivia that she +ought to have orange-and-black curtains. + +BRIAN. But she _wants_ orange-and-black curtains. + +DINAH. Yes, but George says he's not going to have any futuristic +nonsense in an honest English country house, which has been good +enough for his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather, +and--and all the rest of them. So there's a sort of strained feeling +between Olivia and George just now, and if Olivia were to--sort of +recommend you, well, it wouldn't do you much good. + +BRIAN (looking at her). I see. Of course I know what _you_ want, +Dinah. + +DINAH. What do I want? + +BRIAN. You want a secret engagement, and notes left under door-mats, +and meetings by the withered thorn, when all the household is asleep. +_I_ know you. + +DINAH. Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered +thorns. + +BRIAN. Well, I'm not going to have it. + +DINAH (childishly). Oh, George! Look at us being husbandy! + +BRIAN. You babe! I adore you. (He kisses her and holds her away from +him and looks at her) You know, you're rather throwing yourself away +on me. Do you mind? + +DINAH. Not a bit. + +BRIAN. We shall never be rich, but we shall have lots of fun, and meet +interesting people, and feel that we're doing something worth doing, +and not getting paid nearly enough for it, and we can curse the +Academy together and the British Public, and--oh, it's an exciting +life. + +DINAH (seeing it). I shall love it. + +BRIAN. I'll make you love it. You shan't be sorry, Dinah. + +DINAH. You shan't be sorry either, Brian. + +BRIAN (looking at her lovingly). Oh, I know I shan't. . . . What will +Olivia think about it? Will she be surprised? + +DINAH. She's never surprised. She always seems to have thought of +things about a week before they happen. George just begins to get hold +of them about a week _after_ they've happened. (Considering him) After +all, there's no reason why George _shouldn't_ like you, darling. + +BRIAN. I'm not his sort, you know. + +DINAH. You're more Olivia's sort. Well, we'll tell Olivia this +morning. + +OLIVIA (coming in). And what are you going to tell Olivia this +morning? (She looks at them with a smile) Oh, well, I think I can +guess. + +(Shall we describe OLIVIA? But you will know all about her before the +day is over.) + +DINAH (jumping up). Olivia, darling! + +BRIAN (following). Say you understand, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Mrs. Marden, I am afraid, is a very dense person, Brian, but I +think if you asked Olivia if she understood---- + +BRIAN. Bless you, Olivia. I knew you'd be on our side. + +DINAH. Of course she would. + +OLIVIA. I don't know if it's usual to kiss an aunt-in-law, Brian, but +Dinah is such a very special sort of niece that--(she inclines her +cheek and BRIAN kisses it). + +DINAH. I say, you _are_ in luck to-day, Brian. + +OLIVIA (going over to her chair by the work-table and getting to +business with the curtains) And how many people have been told the +good news? + +BRIAN. Nobody yet. + +DINAH. Except Mr. Pim. + +BRIAN. Oh, does _he_-- + +OLIVIA. Who's Mr. Pim? + +DINAH. Oh, he just happened--I say, are those _the_ curtains? Then +you're going to have them after all? + +OLIVIA (with an air of surprise). After all what? But I decided on +them long ago. (to BRIAN) You haven't told George yet? + +BRIAN. I began to, you know, but I never got any farther than +"Er--there's just--er--" + +DINAH. George _would_ talk about pigs all the time. + +OLIVIA. Well, I suppose you want me to help you. + +DINAH. Do, darling. + +BRIAN. It would be awfully decent of you. Of course, I'm not quite his +sort really-- + +DINAH. You're _my_ sort. + +BRIAN. But I don't think he objects to me, and-- + +(GEORGE comes in, a typical, narrow-minded, honest country gentleman +of forty odd.) + +GEORGE (at the windows). What's all this about a Mr. Pim? (He kicks +some of the mud off his boots) Who is he? Where is he? I had most +important business with Lumsden, and the girl comes down and cackles +about a Mr. Pim, or Ping, or something. Where did I put his card? +(Bringing it out) Carraway Pim. Never heard of him in my life. + +DINAH. He said he had a letter of introduction, Uncle George. + +GEORGE. Oh, _you_ saw him, did you? Yes, that reminds me, there _was_ +a letter--(he brings it out and reads it). + +DINAH. He had to send a telegram. He's coming back. + +OLIVIA. Pass me those scissors, Brian. + +BRIAN. These? (He picks them up and comes close to her.) + +OLIVIA. Thank you. (She indicates GEORGE'S back. "Now?" says BRIAN +with his eyebrows. She nods.) + +GEORGE (reading). Ah well, a friend of Brymer's. Glad to oblige him. +Yes, I know the man he wants. Coming back, you say, Dinah? Then I'll +be going back. Send him down to the farm, Olivia, when he comes. (to +BRIAN) Hallo, what happened to _you_? + +OLIVIA. Don't go, George, there's something we want to talk about. + +GEORGE. Hallo, what's this? + +BRIAN (to OLIVIA). Shall I----? + +OLIVIA. Yes. + +BRIAN (stepping out). I've been wanting to tell you all this morning, +sir, only I didn't seem to have an opportunity of getting it out. + +GEORGE. Well, what is it? + +BRIAN. I want to marry Dinah, sir. + +GEORGE. You want to marry Dinah? God bless my soul! + +DINAH (rushing to him and putting her cheek against his coat). Oh, do +say you like the idea, Uncle George. + +GEORGE. Like the idea! Have you heard of this nonsense, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. They've just this moment told me, George. I think they would +be happy together. + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). And what do you propose to be happy together _on_? + +BRIAN. Well, of course, it doesn't amount to much at present, but we +shan't starve. + +DINAH. Brian got fifty pounds for a picture last March! + +GEORGE (a little upset by this). Oh! (Recovering gamely) And how many +pictures have you sold since? + +BRIAN. Well, none, but-- + +GEORGE. None! And I don't wonder. Who the devil is going to buy +pictures with triangular clouds and square sheep? And they call that +Art nowadays! Good God, man, (waving him to the windows) go outside +and _look_ at the clouds! + +OLIVIA. If he draws round clouds in future, George, will you let him +marry Dinah? + +GEORGE. What--what? Yes, of course, you _would_ be on his side--all +this Futuristic nonsense. I'm just taking these clouds as an example. +I suppose I can see as well as any man in the county, and I say that +clouds _aren't_ triangular. + +BRIAN. After all, sir, at my age one is naturally experimenting, and +trying to find one's (with a laugh)--well, it sounds priggish, but +one's medium of expression. I shall find out what I want to do +directly, but I think I shall always be able to earn enough to live +on. Well, I have for the last three years. + +GEORGE. I see, and now you want to experiment with a wife, and you +propose to start experimenting with _my_ niece? + +BRIAN (with a shrug). Well, of course, if you-- + +OLIVIA. You could help the experiment, darling, by giving Dinah a good +allowance until she's twenty-one. + +GEORGE. Help the experiment! I don't _want_ to help the experiment. + +OLIVIA (apologetically). Oh, I thought you did. + +GEORGE. You will talk as if I was made of money. What with taxes +always going up and rents always going down, it's as much as we can do +to rub along as we are, without making allowances to everybody who +thinks she wants to get married. (to BRIAN) And that's thanks to you, +my friend. + +BRIAN (surprised) To me? + +OLIVIA. You never told me, darling. What's Brian been doing? + +DINAH (indignantly). He hasn't been doing anything. + +GEORGE. He's one of your Socialists who go turning the country upside +down. + +OLIVIA. But even Socialists must get married sometimes. + +GEORGE. I don't see any necessity. + +OLIVIA. But you'd have nobody to damn after dinner, darling, if they +all died out. + +BRIAN. Really, sir, I don't see what my politics and my art have got +to do with it. I'm perfectly ready not to talk about either when I'm +in your house, and as Dinah doesn't seem to object to them-- + +DINAH. I should think she doesn't. + +GEORGE. Oh, you can get round the women, I daresay. + +BRIAN. Well, it's Dinah I want to marry and live with. So what it +really comes to is that you don't think I can support a wife. + +GEORGE. Well, if you're going to do it by selling pictures, I don't +think you can. + +BRIAN. All right, tell me how much you want me to earn in a year, and +I'll earn it. + +GEORGE (hedging). It isn't merely a question of money. I just mention +that as one thing--one of the important things. In addition to that, I +think you are both too young to marry. I don't think you know your own +minds, and I am not at all persuaded that, with what I venture to call +your outrageous tastes, you and my niece will live happily together. +Just because she thinks she loves you, Dinah may persuade herself now +that she agrees with all you say and do, but she has been properly +brought up in an honest English country household, and--er--she--well, +in short, I cannot at all approve of any engagement between you. +(Getting up) Olivia, if this Mr.--er--Pim comes, I shall be down at +the farm. You might send him along to me. + +(He walks towards the windows.) + +BRIAN (indignantly). Is there any reason why I shouldn't marry a girl +who has been properly brought up? + +GEORGE. I think you know my views, Strange. + +OLIVIA. George, wait a moment, dear. We can't quite leave it like +this. + +GEORGE. I have said all I want to say on the subject. + +OLIVIA. Yes, darling, but I haven't begun to say all that _I_ want to +say on the subject. + +GEORGE. Of course, if you have anything to say, Olivia, I will listen +to it; but I don't know that this is quite the time, or that you have +chosen--(looking darkly at the curtains)--quite the occupation likely +to--er--endear your views to me. + +DINAH (mutinously). I may as well tell you, Uncle George, that _I_ +have got a good deal to say, too. + +OLIVIA. I can guess what you are going to say, Dinah, and I think you +had better keep it for the moment. + +DINAH (meekly). Yes, Aunt Olivia. + +OLIVIA. Brian, you might take her outside for a walk. I expect you +have plenty to talk about. + +GEORGE. Now mind, Strange, no love-making. I put you on your honour +about that. + +BRIAN. I'll do my best to avoid it, sir. + +DINAH (cheekily). May I take his arm if we go up a hill? + +OLIVIA. I'm sure you'll know how to behave--both of you. + +BRIAN. Come on, then, Dinah. + +DINAH. Righto. + +GEORGE (as they go). And if you do see any clouds, Strange, take a +good look at them. (He chuckles to himself) Triangular clouds--I never +heard of such nonsense. (He goes back to his chair at the +writing-table) Futuristic rubbish. . . . Well, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Well, George? + +GEORGE. What are you doing? + +OLIVIA. Making curtains, George. Won't they be rather sweet? Oh, but I +forgot--you don't like them. + +GEORGE. I don't like them, and what is more, I don't mean to have them +in my house. As I told you yesterday, this is the house of a simple +country gentleman, and I don't want any of these new-fangled ideas in +it. + +OLIVIA. Is marrying for love a new-fangled idea? + +GEORGE. We'll come to that directly. None of you women can keep to the +point. What I am saying now is that the house of my fathers and +forefathers is good enough for me. + +OLIVIA. Do you know, George, I can hear one of your ancestors saying +that to his wife in their smelly old cave, when the new-fangled idea +of building houses was first suggested. "The Cave of my Fathers is--" + +GEORGE. That's ridiculous. Naturally we must have progress. But that's +just the point. (Indicating the curtains) I don't call this sort of +thing progress. It's--ah--retrogression. + +OLIVIA. Well, anyhow, it's pretty. + +GEORGE. There I disagree with you. And I must say once more that I +will not have them hanging in my house. + +OLIVIA. Very well, George. (But she goes on working.) + +GEORGE. That being so, I don't see the necessity of going on with +them. + +OLIVIA. Well, I must do something with them now I've got the material. +I thought perhaps I could sell them when they're finished--as we're so +poor. + +GEORGE. What do you mean--so poor? + +OLIVIA. Well, you said just now that you couldn't give Dinah an +allowance because rents had gone down. + +GEORGE (annoyed). Confound it, Olivia! Keep to the point! We'll talk +about Dinah's affairs directly. We're discussing our own affairs at +the moment. + +OLIVIA. But what is there to discuss? + +GEORGE. Those ridiculous things. + +OLIVIA. But we've finished that. You've said you wouldn't have them +hanging in your house, and I've said, "Very well, George." Now we can +go on to Dinah and Brian. + +GEORGE (shouting). But put these beastly things away. + +OLIVIA (rising and gathering up the curtains). Very well, George. (She +puts them away, slowly, gracefully. There is an uncomfortable silence. +Evidently somebody ought to apologise.) + +GEORGE (realising that he is the one). Er--look here, Olivia, old +girl, you've been a jolly good wife to me, and we don't often have +rows, and if I've been rude to you about this--lost my temper a bit +perhaps, what?--I'll say I'm sorry. May I have a kiss? + +OLIVIA (holding up her face). George, darling! (He kisses her.) Do you +love me? + +GEORGE. You know I do, old girl. + +OLIVIA. As much as Brian loves Dinah? + +GEORGE (stiffly). I've said all I want to say about that. (He goes +away from her.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, but there must be lots you want to say--and perhaps don't +like to. Do tell me, darling. + +GEORGE. What it comes to is this. I consider that Dinah is too young +to choose a husband for herself, and that Strange isn't the husband I +should choose for her. + +OLIVIA. You were calling him Brian yesterday. + +GEORGE. Yesterday I regarded him as a boy, now he wants me to look +upon him as a man. + +OLIVIA. He's twenty-four. + +GEORGE. And Dinah's nineteen. Ridiculous! + +OLIVIA. If he'd been a Conservative, and thought that clouds were +round, I suppose he'd have seemed older, somehow. + +GEORGE. That's a different point altogether. That has nothing to do +with his age. + +OLIVIA (innocently). Oh, I thought it had. + +GEORGE. What I am objecting to is these ridiculously early marriages +before either party knows its own mind, much less the mind of the +other party. Such marriages invariably lead to unhappiness. + +OLIVIA. Of course, _my_ first marriage wasn't a happy one. + +GEORGE. As you know, Olivia, I dislike speaking about your first +marriage at all, and I had no intention of bringing it up now, but +since you mention it--well, that is a case in point. + +OLIVIA (looking back at it). When I was eighteen, I was in love. Or +perhaps I only thought I was, and I don't know if I should have been +happy or not if I had married him. But my father made me marry a man +called Jacob Telworthy; and when things were too hot for him in +England--"too hot for him"--I think that was the expression we used in +those days--then we went to Australia, and I left him there, and the +only happy moment I had in all my married life was on the morning when +I saw in the papers that he was dead. + +GEORGE (very uncomfortable). Yes, yes, my dear, I know. You must have +had a terrible time. I can hardly bear to think about it. My only hope +is that I have made up to you for it in some degree. But I don't see +what bearing it has upon Dinah's case. + +OLIVIA. Oh, none, except that _my_ father _liked_ Jacob's political +opinions and his views on art. I expect that that was why he chose him +for me. + +GEORGE. You seem to think that I wish to choose a husband for Dinah. I +don't at all. Let her choose whom she likes as long as he can support +her and there's a chance of their being happy together. Now, with +regard to this fellow-- + +OLIVIA. You mean Brian? + +GEORGE. He's got no money, and he's been brought up in quite a +different way from Dinah. Dinah may be prepared to believe +that--er--all cows are blue, and that--er--waves are square, but she +won't go on believing it for ever. + +OLIVIA. Neither will Brian. + +GEORGE. Well, that's what I keep telling him, only he won't see it. +Just as I keep telling you about those ridiculous curtains. It seems +to me that I am the only person in the house with any eyesight left. + +OLIVIA. Perhaps you are, darling; but you must let us find out our own +mistakes for ourselves. At any rate, Brian is a gentleman; he loves +Dinah, Dinah loves him; he's earning enough to support himself, and +you are earning enough to support Dinah. I think it's worth risking, +George. + +GEORGE (stiffly). I can only say the whole question demands much more +anxious thought than you seem to have given it. You say that he is a +gentleman. He knows how to behave, I admit; but if his morals are as +topsy-turvy as his tastes and--er--politics, as I've no doubt they +are, then--er--In short, I do _not_ approve of Brian Strange as a +husband for my niece and ward. + +OLIVIA (looking at him thoughtfully). You _are_ a curious mixture, +George. You were so very unconventional when you married me, and +you're so very conventional when Brian wants to marry Dinah. . . . George +Marden to marry the widow of a convict! + +GEORGE. Convict! What do you mean? + +OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy, convict--I forget his number--surely I told +you all this, dear, when we got engaged? + +GEORGE. Never! + +OLIVIA. I told you how he carelessly put the wrong signature to a +cheque for a thousand pounds in England; how he made a little mistake +about two or three companies he'd promoted in Australia; and how-- + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, but you never told me he was _convicted_! + +OLIVIA. What difference does it make? + +GEORGE. My dear Olivia, if you can't see that--a convict! + +OLIVIA. So, you see, we needn't be too particular about our niece, +need we? + +GEORGE. I think we had better leave your first husband out of the +conversation altogether. I never wished to refer to him; I never wish +to hear about him again. I certainly had not realised that he was +actually--er--_convicted_ for his--er-- + +OLIVIA. Mistakes. + +GEORGE. Well, we needn't go into that. As for this other matter, I +don't for a moment take it seriously. Dinah is an exceptionally pretty +girl, and young Strange is a good-looking boy. If they are attracted +to each other, it is a mere outward attraction which I am convinced +will not lead to any lasting happiness. That must be regarded as my +last word in the matter, Olivia. If this Mr.--er--what was his name, +comes, I shall be down at the farm. + + [He goes out by the door. + +(Left alone, OLIVIA brings out her curtains again, and gets calmly to +work upon them.) + +(DINAH and BRIAN come in by the windows.) + +DINAH. Finished? + +OLIVIA. Oh no, I've got all these rings to put on. + +DINAH. I meant talking to George. + +BRIAN. We walked about outside-- + +DINAH. Until we heard him _not_ talking to you any more-- + +BRIAN. And we didn't kiss each other once. + +DINAH. Brian was very George-like. He wouldn't even let me tickle the +back of his neck. (She goes up suddenly to OLIVIA and kneels by her +and kisses her) Darling, being George-like is a very nice thing to +be--I mean a nice thing for other people to be--I mean--oh, you know +what I mean. But say that he's going to be decent about it. + +OLIVIA. Of course he is, Dinah. + +BRIAN. You mean he'll let me come here as--as-- + +DINAH. As my young man? + +OLIVIA. Oh, I think so. + +DINAH. Olivia, you're a wonder. Have you really talked him round? + +OLIVIA. I haven't said anything yet. But I daresay I shall think of +something. + +DINAH (disappointedly). Oh! + +BRIAN (making the best of it). After all, Dinah, I'm going back to +London to-morrow-- + +OLIVIA. You can be good for one more day, Dinah, and then when Brian +isn't here, we'll see what we can do. + +DINAH. Yes, but I didn't want him to go back to-morrow. + +BRIAN (sternly). Must. Hard work before me. Earn thousands a year. +Paint the Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey, life-size, including chains +of office; paint slice of haddock on plate. Copy Landseer for old +gentleman in Bayswater. Design antimacassar for middle-aged sofa in +Streatham. Earn a living for you, Dinah. + +DINAH (giggling). Oh, Brian, you're heavenly. What fun we shall have +when we're married. + +BRIAN (stiffly). Sir Brian Strange, R.A., if you please, Miss Marden. +Sir Brian Strange, R.A., writes: "Your Sanogene has proved a most +excellent tonic. After completing the third acre of my Academy picture +'The Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey' I was completely exhausted, but +one bottle of Sanogene revived me, and I finished the remaining seven +acres at a single sitting." + +OLIVIA (looking about her). Brian, find my scissors for me. + +BRIAN. Scissors. (Looking for them) Sir Brian Strange, R.A., looks for +scissors. (Finding them) Aha! Once more we must record an unqualified +success for the eminent Academician. Your scissors. + +OLIVIA. Thank you so much. + +DINAH. Come on, Brian, let's go out. I feel open-airy. + +OLIVIA. Don't be late for lunch, there's good people. Lady Marden is +coming. + +DINAH. Aunt Juli-ah! Help! (She faints in BRIAN'S arms) That means a +clean pinafore. Brian, you'll jolly well have to brush your hair. + +BRIAN (feeling it). I suppose there's no time now to go up to London +and get it cut? + + [Enter ANNE, followed by PIM. + +ANNE. Mr. Pim! + +DINAH (delighted). Hullo, Mr. Pim! Here we are again! You can't get +rid of us so easily, you see. + +PIM. I--er--dear Miss Marden-- + +OLIVIA. How do you do, Mr. Pim? I can't get up, but do come and sit +down. My husband will be here in a minute. Anne, send somebody down to +the farm-- + +ANNE. I think I heard the Master in the library, madam. + +OLIVIA. Oh, will you tell him then? + +ANNE. Yes, madam. + + [ANNE goes out. + +OLIVIA. You'll stay to lunch, of course, Mr. Pim? + +DINAH. Oh, do! + +PIM. It's very kind of you, Mrs. Marden, but-- + +DINAH. Oh, you simply must, Mr. Pim. You haven't told us half enough +about yourself yet. I want to hear all about your early life. + +OLIVIA. Dinah! + +PIM. Oh, we are almost, I might say, old friends, Mrs. Marden. + +DINAH. Of course we are. He knows Brian, too. There's more in Mr. Pim +than you think. You _will_ stay to lunch, won't you? + +PIM. It's very kind of you to ask me, Mrs. Marden, but I am lunching +with the Trevors. + +OLIVIA. Oh, well, you must come to lunch another day. + +DINAH. The reason why we like Mr. Pim so much is that he was the first +person to congratulate us. We feel that he is going to have a great +influence on our lives. + +PIM (to OLIVIA). I, so to speak, stumbled on the engagement this +morning and--er-- + +OLIVIA. I see. Children, you must go and tidy yourselves up. Run +along. + +BRIAN. Sir Brian and Lady Strange never run; they walk. (Offering his +arm) Madam! + +DINAH (taking it). Au revoir, Mr. Pim. (Dramatically) +We--shall--meet--_again_! + +PIM (chuckling). Good morning, Miss Dinah. + +BRIAN. Good morning. + + [He and DINAH go out. + +OLIVIA. You must forgive them, Mr. Pim. They're such children. And +naturally they're rather excited just now. + +PIM. Oh, not at all, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Of course you won't say anything about their engagement. We +only heard about it five minutes ago, and nothing has been settled +yet. + +PIM. Of course, of course! + + [Enter GEORGE. + +GEORGE. Ah, Mr. Pim, we meet at last. Sorry to have kept you waiting +before. + +PIM. The apology should come from me, Mr. Marden for having--er-- + +GEORGE. Not at all. Very glad to meet you now. Any friend of Brymer's. +You want a letter to this man Fanshawe? + +OLIVIA. Shall I be in your way at all? + +PIM. Oh, no, no, please don't. + +GEORGE. It's only just a question of a letter. (Going to his desk) +Fanshawe will put you in the way of seeing all that you want to see. +He's a very old friend of mine. (Taking a sheet of notepaper) You'll +stay to lunch, of course? + +PIM. I'm afraid I am lunching with the Trevors-- + +GEORGE. Oh, well, they'll look after you all right. Good chap, Trevor. + +PIM (to OLIVIA). You see, Mrs. Marden, I have only recently arrived +from Australia after travelling about the world for some years, and +I'm rather out of touch with my--er--fellow-workers in London. + +OLIVIA. Oh yes. You've been in Australia, Mr. Pim? + +GEORGE (disliking Australia). I shan't be a moment, Mr. Pim. (He +frowns at OLIVIA.) + +PIM. Oh, that's all right, thank you. (to OLIVIA) Oh yes, I have been +in Australia more than once in the last few years. + +OLIVIA. Really? I used to live at Sydney many years ago. Do you know +Sydney at all? + +GEORGE (detesting Sydney). H'r'm! Perhaps I'd better mention that you +are a friend of the Trevors? + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. (to OLIVIA) Indeed yes, I spent several +months in Sydney. + +OLIVIA. How curious. I wonder if we have any friends in common there. + +GEORGE (hastily). Extremely unlikely, I should think. Sydney is a very +big place. + +PIM. True, but the world is a very small place, Mr. Marden. I had a +remarkable instance of that, coming over on the boat this last time. + +GEORGE. Ah! (Feeling that the conversation is now safe, he resumes his +letter.) + +PIM. Yes. There was a man I used to employ in Sydney some years ago, a +bad fellow, I'm afraid, Mrs. Marden, who had been in prison for some +kind of fraudulent company-promoting and had taken to drink and--and +so on. + +OLIVIA. Yes, yes, I understand. + +PIM. Drinking himself to death I should have said. I gave him at the +most another year to live. Yet to my amazement the first person I saw +as I stepped on board the boat that brought me to England last week +was this fellow. There was no mistaking him. I spoke to him, in fact; +we recognised each other. + +OLIVIA. Really? + +PIM. He was travelling steerage; we didn't meet again on board, and as +it happened at Marseilles, this poor fellow--er--now what _was_ his +name? A very unusual one. Began with a--a T, I think. + +OLIVIA (with suppressed feeling). Yes, Mr. Pim, yes? (She puts out a +hand to GEORGE.) + +GEORGE (in an undertone). Nonsense, dear! + +PIM (triumphantly). I've got it! Telworthy! + +OLIVIA. Telworthy! + +GEORGE. Good God! + +PIM (a little surprised at the success of his story). An unusual name, +is it not? Not a name you could forget when once you had heard it. + +OLIVIA (with feeling). No, it is not a name you could forget when once +you had heard it. + +GEORGE (hastily coming over to PIM). Quite so, Mr. Pim, a most +remarkable name, a most odd story altogether. Well, well, here's your +letter, and if you're sure you won't stay to lunch-- + +PIM. I'm afraid not, thank you. You see, I-- + +GEORGE. The Trevors, yes. I'll just see you on your way--(to OLIVIA) +Er--my dear-- + +OLIVIA (holding out her hand, but not looking at him). Good-bye, Mr. +Pim. + +PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! + +GEORGE (leading the way through the windows). This way, this way. +Quicker for you. + +PIM. Thank you, thank you. + + [GEORGE hurries MR. PIM out. + +(OLIVIA sits there and looks into the past. Now and then she +shudders.) + + [GEORGE comes back. + +GEORGE. Good God! Telworthy! Is it possible? (Before OLIVIA can +answer, LADY MARDEN is announced. They pull themselves together and +greet her.) + + + + +ACT II + + +(Lunch is over and coffee has been served on the terrace. Conversation +drags on, to the satisfaction of LADY MARDEN, but of nobody else. +GEORGE and OLIVIA want to be alone; so do BRIAN and DINAH. At last +BRIAN murmurs something about a cigarette-case; and, catching DINAH'S +eye, comes into the house. He leans against the sofa and waits for +DINAH.) + +DINAH (loudly as she comes in). Have you found it? + +BRIAN. Found what? + +DINAH (in her ordinary voice). That was just for _their_ benefit. I +said I'd help you find it. It _is_ your cigarette-case we're looking +for, isn't it? + +BRIAN (taking it out). Yes. Have one? + +DINAH. No, thank you, darling. Aunt Juli-ah still thinks it's +unladylike. . . . Have you ever seen her beagling? + +BRIAN. No. Is that very ladylike? + +DINAH. Very. . . . I say, what has happened, do you think? + +BRIAN. Everything. I love you, and you love me. + +DINAH. Silly! I meant between George and Olivia. Didn't you notice +them at lunch? + +BRIAN. I noticed that you seemed to be doing most of the talking. But +then I've noticed that before sometimes. Do you think Olivia and your +uncle have quarrelled because of _us_? + +DINAH. Of course not. George may _think_ he has quarrelled, but I'm +quite sure Olivia hasn't. No, I believe Mr. Pim's at the bottom of it. +He's brought some terribly sad news about George's investments. The +old home will have to be sold up. + +BRIAN. Good. Then your uncle won't mind your marrying me. + +DINAH. Yes, darling, but you must be more dramatic about it than that. +"George," you must say, with tears in your eyes, "I cannot pay off the +whole of the mortgage for you. I have only two and ninepence; but at +least let me take your niece off your hands." Then George will thump +you on the back and say gruffly, "You're a good fellow, Brian, a damn +good fellow," and he'll blow his nose very loudly, and say, "Confound +this cigar, it won't draw properly." (She gives us a rough impression +of GEORGE doing it.) + +BRIAN. Dinah, you're a heavenly idiot. And you've simply got to marry +me, uncles or no uncles. + +DINAH. It will have to be "uncles," I'm afraid, because, you see, I'm +his ward, and I can get sent to Chancery or Coventry or somewhere +beastly, if I marry without his consent. Haven't _you_ got anybody who +objects to your marrying _me_? + +BRIAN. Nobody, thank Heaven. + +DINAH. Well, that's rather disappointing of you. I saw myself +fascinating your aged father at the same time that you were +fascinating George. I should have done it much better than you. As a +George-fascinator you aren't very successful, sweetheart. + +BRIAN. What am I like as a Dinah-fascinator? + +DINAH. Plus six, darling. + +BRIAN. Then I'll stick to that and leave George to Olivia. + +DINAH. I expect she'll manage him all right. I have great faith in +Olivia. But you'll marry me, anyhow, won't you, Brian? + +BRIAN. I will. + +DINAH. Even if we have to wait till I'm twenty-one? + +BRIAN. Even if we have to wait till you're fifty-one. + +DINAH (holding out her hands to him). Darling! + +BRIAN (uneasily). I say, don't do that. + +DINAH. Why not? + +BRIAN. Well, I promised I wouldn't kiss you. + +DINAH. Oh! . . . Well, you might just _send_ me a kiss. You can look the +other way as if you didn't know I was here. + +BRIAN. Like this? + +(He looks the other way, kisses the tips of his fingers, and flicks it +carelessly in her direction.) + +DINAH. That was a lovely one. Now here's one coming for you. + +(He catches it gracefully and conveys it to his mouth.) + +BRIAN (with a low bow). Madam, I thank you. + +DINAH (curtseying). Your servant, Mr. Strange. + +OLIVIA (from outside). Dinah! + +DINAH (jumping up). Hullo! + +(OLIVIA comes in through the windows, followed by GEORGE and LADY +MARDEN, the latter a vigorous young woman of sixty odd, who always +looks as if she were beagling.) + +OLIVIA. Aunt Julia wants to see the pigs, dear. I wish you'd take her +down. I'm rather tired, and your uncle has some business to attend to. + +LADY MARDEN. I've always said that you don't take enough exercise, +Olivia. Look at me--sixty-five and proud of it. + +OLIVIA. Yes, Aunt Julia, you're wonderful. + +DINAH. How old would Olivia be if she took exercise? + +GEORGE. Don't stand about asking silly questions, Dinah. Your aunt +hasn't much time. + +BRIAN. May I come, too, Lady Marden? + +LADY MARDEN. Well, a little exercise wouldn't do _you_ any harm, Mr. +Strange. You're an artist, ain't you? + +BRIAN. Well, I try to paint. + +DINAH. He sold a picture last March for-- + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, never mind that now. + +LADY MARDEN. Unhealthy life. Well, come along. + + [She strides out, followed by DINAH and BRIAN. + +(GEORGE sits down at his desk with his head in his hand, and stabs the +blotting-paper with a pen. OLIVIA takes the curtains with her to the +sofa and begins to work on them.) + +GEORGE (looking up and seeing them). Really, Olivia, we've got +something more important, more vital to us than curtains, to discuss, +now that we _are_ alone at last. + +OLIVIA. I wasn't going to discuss them, dear. + +GEORGE. I'm always glad to see Aunt Julia in my house, but I wish she +hadn't chosen this day of all days to come to lunch. + +OLIVIA. It wasn't Aunt Julia's fault. It was really Mr. Pim who chose +the wrong day. + +GEORGE (fiercely). Good Heavens, is it true? + +OLIVIA. About Jacob Telworthy? + +GEORGE. You told me he was dead. You always said that he was dead. +You--you-- + +OLIVIA. Well, I always thought that he was dead. He was as dead as +anybody could be. All the papers said he was dead. + +GEORGE (scornfully). The papers! + +OLIVIA (as if this would settle it for GEORGE). The _Times_ said he +was dead. There was a paragraph about him. Apparently even his death +was fraudulent. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, I'm not blaming you, Olivia, but what are we going +to do, that's the question, what are we going to do? My God, it's +horrible! You've never been married to me at all! You don't seem to +understand. + +OLIVIA. It is a little difficult to realise. You see, it doesn't seem +to have made any difference to our happiness. + +GEORGE. No, that's what's so terrible. I mean--well, of course, we +were quite innocent in the matter. But, at the same time, nothing can +get over the fact that we--we had no right to--to be happy. + +OLIVIA. Would you rather we had been miserable? + +GEORGE. You're Telworthy's wife, that's what you don't seem to +understand. You're Telworthy's wife. You--er--forgive me, Olivia, but +it's the horrible truth--you committed bigamy when you married me. (In +horror) Bigamy! + +OLIVIA. It is an ugly word, isn't it? + +GEORGE. Yes, but don't you understand--(He jumps up and comes over to +her) Look here, Olivia, old girl, the whole thing is nonsense, eh? It +isn't your husband, it's some other Telworthy that this fellow met. +That's right, isn't it? Some other shady swindler who turned up on the +boat, eh? This sort of thing doesn't happen to people like +_us_--committing bigamy and all that. Some other fellow. + +OLIVIA (shaking her head). I knew all the shady swindlers in Sydney, +George. . . . They came to dinner. . . . There were no others called +Telworthy. + +(GEORGE goes back despondently to his seat.) + +GEORGE. Well, what are we going to do? + +OLIVIA. You sent Mr. Pim away so quickly. He might have told us +things. Telworthy's plans. Where he is now. You hurried him away so +quickly. + +GEORGE. I've sent a note round to ask him to come back. My one idea at +the moment was to get him out of the house--to hush things up. + +OLIVIA. You can't hush up two husbands. + +GEORGE (in despair). You can't. Everybody will know. Everybody! + +OLIVIA. The children, Aunt Julia, they may as well know now as later. +Mr. Pim must, of course. + +GEORGE. I do not propose to discuss my private affairs with Mr. +Pim---- + +OLIVIA. But he's mixed himself up in them rather, hasn't he, and if +you're going to ask him questions---- + +GEORGE. I only propose to ask him one question. I shall ask him if he +is absolutely certain of the man's name. I can do that quite easily +without letting him know the reason for my inquiry. + +OLIVIA. You couldn't make a mistake about a name like Telworthy. But +he might tell us something about Telworthy's plans. Perhaps he's going +back to Australia at once. Perhaps he thinks I'm dead, too. Perhaps-- +oh, there are so many things I want to know. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, dear. It would be interesting to--that is, one +naturally wants to know these things, but of course it doesn't make +any real difference. + +OLIVIA (surprised). No difference? + +GEORGE. Well, that is to say, you're as much his wife if he's in +Australia as you are if he's in England. + +OLIVIA. I am not his wife at all. + +GEORGE. But, Olivia, surely you understand the position---- + +OLIVIA (shaking her head). Jacob Telworthy may be alive, but I am not +his wife. I ceased to be his wife when I became yours. + +GEORGE. You never _were_ my wife. That is the terrible part of it. Our +union--you make me say it, Olivia--has been unhallowed by the Church. +Unhallowed even by the Law. Legally, we have been living in--living +in--well, the point is, how does the Law stand? I imagine that +Telworthy could get a--a divorce. . . . Oh, it seems impossible that +things like this can be happening to _us_. + +OLIVIA (Joyfully). A divorce? + +GEORGE. I--I imagine so. + +OLIVIA. But then we could _really_ get married, and we shouldn't be +living in--living in--whatever we were living in before. + +GEORGE. I can't understand you, Olivia. You talk about it so calmly, +as if there was nothing blameworthy in being divorced, as if there was +nothing unusual in my marrying a divorced woman, as if there was +nothing wrong in our having lived together for years without having +been married. + +OLIVIA. What seems wrong to me is that I lived for five years with a +bad man whom I hated. What seems right to me is that I lived for five +years with a good man whom I love. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, my dear, I know. But right and wrong don't settle +themselves as easily as that. We've been living together when you were +Telworthy's wife. That's _wrong_. + +OLIVIA. Do you mean wicked? + +GEORGE. Well, no doubt the Court would consider that we acted in +perfect innocence-- + +OLIVIA. What Court? + +GEORGE. These things have to be done legally, of course. I believe the +proper method is a nullity suit, declaring our marriage null +and--er--void. It would, so to speak, wipe out these years of--er-- + +OLIVIA. Wickedness? + +GEORGE. Of irregular union, and--er--then-- + +OLIVIA. Then I could go back to Jacob. . . . Do you really mean that, +George? + +GEORGE (uneasily). Well, dear, you see--that's how things are--one +can't get away from--er---- + +OLIVIA. What you feel is that Telworthy has the greater claim? You are +prepared to--make way for him? + +GEORGE. Both the Church and the Law would say that I had no claim at +all, I'm afraid. I--I suppose I haven't. + +OLIVIA. I see. (She looks at him curiously) Thank you for making it so +clear, George. + +GEORGE. Of course, whether or not you go back to--er--Telworthy is +another matter altogether. That would naturally be for you to decide. + +OLIVIA (cheerfully). For me and Jacko to decide. + +GEORGE. Er--Jacko? + +OLIVIA. I used to call my first husband--I mean my only +husband--Jacko. I didn't like the name of Jacob, and Jacko seemed to +suit him somehow. . . . He had very long arms. Dear Jacko. + +GEORGE (annoyed). You don't seem to realise that this is not a joke, +Olivia. + +OLIVIA (a trifle hysterically). It may not be a joke, but it _is_ +funny, isn't it? + +GEORGE. I must say I don't see anything funny in a tragedy that has +wrecked two lives. + +OLIVIA. Two? Oh, but Jacko's life isn't wrecked. It has just been +miraculously restored to him. And a wife, too. There's nothing tragic +for Jacko in it. + +GEORGE (stiffly). I was referring to _our_ two lives--yours and mine. + +OLIVIA. Yours, George? Your life isn't wrecked. The Court will absolve +you of all blame; your friends will sympathise with you, and tell you +that I was a designing woman who deliberately took you in; your Aunt +Julia---- + +GEORGE (overwrought). Stop it! What do you mean? Have you no heart? Do +you think I _want_ to lose you, Olivia? Do you think I _want_ my home +broken up like this? Haven't you been happy with me these last five +years? + +OLIVIA. Very happy. + +GEORGE. Well then, how can you talk like that? + +OLIVIA (pathetically). But you want to send me away. + +GEORGE. There you go again. I don't _want_ to. I have hardly had time +to realise just what it will mean to me when you go. The fact is I +simply daren't realise it. I daren't think about it. + +OLIVIA (earnestly). Try thinking about it, George. + +GEORGE. And you talk as if I _wanted_ to send you away! + +OLIVIA. Try thinking about it, George. + +GEORGE. You don't seem to understand that I'm not _sending_ you away. +You simply aren't mine to keep. + +OLIVIA. Whose am I? + +GEORGE. Your husband's. Telworthy's. + +OLIVIA (gently). If I belong to anybody but myself, I think I belong +to you. + +GEORGE. Not in the eyes of the Law. Not in the eyes of the Church. Not +even in the eyes of--er---- + +OLIVIA. The County? + +GEORGE (annoyed). I was about to say "Heaven." + +OLIVIA (unimpressed). Oh! + +GEORGE. That this should happen to _us_! (He gets up and walks about +the room, wondering when he will wake up from this impossible dream, +OLIVIA works in silence. Then she stands up and shakes out her +curtains.) + +OLIVIA (looking at them). I do hope Jacko will like these. + +GEORGE. What! You---- (Going up to her) Olivia, Olivia, have you no +heart? + +OLIVIA. Ought you to talk like that to another man's wife? + +GEORGE. Confound it, is this just a joke to you? + +OLIVIA. You must forgive me, George; I am a little over-excited--at +the thought of returning to Jacob, I suppose. + +GEORGE. Do you _want_ to return to him? + +OLIVIA. One wants to do what is right. In the eyes of--er--Heaven. + +GEORGE. Seeing what sort of man he is, I have no doubt that you could +get a separation, supposing that he didn't--er--divorce you. I don't +know _what_ is best. I must consult my solicitor. The whole position +has been sprung on us, and--(miserably) I don't know, I don't know. I +can't take it all in. + +OLIVIA. Wouldn't you like to consult your Aunt Julia too? She could +tell you what the County--I mean what Heaven really thought about it. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes. Aunt Julia has plenty of common sense. You're quite +right, Olivia. This isn't a thing we can keep from the family. + +OLIVIA. Do I still call her _Aunt_ Julia? + +GEORGE (looking up from his pacings). What? What? (ANNE comes in.) +Well, what is it? + +ANNE. Mr. Pim says he will come down at once, sir. + +GEORGE. Oh, thank you, thank you. + + [ANNE goes out. + +OLIVIA. George, Mr. Pim has got to know. + +GEORGE. I don't see the necessity. + +OLIVIA. Not even for me? When a woman suddenly hears that her +long-lost husband is restored to her, don't you think she wants to ask +questions? Where is he living, and how is he looking, and---- + +GEORGE (coldly). Of course, if you are interested in these things-- + +OLIVIA. How can I help being? Don't be so silly, George. We _must_ +know what Jacko-- + +GEORGE (annoyed). I wish you wouldn't call him by that ridiculous +name. + +OLIVIA. My husband-- + +GEORGE (wincing). Yes, well--your husband? + +OLIVIA. Well, we must know his plans--where we can communicate with +him, and so on. + +GEORGE. I have no wish to communicate with him. + +OLIVIA. I'm afraid you'll have to, dear. + +GEORGE. I don't see the necessity. + +OLIVIA. Well, you'll want to--to apologise to him for living with his +wife for so long. And as I belong to him, he ought to be told where he +can--call for me. + +GEORGE (after a struggle). You put it in a very peculiar way, but I +see your-point. (With a shudder) Oh, the horrible publicity of it all! + +OLIVIA (going up to him and comforting him). Poor George. Dear, don't +think I don't sympathise with you. I understand so exactly what you +are feeling. The publicity! It's terrible. + +GEORGE (miserably). I want to do what's right, Olivia. You believe +that? + +OLIVIA. Of course I do. It's only that we don't quite agree as to what +is right and what is wrong. + +GEORGE. It isn't a question of agreeing. Right is right, and wrong is +wrong, all the world over. + +OLIVIA (with a sad little smile). But more particularly in +Buckinghamshire, I think. + +GEORGE. If I only considered myself, I should say: "Let us pack this +man Telworthy back to Australia. He would make no claim. He would +accept money to go away and say nothing about it." If I consulted +simply my own happiness, Olivia, that is what I should say. But when I +consult--er---- + +OLIVIA (surprised). Mine? + +GEORGE. My conscience---- + +OLIVIA. Oh! + +GEORGE. Then I can't do it. It's wrong. (He is at the window as he +says this.) + +OLIVIA (making her first and last appeal). George, aren't I worth a +little---- + +GEORGE (turning round). H'sh! Dinah! (Loudly for DINAH'S benefit) +Well, then I'll write to him and--Ah, Dinah, where's Aunt Julia? + +DINAH (coming in). We've seen the pigs, and now she's discussing the +Art of Landseer with Brian. I just came to ask---- + +OLIVIA. Dinah, dear, bring Aunt Julia here. And Brian too. We have +things we want to talk about with you all. + +GEORGE (outraged). Olivia! + +DINAH. Righto. What fun! + + [Exit DINAH. + +GEORGE. Olivia, you don't seriously suggest that we should discuss +these things with a child like Dinah and a young man like Strange, a +mere acquaintance. + +OLIVIA. Dinah will have to know. I'm very fond of her, George. You +can't send me away without telling Dinah. And Brian is my friend. You +have your solicitor and your aunt and your conscience to +consult--mayn't I even have Brian? + +GEORGE (forgetting). I should have thought that your _husband_---- + +OLIVIA. Yes, but we don't know where Jacko is. + +GEORGE. I was not referring to--er--Telworthy. + +OLIVIA. Well then? + +GEORGE. Well, naturally I--you mustn't--Oh, this is horrible! + +(He comes back to his desk as the others come in.) + +OLIVIA (getting up). George and I have had some rather bad news, Aunt +Julia. We wanted your advice. Where will you sit? + +LADY MARDEN. Thank you, Olivia. I can sit down by myself. (She does +so, near GEORGE. DINAH sits on the sofa with OLIVIA, and BRIAN half +leans against the back of it. There is a hush of expectation. . . .) What +is it? Money, I suppose. Nobody's safe nowadays. + +GEORGE (signalling for help). Olivia-- + +OLIVIA. We've just heard that my first husband is still alive. + +DINAH. Telworthy! + +BRIAN. Good Lord! + +LADY MARDEN. George! + +DINAH (excitedly). And only this morning I was saying that nothing +ever happened in this house! (Remorsefully to OLIVIA) Darling, I don't +mean that. Darling one! + +LADY MARDEN. What does this mean, George? I leave you for ten +minutes--barely ten minutes--to go and look at the pigs, and when I +come back you tell me that Olivia is a bigamist. + +BRIAN (indignantly). I say-- + +OLIVIA (restraining him). H'sh! + +BRIAN (to OLIVIA). If this is a row, I'm on your side. + +LADY MARDEN. Well, George? + +GEORGE. I'm afraid it's true, Aunt Julia. We heard the news just +before lunch--just before you came. We've only this moment had an +opportunity of talking about it, of wondering what to do. + +LADY MARDEN. What was his name--Tel--something-- + +OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy. + +LADY MARDEN. So he's alive still? + +GEORGE. Apparently. There seems to be no doubt about it. + +LADY MARDEN (to OLIVIA). Didn't you _see_ him die? I should always +want to _see_ my husband die before I married again. Not that I +approve of second marriages, anyhow. I told you so at the time, +George. + +OLIVIA. _And_ me, Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Did I? Well, I generally say what I think. + +GEORGE. I ought to tell you, Aunt Julia, that no blame attaches to +Olivia over this. Of that I am perfectly satisfied. It's nobody's +fault, except---- + +LADY MARDEN. Except Telworthy's. _He_ seems to have been rather +careless. Well, what are you going to do about it? + +GEORGE. That's just it. It's a terrible situation. There's bound to be +so much publicity. Not only all this, but--but Telworthy's past +and--and everything. + +LADY MARDEN. I should have said that it was Telworthy's present which +was the trouble. Had he a past as well? + +OLIVIA. He was a fraudulent company promoter. He went to prison a good +deal. + +LADY MARDEN. George, you never told me this! + +GEORGE. I--er---- + +OLIVIA. I don't see _why_ he should want to talk about it. + +DINAH (indignantly). What's it got to do with Olivia, anyhow? It's not +_her_ fault. + +LADY MARDEN (sarcastically). Oh no, I daresay it's mine. + +OLIVIA (to GEORGE). YOU wanted to ask Aunt Julia what was the right +thing to do. + +BRIAN (bursting out). Good Heavens, what _is_ there to do except the +one and only thing? (They all look at him and he becomes embarrassed) +I'm sorry. You don't want _me_ to-- + +OLIVIA. _I_ do, Brian. + +LADY MARDEN. Well, go on, Mr. Strange. What would _you_ do in George's +position? + +BRIAN. Do? Say to the woman I loved, "You're _mine_, and let this +other damned fellow come and take you from me if he can!" And he +couldn't--how could he?--not if the woman chose _me_. + +(LADY MARDEN gazes at BRIAN in amazement, GEORGE in anger, OLIVIA +presses his hand gratefully. He has said what she has been +waiting--oh, so eagerly--for GEORGE to say.) + +DINAH (adoringly). Oh, Brian! (In a whisper) It _is_ me, isn't it, and +not Olivia? + +BRIAN. You baby, of course! + +LADY MARDEN. I'm afraid, Mr. Strange, your morals are as peculiar as +your views on Art. If you had led a more healthy life-- + +BRIAN. This is not a question of morals or of art, it's a question of +love. + +DINAH. Hear, hear! + +LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Isn't it that girl's bedtime yet? + +OLIVIA (to DINAH). We'll let her sit up a little longer if she's good. + +DINAH. I will be good, Olivia, only I thought anybody, however +important a debate was, was allowed to say "Hear, hear!" + +GEORGE (coldly) I really think we could discuss this better if Mr. +Strange took Dinah out for a walk. Strange, if you--er-- + +OLIVIA. Tell them what you have settled first, George. + +LADY MARDEN. Settled? What is there to be settled? It settles itself. + +GEORGE (sadly). That's just it. + +LADY MARDEN. The marriage must be annulled--is that the word, George? + +GEORGE. I presume so. + +LADY MARDEN. One's solicitor will know all about that of course. + +BRIAN. And when the marriage has been annulled, what then? + +LADY MARDEN. Presumably Olivia will return to her husband. + +BRIAN (bitterly). And _that's_ morality! As expounded by Bishop +Landseer! + +GEORGE (angered). I don't know what you mean by Bishop Landseer. +Morality is acting in accordance with the Laws of the Land and the +Laws of the Church. I am quite prepared to believe that _your_ creed +embraces neither marriage nor monogamy, but my creed is different. + +BRIAN (fiercely). My creed includes both marriage _and_ monogamy, and +monogamy means sticking to the woman you love, as long as she wants +you. + +LADY MARDEN (calmly). You suggest that George and Olivia should go on +living together, although they have never been legally married, and +wait for this Telworthy man to divorce her, and then--bless the man, +what do you think the County would say? + +BRIAN (scornfully). Does it matter? + +DINAH. Well, if you really want to know, the men would say, "Gad, +she's a fine woman; I don't wonder he sticks to her," and the women +would say, "I can't _think_ what he sees in her to stick to her like +that," and they'd both say, "After all, he may be a damn fool, but you +can't deny he's a sportsman." That's what the County would say. + +GEORGE (indignantly) Was it for this sort of thing, Olivia, that you +insisted on having Dinah and Mr. Strange in here? To insult me in my +own house? + +LADY MARDEN. I can't think what young people are coming to nowadays. + +OLIVIA. I think, dear, you and Brian had better go. + +DINAH (getting up). We will go. But I'm just going to say one thing, +Uncle George. Brian and I _are_ going to marry each other, and when we +are married we'll stick to each other, _however_ many of our dead +husbands and wives turn up! + + [She goes out indignantly, followed by BRIAN. + +GEORGE. Upon my word, this is a pleasant discussion. + +OLIVIA. I think the discussion is over, George. It is only a question +of where I shall go, while you are bringing your--what sort of suit +did you call it? + +LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Nullity suit. I suppose that _is_ the best +thing? + +GEORGE. It's horrible. The awful publicity. That it should be +happening to _us_, that's what I can't get over. + +LADY MARDEN. I don't remember anything of the sort in the Marden +Family before, ever. + +GEORGE (absently). Lady Fanny. + +LADY MARDEN (recollecting). Yes, of course; but that was two hundred +years ago. The standards were different then. Besides, it wasn't quite +the same, anyhow. + +GEORGE (absently). No, it wasn't quite the same. + +LADY MARDEN. No. We shall all feel it. Terribly. + +GEORGE (his apology). If there were any other way! Olivia, what _can_ +I do? It _is_ the only way, isn't it? All that that fellow said--of +course, it sounds very well--but as things are. . . . _Is_ there anything +in marriage, or isn't there? You believe that there is, don't you? You +aren't one of these Socialists. Well, then, _can_ we go on living +together when you're another man's wife? It isn't only what people +will say, but it _is_ wrong, isn't it? . . . And supposing he doesn't +divorce you, are we to go on living together, unmarried, for _ever_? +Olivia, you seem to think that I'm just thinking of the +publicity--what people will say. I'm not. I'm not. That comes in any +way. But I want to do what's right, what's best. I don't mean what's +best for _us_, what makes us happiest, I mean what's really best, +what's rightest. What anybody else would do in my place. _I_ don't +know. It's so unfair. You're not my wife at all, but I want to do +what's right. . . . Oh, Olivia, Olivia, you do understand, don't you? + +(They have both forgotten LADY MARDEN. OLIVIA has never taken her eyes +off him as he makes his last attempt to convince himself.) + +OLIVIA (almost tenderly). So very very well, George. Oh, I understand +just what you are feeling. And oh, I do so wish that you could--(with +a little sigh)--but then it wouldn't be George, not the George I +married--(with a rueful little laugh)--or didn't quite marry. + +LADY MARDEN. I must say, I think you are both talking a little wildly. + +OLIVIA (repeating it, oh, so tenderly). Or didn't--quite--marry. (She +looks at him with all her heart in her eyes. She is giving him his +last chance to say "Damn Telworthy; you're mine!" He struggles +desperately with himself. . . . Will he?--will he? . . . But we shall never +know, for at that moment ANNE comes in.) + +ANNE. Mr. Pim is here, sir. + +GEORGE (emerging from the struggle with an effort). Pim? Pim? Oh, ah, +yes, of course. Mr. Pim. (Looking up) Where have you put him? + +OLIVIA. I want to see Mr. Pim, too, George. + +LADY MARDEN. Who on earth is Mr. Pim? + +OLIVIA. Show him in here, Anne. + +ANNE. Yes, madam. [She goes out. + +OLIVIA. It was Mr. Pim who told us about my husband. He came across +with him in the boat, and recognised him as the Telworthy he knew in +Australia. + +LADY MARDEN. Oh! Shall I be in the way? + +GEORGE. No, no. It doesn't matter, does it, Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Please stay. + + [ANNE enters followed by MR. PIM. + +ANNE. Mr. Pim. + +GEORGE (pulling himself together). Ah, Mr. Pim! Very good of you to +have come. The fact is--er--(It is too much for him; he looks +despairingly at OLIVIA.) + +OLIVIA. We're so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Pim. By the way, do you +know Lady Marden? (MR. PIM and LADY MARDEN bow to each other.) Do come +and sit down, won't you? (She makes room for him on the sofa next to +her) The fact is, Mr. Pim, you gave us rather a surprise this morning, +and before we had time to realise what it all meant, you had gone. + +MR. PIM. A surprise, Mrs. Marden? Dear me, not an unpleasant one, I +hope? + +OLIVIA. Well, rather a--surprising one. + +GEORGE. Olivia, allow me a moment. Mr. Pim, you mentioned a man called +Telworthy this morning. My wife used to--that is to say, I used +to--that is, there are reasons-- + +OLIVIA. I think we had better be perfectly frank, George. + +LADY MARDEN. I am sixty-five years of age, Mr. Pim, and I can say that +I've never had a moment's uneasiness by telling the truth. + +MR. PIM (after a desperate effort to keep up with the conversation). +Oh! . . . I--er--I'm afraid I am rather at sea. Have I--er--left anything +unsaid in presenting my credentials to you this morning? This +Telworthy whom you mention--I seem to remember the name-- + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, you told us this morning of a man whom you had met on +the boat, a man who had come down in the world, whom you had known in +Sydney. A man called Telworthy. + +MR. PIM (relieved). Ah yes, yes, of course. I did say Telworthy, +didn't I? Most curious coincidence, Lady Marden. Poor man, poor man! +Let me see, it must have been ten years ago-- + +GEORGE. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. You're quite sure that his name was +Telworthy? + +MR. PIM. Telworthy--Telworthy--didn't I say Telworthy? Yes, that was +it--Telworthy. Poor fellow! + +OLIVIA. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Pim. I feel +quite sure that I can trust you. This man Telworthy whom you met is my +husband. + +MR. PIM. Your husband? (He looks in mild surprise at GEORGE.) +But--er-- + +OLIVIA. My first husband. His death was announced six years ago. I had +left him some years before that, but there seems no doubt from your +story that he's still alive. His record--the country he comes +from--above all, the very unusual name--Telworthy. + +MR. PIM. Telworthy--yes--certainly a most peculiar name. I remember +saying so. Your first husband? Dear me! Dear me! + +GEORGE. You understand, Mr. Pim, that all this is in absolute +confidence. + +MR. PIM. Of course, of course. + +OLIVIA. Well, since he is my husband, we naturally want to know +something about him. Where is he now, for instance? + +MR. PIM (surprised). Where is he now? But surely I told you? I told +you what happened at Marseilles? + +GEORGE. At Marseilles? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, poor fellow, it was most unfortunate. (Quite happy +again) You must understand, Lady Marden, that although I had met the +poor fellow before in Australia, I was never in any way intimate-- + +GEORGE (thumping the desk). Where is he _now_, that's what we want to +know? + +(MR. PIM turns to him with a start.) + +OLIVIA. Please, Mr. Pim! + +PIM. Where is he now? But--but didn't I tell you of the curious +fatality at Marseilles--poor fellow--the fish-bone? + +ALL. Fish-bone? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, a herring, I understand. + +OLIVIA (understanding first). Do you mean he's dead? + +MR. PIM. Dead--of course--didn't I--? + +OLIVIA (laughing hysterically). Oh, Mr. Pim, you--oh, what a husband +to have--oh, I--(But that is all she can say for the moment.) + +LADY MARDEN. Pull yourself together, Olivia. This is so unhealthy for +you. (to PIM) So he really _is_ dead this time? + +MR. PIM. Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly. A fishbone lodged in his +throat. + +GEORGE (trying to realise it). Dead! + +OLIVIA (struggling with her laughter). I think you must excuse me, Mr. +Pim--I can never thank you enough--a herring--there's something about +a herring--morality depends on such little things--George, +you--(Shaking her head at him in a weak state of laughter, she hurries +out of the room.) + +MR. PIM. Dear me! Dear me! + +GEORGE. Now, let us have this quite clear, Mr. Pim. You say that the +man, Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead? + +MR. PIM. Telworthy, yes--didn't I say Telworthy? This man I was +telling you about-- + +GEORGE. He's dead? + +MR. PIM. Yes, yes, he died at Marseilles. + +LADY MARDEN. A dispensation of Providence, George. One can look at it +in no other light. + +GEORGE. Dead! (Suddenly annoyed) Really, Mr. Pim, I think you might +have told us before. + +MR. PIM. But I--I _was_ telling you--I-- + +GEORGE. If you had only told us the whole story at once, instead of in +two--two instalments like this, you would have saved us all a good +deal of anxiety. + +MR. PIM. Really, I-- + +LADY MARDEN. I am sure Mr. Pim meant well, George, but it seems a pity +he couldn't have said so before. If the man was dead, _why_ try to +hush it up? + +MR. PIM (lost again). Really, Lady Marden, I-- + +GEORGE (getting up). Well, well, at any rate, I am much obliged to +you, Mr. Pim, for having come down to us this afternoon. Dead! _De +mortuis_, and so forth, but the situation would have been impossible +had he lived. Good-bye! (Holding out his hand) Good-bye! + +LADY MARDEN. Good-bye, Mr. Pim. + +MR. PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! (GEORGE takes him to the door.) Of +course, if I had--(to himself) Telworthy--I _think_ that was the name. +(He goes out, still wondering.) + +GEORGE (with a sigh of thankfulness). Well! This is wonderful news, +Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Most providential! . . . You understand, of course, that you +are not married to Olivia? + +GEORGE (who didn't). Not married? + +LADY MARDEN. If her first husband only died at Marseilles a few days +ago-- + +GEORGE. Good Heavens! + +LADY MARDEN. Not that it matters. You can get married quietly again. +Nobody need know. + +GEORGE (considering it). Yes . . . yes. Then all these years we have +been--er--Yes. + +LADY MARDEN. Who's going to know? + +GEORGE. Yes, yes, that's true. . . . And in perfect innocence, too. + +LADY MARDEN. I should suggest a Registry Office in London. + +GEORGE. A Registry Office, yes. + +LADY MARDEN. Better go up to town this afternoon. Can't do it too +quickly. + +GEORGE. Yes, yes. We can stay at an hotel-- + +LADY MARDEN (surprised). George! + +GEORGE. What? + +LADY MARDEN. _You_ will stay at your club. + +GEORGE. Oh--ah--yes, of course, Aunt Julia. + +LADY MARDEN. Better take your solicitor with you to be on the safe +side. . . . To the Registry Office, I mean. + +GEORGE. Yes. + +LADY MARDEN (getting up). Well, I must be getting along, George. Say +good-bye to Olivia for me. And those children. Of course, you won't +allow this absurd love-business between them to come to anything? + +GEORGE. Most certainly not. Good-bye, Aunt Julia! + +LADY MARDEN (indicating the windows). I'll go _this_ way. (As she +goes) And get Olivia out more, George. I don't like these hysterics. +You want to be firm with her. + +GEORGE (firmly) Yes, yes! Good-bye! + +(He waves to her and then goes back to his seat.) + +(OLIVIA comes in, and stands in the middle of the room looking at him. +He comes to her eagerly.) + +GEORGE (holding out his hands). Olivia! Olivia! (But it is not so easy +as that.) + +OLIVIA (drawing herself up proudly). Mrs. Telworthy! + + + + +ACT III + + +(OLIVIA is standing where we left her at the end of the last act.) + +GEORGE (taken aback). Olivia, I--I don't understand. + +OLIVIA (leaving melodrama with a little laugh and coming down to +him). Poor George! Did I frighten you rather? + +GEORGE. You're so strange to-day. I don't understand you. You're not +like the Olivia I know. + +(They sit down on the sofa together.) + +OLIVIA. Perhaps you don't know me very well after all. + +GEORGE (affectionately). Oh, that's nonsense, old girl. You're just my +Olivia. + +OLIVIA. And yet it seemed as though I wasn't going to be your Olivia +half an hour ago. + +GEORGE (with a shudder). Don't talk about it. It doesn't bear thinking +about. Well, thank Heaven that's over. Now we can get married again +quietly and nobody will be any the wiser. + +OLIVIA. Married again? + +GEORGE. Yes, dear. As you--er--(he laughs uneasily) said just now, you +are Mrs. Telworthy. Just for the moment. But we can soon put that +right. My idea was to go up this evening and--er--make arrangements, +and if you come up to-morrow morning, if we can manage it by then, we +could get quietly married at a Registry Office, and--er--nobody any +the wiser. + +OLIVIA. Yes, I see. You want me to marry you at a Registry Office +to-morrow? + +GEORGE. If we can arrange it by then. I don't know how long these +things take, but I should imagine there would be no difficulty. + +OLIVIA. Oh no, that part ought to be quite easy. But--(She hesitates.) + +GEORGE. But what? + +OLIVIA. Well, if you want to marry me to-morrow, George, oughtn't you +to propose to me first? + +GEORGE (amazed). Propose? + +OLIVIA. Yes. It is usual, isn't it, to propose to a person before you +marry her, and--and we want to do the usual thing, don't we? + +GEORGE (upset). But you--but we . . . + +OLIVIA. You see, dear, you're George Marden, and I'm Olivia Telworthy, +and you--you're attracted by me, and think I would make you a good +wife, and you want to marry me. Well, naturally you propose to me +first, and--tell me how much you are attracted by me, and what a good +wife you think I shall make, and how badly you want to marry me. + +GEORGE (falling into the humour of it, as he thinks). The baby! Did +she want to be proposed to all over again? + +OLIVIA. Well, she did rather. + +GEORGE (rather fancying himself as an actor). She shall then. (He +adopts what he considers to be an appropriate attitude) Mrs. +Telworthy, I have long admired you in silence, and the time has now +come to put my admiration into words. Er--(But apparently he finds a +difficulty.) + +OLIVIA (hopefully). Into words. + +GEORGE. Er-- + +OLIVIA (with the idea of helping). Oh, Mr. Marden! + +GEORGE. Er--may I call you Olivia? + +OLIVIA. Yes, George. + +GEORGE (taking her hand). Olivia--I--(He hesitates.) + +OLIVIA. I don't want to interrupt, but oughtn't you to be on your +knees? It is--usual, I believe. If one of the servants came in, you +could say you were looking for my scissors. + +GEORGE. Really, Olivia, you must allow me to manage my own proposal in +my own way. + +OLIVIA (meekly). I'm sorry. Do go on. + +GEORGE. Well, er--confound it, Olivia, I love you. Will you marry me? + +OLIVIA. Thank you, George, I will think it over. + +GEORGE (laughing). Silly girl! Well then, to-morrow morning. No +wedding-cake, I'm afraid, Olivia. (He laughs again) But we'll go and +have a good lunch somewhere. + +OLIVIA. I will think it over, George. + +GEORGE (good-humouredly). Well, give us a kiss while you're thinking. + +OLIVIA. I'm afraid you mustn't kiss me until we are actually engaged. + +GEORGE (laughing uneasily). Oh, we needn't take it as seriously as all +that. + +OLIVIA. But a woman must take a proposal seriously. + +GEORGE (alarmed at last). What do you mean? + +OLIVIA. I mean that the whole question, as I heard somebody say once, +demands much more anxious thought than either of us has given it. +These hasty marriages-- + +GEORGE. Hasty! + +OLIVIA. Well, you've only just proposed to me, and you want to marry +me to-morrow. + +GEORGE. Now you're talking perfect nonsense, Olivia. You know quite +well that our case is utterly different from--from any other. + +OLIVIA. All the same, one has to ask oneself questions. With a young +girl like--well, with a young girl, love may well seem to be all that +matters. But with a woman of my age, it is different. I have to ask +myself if you can afford to support a wife. + +GEORGE (coldly). Fortunately that is a question that you can very +easily answer for yourself. + +OLIVIA. Well, but I have been hearing rather bad reports lately. What +with taxes always going up, and rents always going down, some of our +landowners are getting into rather straitened circumstances. At least, +so I'm told. + +GEORGE. I don't know what you're talking about. + +OLIVIA (surprised). Oh, isn't it true? I heard of a case only this +morning--a landowner who always seemed to be very comfortably off, but +who couldn't afford an allowance for his only niece when she wanted to +get married. It made me think that one oughtn't to judge by +appearances. + +GEORGE. You know perfectly well that I can afford to support a wife as +my wife _should_ be supported. + +OLIVIA. I'm so glad, dear. Then your income--you aren't getting +anxious at all? + +GEORGE (stiffly). You know perfectly well what my income is. I see no +reason for anxiety in the future. + +OLIVIA. Ah, well, then we needn't think about that any more. Well, +then, there is another thing to be considered. + +GEORGE. I can't make out what you're up to. Don't you want to get +married; to--er--legalise this extraordinary situation in which we are +placed? + +OLIVIA. I want to be sure that I am going to be happy, George. I can't +just jump at the very first offer I have had since my husband died, +without considering the whole question very carefully. + +GEORGE. So I'm under consideration, eh? + +OLIVIA. Every suitor is. + +GEORGE (sarcastically, as he thinks). Well, go on. + +OLIVIA. Well, then, there's your niece. You have a niece who lives +with you. Of course Dinah is a delightful girl, but one doesn't like +marrying into a household in which there is another grown-up woman. +But perhaps she will be getting married herself soon? + +GEORGE. I see no prospect of it. + +OLIVIA. I think it would make it much easier if she did. + +GEORGE. Is this a threat, Olivia? Are you telling me that if I do not +allow young Strange to marry Dinah, you will not marry me? + +OLIVIA. A threat? Oh no, George. + +GEORGE. Then what does it mean? + +OLIVIA. I'm just wondering if you love me as much as Brian loves +Dinah. You _do_ love me? + +GEORGE (from his heart). You know I do, old girl. (He comes to her.) + +OLIVIA. You're not just attracted by my pretty face? . . . _Is_ it a +pretty face? + +GEORGE. It's an adorable one. (He tries to kiss it, but she turns +away.) + +OLIVIA. How can I be sure that it is not _only_ my face which makes +you think that you care for me? Love which rests upon a mere outward +attraction cannot lead to any lasting happiness--as one of our +thinkers has observed. + +GEORGE. What's come over you, Olivia? I don't understand what you're +driving at. Why should you doubt my love? + +OLIVIA. Ah!--Why? + +GEORGE. You can't pretend that we haven't been happy together. +I've--I've been a good pal to you, eh? We--we suit each other, old +girl. + +OLIVIA. Do we? + +GEORGE. Of course we do. + +OLIVIA. I wonder. When two people of our age think of getting married, +one wants to be very sure that there is real community of ideas +between them. Whether it is a comparatively trivial matter, like the +right colour for a curtain, or some very much more serious question of +conduct which arises, one wants to feel that there is some chance of +agreement between husband and wife. + +GEORGE. We--we love each other, old girl. + +OLIVIA. We do now, yes. But what shall we be like in five years' time? +Supposing that after we have been married five years, we found +ourselves estranged from each other upon such questions as Dinah's +future, or the decorations of the drawing-room, or even the advice to +give to a friend who had innocently contracted a bigamous marriage? +How bitterly we should regret then our hasty plunge into a matrimony +which was no true partnership, whether of tastes, or of ideas, or even +of consciences! (With a sigh) Ah me! + +GEORGE (nastily). Unfortunately for your argument, Olivia, I can +answer you out of your own mouth. You seem to have forgotten what you +said this morning in the case of--er--young Strange. + +OLIVIA (reproachfully). Is it quite fair, George, to drag up what was +said this morning? + +GEORGE. You've brought it on yourself. + +OLIVIA. I? . . . Well, and what did I say this morning? + +GEORGE. You said that it was quite enough that Strange was a gentleman +and in love with Dinah for me to let them marry each other. + +OLIVIA. Oh! . . . _Is_ that enough, George? + +GEORGE (triumphantly). You said so. + +OLIVIA (meekly). Well, if you think so, too, I--I don't mind risking +it. + +GEORGE (kindly). Aha, my dear! You see! + +OLIVIA. Then you do think it's enough? + +GEORGE. I--er--Yes, yes, I--I think so. + +OLIVIA (going to him). My darling one! Then we can have a double +wedding. How jolly! + +GEORGE (astounded). A double one! + +OLIVIA. Yes. You and me, Brian and Dinah. + +GEORGE (firmly). Now look here, Olivia, understand once and for all, I +am not to be blackmailed into giving my consent to Dinah's engagement. +Neither blackmailed nor tricked. Our marriage has nothing whatever to +do with Dinah's. + +OLIVIA. No, dear. I quite understand. They may take place about the +same time, but they have nothing to do with each other. + +GEORGE. I see no prospect of Dinah's marriage taking place for many +years. + +OLIVIA. No, dear, that was what I said. + +GEORGE (not understanding for the moment). You said. . . . ? I see. Now, +Olivia, let us have this perfectly clear. You apparently insist on +treating my--er--proposal as serious. + +OLIVIA (surprised). Wasn't it serious? Were you trifling with me? + +GEORGE. You know quite well what I mean. You treat it as an ordinary +proposal from a man to a woman who have never been more than +acquaintances before. Very well then. Will you tell me what you +propose to do, if you decide to--ah--refuse me? You do not suggest +that we should go on living together--unmarried? + +OLIVIA (shocked). Of course not, George! What would the County--I mean +Heaven--I mean the Law--I mean, of _course_ not! Besides, it's so +unnecessary. If I decide to accept you, of _course_ I shall marry you. + +GEORGE. Quite so. And if you--ah--decide to refuse me? What will you +do? + +OLIVIA. Nothing. + +GEORGE. Meaning by that? + +OLIVIA. Just that, George. I shall stay here--just as before. I like +this house. It wants a little re-decorating perhaps, but I do like it, +George. . . . Yes, I shall be quite happy here. + +GEORGE. I see. You will continue to live down here--in spite of what +you said just now about the immorality of it. + +OLIVIA (surprised). But there's nothing immoral in a widow living +alone in a big country house, with perhaps the niece of a friend of +hers staying with her, just to keep her company. + +GEORGE (sarcastic). And what shall _I_ be doing, when you've so very +kindly taken possession of my house for me? + +OLIVIA. I don't know, George. Travelling, I expect. You could come +down sometimes with a chaperone. I suppose there would be nothing +wrong in that. + +GEORGE (indignant). Thank you! And what if I refuse to be turned out +of my house? + +OLIVIA. Then, seeing that we can't _both_ be in it, it looks as though +you'd have to turn _me_ out. (Casually) I suppose there are legal ways +of doing these things. You'd have to consult your solicitor again. + +GEORGE (amazed). Legal ways? + +OLIVIA. Well, you couldn't _throw_ me out, could you? You'd have to +get an injunction against me--or prosecute me for trespass--or +something. It would make an awfully unusual case, wouldn't it? The +papers would be full of it. + +GEORGE. You must be mad! + +OLIVIA (dreamily). Widow of well-known ex-convict takes possession of +J.P.'s house. Popular country gentleman denied entrance to his own +home. Doomed to travel. + +GEORGE (angrily). I've had enough of this. Do you mean all this +nonsense? + +OLIVIA. I do mean, George, that I am in no hurry to go up to London +and get married. I love the country just now, and (with a sigh) after +this morning, I'm--rather tired of husbands. + +GEORGE (in a rage). I've never heard so much--damned nonsense in my +life. I will leave you to come to your senses. (He goes out +indignantly.) + +(OLIVIA, who has forgiven him already, throws a loving kiss after him, +and then turns triumphantly to her dear curtains. She takes them, +smiling, to the sofa, and has just got to work again, when MR. PIM +appears at the open windows.) + +PIM (in a whisper). Er, may I come in, Mrs. Marden? + +OLIVIA (turning round in surprise). Mr. Pim! + +PIM (anxiously). Mr. Marden is--er--not here? + +OLIVIA (getting up). Do you want to see him? I will tell him. + +PIM. No, no, no! Not for the world! (He comes in and looks anxiously +at the door) There is no immediate danger of his returning, Mrs. +Marden? + +OLIVIA (surprised). No, I don't think so. What is it? You-- + +PIM. I took the liberty of returning by the window in the hope +of--er--coming upon you alone, Mrs. Marden. + +OLIVIA. Yes? + +PIM (still rather nervous). I--er--Mr. Marden will be very angry with +me. Quite rightly. I blame myself entirely. I do not know how I can +have been so stupid. + +OLIVIA. What is it, Mr. Pim? Has my husband come to life again? + +PIM. Mrs. Marden, I throw myself on your mercy entirely. The fact +is--his name was Polwittle. + +OLIVIA (at a loss). Whose? My husband's? + +PIM. Yes, yes. The name came back to me suddenly, just as I reached +the gate. Polwittle, poor fellow. + +OLIVIA. But, Mr. Pim, my husband's name was Telworthy. + +PIM. No, no, Polwittle. + +OLIVIA. But, really I ought to. . . . + +PIM (firmly). Polwittle. It came back to me suddenly just as I reached +the gate. For the moment, I had thoughts of conveying the news by +letter. I was naturally disinclined to return in person, +and--Polwittle. (Proudly) If you remember, I always said it was a +curious name. + +OLIVIA. But who _is_ Polwittle? + +PIM (in surprise at her stupidity). The man I have been telling you +about, who met with the sad fatality at Marseilles. Henry +Polwittle--or was it Ernest? No, Henry, I think. Poor fellow. + +OLIVIA (indignantly). But you said his name was Telworthy! How _could_ +you? + +PIM. Yes, yes, I blame myself entirely. + +OLIVIA. But how could you _think_ of a name like Telworthy, if it +wasn't Telworthy? + +PIM (eagerly). Ah, that is the really interesting thing about the +whole matter. + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, all your visits here to-day have been interesting. + +PIM. Yes, but you see, on my first appearance here this morning, I was +received by--er--Miss Diana. + +OLIVIA. Dinah. + +PIM. Miss Dinah, yes. She was in--er--rather a communicative mood, and +she happened to mention, by way of passing the time, that before your +marriage to Mr. Marden you had been a Mrs.--er-- + +OLIVIA. Telworthy. + +PIM. Yes, yes, Telworthy, of course. She mentioned also Australia. By +some process of the brain--which strikes me as decidedly curious--when +I was trying to recollect the name of the poor fellow on the boat, +whom you remember I had also met in Australia, the fact that this +other name was also stored in my memory, a name equally peculiar--this +fact I say . . . + +OLIVIA (seeing that the sentence is rapidly going to pieces). Yes, I +understand. + +PIM. I blame myself, I blame myself entirely. + +OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't do that, Mr. Pim. It was really Dinah's fault +for inflicting all our family history on you. + +PIM. Oh, but a charming young woman. I assure you I was very +much interested in all that she told me. (Getting up) Well, +Mrs.--er--Marden, I can only hope that you will forgive me for the +needless distress I have caused you to-day. + +OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't worry about that--please. + +PIM. And you will tell your husband--you will break the news to him? + +OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I will--break the news to him. + +PIM. You understand how it is that I thought it better to come to you +in the first place? + +OLIVIA. I am very glad you did. + +PIM (holding out his hand). Then I will say good-bye, and--er-- + +OLIVIA. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. Let us have it quite clear this time. +You never knew my husband, Jacob Telworthy, you never met him in +Australia, you never saw him on the boat, and nothing whatever +happened to him at Marseilles. Is that right? + +PIM. Yes, yes, that is so. + +OLIVIA. So that, since he was supposed to have died in Australia six +years ago, he is presumably still dead? + +PIM. Yes, yes, undoubtedly. + +OLIVIA (holding out her hand with a charming smile). Then good-bye, +Mr. Pim, and thank you so much for--for all your trouble. + +PIM. Not at all, Mrs. Marden. I can only assure you I-- + +DINAH (from the window). Hullo, here's Mr. Pim! (She comes in, +followed by BRIAN.) + +PIM (anxiously looking at the door in case MR. MARDEN should come in). +Yes, yes, I--er-- + +DINAH. Oh, Mr. Pim, you mustn't run away without even saying how do +you do! Such old friends as we are. Why, it is ages since I saw you! +Are you staying to tea? + +PIM. I'm afraid I-- + +OLIVIA. Mr. Pim has to hurry away, Dinah. You mustn't keep him. + +DINAH. Well, but you'll come back again? + +PIM. I fear that I am only a passer-by, Miss--er--Dinah. + +OLIVIA. You can walk with him to the gate, dear. + +PIM (gratefully to OLIVIA). Thank you. (He edges towards the window) +If you would be so kind, Miss Dinah-- + +BRIAN. I'll catch you up. + +DINAH. Come along then, Mr. Pim. (As they go out) I want to hear all +about your _first_ wife. You haven't really told me anything yet. + +(OLIVIA resumes her work, and BRIAN sits on the back of the sofa +looking at her.) + +BRIAN (awkwardly). I just wanted to say, if you don't think it cheek, +that I'm--I'm on your side, if I may be, and if I can help you at all +I should be very proud of being allowed to. + +OLIVIA (looking up at him). Brian, you dear. That's sweet of you . . . +But it's quite all right now, you know. + +BRIAN. Oh, I'm so glad. + +OLIVIA. Yes, that's what Mr. Pim came back to say. He'd made a mistake +about the name. (Smiling) George is the only husband I have. + +BRIAN (surprised). What? You mean that the whole thing--that +Pim--(With conviction) Silly ass! + +OLIVIA (kindly). Oh, well, he didn't mean to be. (After a pause) +Brian, do you know anything about the Law? + +BRIAN. I'm afraid not. I hate the Law. Why? + +OLIVIA (casually). Oh, I just--I was wondering--thinking about all the +shocks we've been through to-day. Second marriages, and all that. + +BRIAN. Oh! It's a rotten business. + +OLIVIA. I suppose there's nothing wrong in getting married to the +_same_ person twice? + +BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think. + +OLIVIA. Oh? + +BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice, don't +they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in church. + +OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it's rather a +nice idea. They ought to do it in England more. + +BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can work it. +(Anxiously) D'you think there's any chance, Olivia? + +OLIVIA (smiling). Every chance, dear. + +BRIAN (jumping up). I say, do you really? Have you squared him? I +mean, has he-- + +OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later on. + +BRIAN. Bless you. Righto. + +(As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the door. GEORGE +stands looking after him, and then turns to OLIVIA, who is absorbed in +her curtains. He walks up and down the room, fidgeting with things, +waiting for her to speak. As she says nothing, he begins to talk +himself, but in an obviously unconcerned way. There is a pause after +each answer of hers, before he gets out his next remark.) + +GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange. + +OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian--yes, isn't he? And such a nice +boy . . . + +GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? Hey? + +OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . . + +GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what? + +OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's any +doubt about it . . . + +GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about painting. + +OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear. + +GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in this +new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint like--like +Rubens or--or Reynolds? + +OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find his +directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. . . . + +GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what? + +OLIVIA. Oh yes! + +GEORGE. H'm! . . . Good-looking fellow. (There is rather a longer silence +this time, GEORGE continues to hope that he is appearing casual and +unconcerned. He stands looking at OLIVIA'S work for a moment.) + +GEORGE. Nearly finished 'em? + +OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there? + +GEORGE (looking round). Scissors? + +OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . . + +GEORGE. Where are you going to put 'em? + +OLIVIA (as if really wondering). I don't quite know. . . . I _had_ +thought of this room, but--I'm not quite sure. + +GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit. + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . + +GEORGE (walking over to the present curtains). H'm. They _are_ a bit +faded. + +OLIVIA (shaking out hers, and looking at them critically). Sometimes I +think I love them, and sometimes I'm not quite sure. + +GEORGE. Best way is to hang 'em up and see how you like 'em then. +Always take 'em down again. + +OLIVIA. That's rather a good idea, George! + +GEORGE. Best way. + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . I think we might do that. . . . The only thing is--(she +hesitates). + +GEORGE. What? + +OLIVIA. Well, the carpet and the chairs, and the cushions and things-- + +GEORGE. What about 'em? + +OLIVIA. Well, if we had new curtains-- + +GEORGE. You'd want a new carpet, eh? + +OLIVIA (doubtfully). Y--yes. Well, new chair-covers anyhow. + +GEORGE. H'm. . . . Well, why not? + +OLIVIA. Oh, but-- + +GEORGE (with an awkward laugh). We're not so hard up as all that, you +know. + +OLIVIA. No, I suppose not. (Thoughtfully) I suppose it would mean that +I should have to go up to London for them. That's rather a nuisance. + +GEORGE (extremely casual). Oh, I don't know. We might go up together +one day. + +OLIVIA. Well, of course if we _were_ up--for anything else--we could +just look about us, and see if we could find what we want. + +GEORGE. That's what I meant. + +(There is another silence. GEORGE is wondering whether to come to +closer quarters with the great question.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, by the way, George-- + +GEORGE. Yes? + +OLIVIA (innocently). I told Brian, and I expect he'll tell Dinah, that +Mr. Pim had made a mistake about the name. + +GEORGE (astonished). You told Brian that Mr. Pim-- + +OLIVIA. Yes--I told him that the whole thing was a mistake. It seemed +the simplest way. + +GEORGE. Olivia! Then you mean that Brian and Dinah think that--that we +have been married all the time? + +OLIVIA. Yes . . . They both think so now. + +GEORGE (coming close to her). Olivia, does that mean that you _are_ +thinking of marrying me? + +OLIVIA. At your old Registry Office? + +GEORGE (eagerly). Yes! + +OLIVIA. To-morrow? + +GEORGE. Yes! + +OLIVIA. Do you want me to _very_ much? + +GEORGE. My darling, you know I do! + +OLIVIA (a little apprehensive). We should have to do it very quietly. + +GEORGE. Of course, darling. Nobody need know at all. We don't _want_ +anybody to know. And now that you've put Brian and Dinah off the +scent, by telling them that Mr. Pim made a mistake--(He breaks off, +and says admiringly) That was very clever of you, Olivia. I should +never have thought of that. + +OLIVIA (innocently). No, darling. . . . You don't think it was wrong, +George? + +GEORGE (his verdict). An innocent deception . . . perfectly harmless. + +OLIVIA. Yes, dear, that was what I thought about--about what I was +doing. + +GEORGE. Then you will come to-morrow? (She nods.) And if we happen to +see the carpet, or anything that you want-- + +OLIVIA. Oh, what fun! + +GEORGE (beaming). And a wedding lunch at the Carlton, what? (She nods +eagerly.) And--and a bit of a honeymoon in Paris? + +OLIVIA. Oh, George! + +GEORGE (hungrily). Give us a kiss, old girl. + +OLIVIA (lovingly). George! + +(She holds up her cheek to him. He kisses it, and then suddenly takes +her in his arms.) + +GEORGE. Don't ever leave me, old girl. + +OLIVIA (affectionately). Don't ever send me away, old boy. + +GEORGE (fervently). I won't. . . . (Awkwardly) I--I don't think I would +have, you know. I--I-- + +(DINAH and BRIAN appear at the windows, having seen MR. PIM safely +off.) + +DINAH (surprised). Oo, I say! + +(GEORGE hastily moves away.) + +GEORGE. Hallo! + +DINAH (going up impetuously to him). Give _me_ one, too, George; Brian +won't mind. + +BRIAN. Really, Dinah, you are the limit. + +GEORGE (formally, but enjoying it). Do you mind, Mr. Strange? + +BRIAN (a little uncomfortably). Oh, I say, sir-- + +GEORGE. We'll risk it, Dinah. (He kisses her.) + +DINAH (triumphantly to BRIAN). Did you notice that one? That +wasn't just an ordinary affectionate kiss. It was a special +bless--you--my--children one. (to GEORGE) Wasn't it? + +OLIVIA. You do talk nonsense, darling. + +DINAH. Well, I'm so happy, now that Mr. Pim has relented about your +first husband-- + +(GEORGE catches OLIVIA'S eye and smiles; she smiles back; but they are +different smiles.) + +GEORGE (the actor). Yes, yes, stupid fellow Pim, what? + +BRIAN. Absolute idiot. + +DINAH.--And now that George has relented about _my_ first husband. + +GEORGE. You get on much too quickly, young woman. (to BRIAN) So you +want to marry my Dinah, eh? + +BRIAN (with a smile). Well, I do rather, sir. + +DINAH (hastily). Not at once, of course, George. We want to be engaged +for a long time first, and write letters to each other, and tell each +other how much we love each other, and sit next to each other when we +go out to dinner. + +GEORGE (to OLIVIA). Well, _that_ sounds fairly harmless, I think. + +OLIVIA (smiling). I think so. . . . + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). Then you'd better have a talk with me--er--Brian. + +BRIAN. Thank you very much, sir. + +GEORGE. Well, come along then. (Looking at his watch) I am going up to +town after tea, so we'd better-- + +DINAH. I say! Are you going to London? + +GEORGE (with the smile of the conspirator). A little business. Never +you mind, young lady. + +DINAH (calmly). All right. Only, bring me back something nice. + +GEORGE (to BRIAN). Shall we walk down and look at the pigs? + +BRIAN. Righto! + +OLIVIA. Don't go far, dear. I may want you in a moment. + +GEORGE. All right, darling, we'll be on the terrace. + + [They go out together. + +DINAH. Brian and George always try to discuss me in front of the pigs. +So tactless of them. Are you going to London, too, darling? + +OLIVIA. To-morrow morning. + +DINAH. What are you going to do in London? + +OLIVIA. Oh, shopping, and--one or two little things. + +DINAH. With George? + +OLIVIA. Yes. . . . + +DINAH. I say, wasn't it lovely about Pim? + +OLIVIA. Lovely? + +DINAH. Yes; he told me all about it. Making such a hash of things, I +mean. + +OLIVIA (innocently). Did he make a hash of things? + +DINAH. Well, I mean keeping on coming like that. And if you look at it +all round--well, for all he had to say, he needn't really have come at +all. + +OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I shouldn't quite say that, Dinah. (She +stands up and shakes out the curtains.) + +DINAH. I say, aren't they jolly? + +OLIVIA (demurely). I'm so glad everybody likes them. Tell George I'm +ready, will you? + +DINAH. I say, is _he_ going to hang them up for you? + +OLIVIA. Well, I thought he could reach best. + +DINAH. Righto! What fun! (At the windows) George! George! (to OLIVIA) +Brian is just telling George about the five shillings he's got in the +Post Office. . . . George! + +GEORGE (from the terrace). Coming! + +(He hurries in, the model husband, BRIAN follows.) + +OLIVIA. Oh, George, just hang these up for me, will you? + +GEORGE. Of course, darling. I'll get the steps from the library. + + [He hurries out. + +(BRIAN takes out his sketching block. It is obvious that his five +shillings has turned the scale. He bows to DINAH. He kisses OLIVIA'S +hand with an air. He motions to DINAH to be seated.) + +DINAH (impressed). What is it? + +BRIAN (beginning to draw). Portrait of Lady Strange. + +(GEORGE hurries in with the steps, and gets to work. There is a great +deal of curtain, and for the moment he becomes slightly involved in +it. However, by draping it over his head and shoulders, he manages to +get successfully up the steps. There we may leave him.) + +(But we have not quite finished with MR. PIM. It is a matter of honour +with him now that he should get his little story quite accurate before +passing out of the MARDENS' life for ever. So he comes back for the +last time; for the last time we see his head at the window. He +whispers to OLIVIA.) + +MR. PIM. Mrs. Marden! I've just remembered. His name was _Ernest_ +Polwittle--_not_ Henry. + +(He goes off happily. A curious family the MARDENS. Perhaps somebody +else would have committed bigamy if he had not remembered in time that +it was Ernest. . . . Ernest. . . . Yes. . . . Now he can go back with an +easy conscience to the Trevors.) + + + + + +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE + +A COMEDY IN ONE ACT + + + + +CHARACTERS + +KATE CAMBERLEY. +CYRIL NORWOOD (her lover). +DENNIS CAMBERLEY (her husband). + + * * * * * + +This play was first produced by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the Coliseum on +September 8, 1919, with the following cast: + +Dennis Camberley--GODFREY TEARLE. +Kate Camberley--MARY MALONE. +Cyril Norwood--EWAN BROOK. + + + + +THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE + + +(It is an evening of 1919 in KATE'S drawing-room. She is expecting +him, and the Curtain goes up as he is announced.) + +MAID. Mr. Cyril Norwood. + +(He comes in.) + +NORWOOD (for the MAID'S benefit, but you may be sure she knows). Ah, +good evening, Mrs. Camberley! + +KATE. Good evening! + +(They shake hands. NORWOOD is sleek and prosperous, in a morning coat +with a white slip to his waistcoat. He is good-looking in rather an +obvious way with rather an obvious moustache. Most women like him--at +least, so he will tell you.) + +NORWOOD (as soon as they are alone). My darling! + +KATE. Cyril! + +(He takes her hands and kisses them. He would kiss her face, but she +is not quite ready for this.) + +NORWOOD. You let me yesterday. Why mayn't I kiss you to-day? + +KATE. Not just yet, dear. I want to talk to you. Come and sit down. + +(They sit on the sofa together.) + +NORWOOD. You aren't sorry for what you said yesterday? + +KATE (looking at him thoughtfully, and then shaking her head). No. + +NORWOOD. Then what's happened? + +KATE. I've just had a letter from Dennis. + +NORWOOD (anxiously). Dennis--your husband? + +KATE. Yes. + +NORWOOD. Where does he write from? + +KATE. India. + +NORWOOD. Oh, well! + +KATE. He says I may expect him home almost as soon as I get the +letter. + +NORWOOD. Good Heavens! + +KATE. Yes. . . . + +NORWOOD (always hopeful). Perhaps he didn't catch the boat that he +expected to. Wouldn't he have cabled from somewhere on the way? + +KATE. You can't depend on cables nowadays. _I_ don't know--What are we +to do, Cyril? + +NORWOOD. You know what I always wanted you to do. (He takes her hands) +Come away with me. + +KATE (doubtfully). And let Dennis come home and find--an empty house? + +NORWOOD (eagerly). You are nothing to him, and he is nothing to you. A +war-wedding!--after you'd been engaged to each other for a week! And +forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent out to India--and you haven't +seen him since. + +KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that. + +NORWOOD. The world may say that you're his wife and he's your husband, +but--what do you know of him? He won't even be the boy you married. +He'll be a stranger whom you'll hardly recognise. And you aren't the +girl _he_ married. You're a woman now, and you're just beginning to +learn what love is. Come with _me_. + +KATE. It's true, it's true. But he _has_ been fighting for us. And to +come home again after those four years of exile, and find-- + +NORWOOD. Exile--that's making much too much of it. He's come through +the war safely, and he's probably had what he'd call a topping good +time. Like enough he's been in love half-a-dozen times himself +since--on leave in India and that sort of thing. India! Well, you +should read Kipling. + +KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don't know him. But I feel +that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight about +it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing what you +say, he would understand--and perhaps be glad of it. + +NORWOOD (uneasily). Really, darling, it's hardly a thing you can talk +over calmly with a husband, even if he--We don't want any unpleasantness, +and--er--(Taking her hands again) Besides, I want you, Kate. It +may be weeks before he comes back. We can't go on like this . . . Kate! + +KATE. Do you love me so very much? + +NORWOOD. My darling! + +KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week--in case he comes. I +don't want to seem to be afraid of him. + +NORWOOD (eagerly). And then? + +KATE. Then I'll come with you. + +NORWOOD (taking her in his arms). My darling! . . . There! And now what +are you going to do? Ask me to stay to dinner or what? + +KATE. Certainly not, sir. I'm going _out_ to dinner to-night. + +NORWOOD (jealously). Who with? + +KATE. You. + +NORWOOD (eagerly). At our little restaurant? (She nods) Good girl! +Then go and put on a hat, while I ring 'em up and see if they've got a +table. + +KATE. What fun! I won't be a moment. (She goes to the door) Cyril, you +will _always_ love me? + +NORWOOD. Of course I will, darling. (She nods at him and goes out. He +is very well pleased with himself when he is left alone. He goes to +the telephone with a smile) Gerrard 11,001. Yes . . . I want a table for +two. To-night . . . Mr. Cyril Norwood . . . Oh, in about half an hour . . . +Yes, for two. Is that all right? . . . Thank you. + +(He puts the receiver back and turns round to see DENNIS CAMBERLEY, +who has just come in. DENNIS is certainly a man now; very easily and +pleasantly master of himself and of anybody else who gets in his way.) + +NORWOOD (surprised). Hallo! + +DENNIS (nodding pleasantly). Hallo! + +NORWOOD (wondering who he is). You--er----? + +DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood. + +NORWOOD. You know my name? + +DENNIS. Oh yes, I've heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril Norwood. + +NORWOOD (stiffly). I don't think I've had the pleasure of--er---- + +DENNIS (winningly). Oh, but I'm sure you must have heard a good deal +about _me_. + +NORWOOD. Good God, you don't mean---- + +DENNIS. I do, indeed. (With a bow) Dennis Camberley, the missing +husband. (Pleadingly) You _have_ heard about me, _haven't_ you? + +NORWOOD. I--er--Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So you're back? + +DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. Norwood, +and sometimes--they do. . . . Even after four years. . . . But you _did_ +talk about me sometimes? + +NORWOOD. How did you know my name? + +DENNIS. A little bird told me about you. + +NORWOOD (turning away in anger). Pooh! + +DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the backs of +crocodiles, searching for--well, let us say, breakfast. He said to me +one morning: "Talking of parasites," he said, "do you know Mr. Cyril +Norwood?" he said, "because I could tell you an interesting story +about him," he said, "if you care to--" + +NORWOOD (wheeling round furiously). Look here, sir, we'd better have +it out quite plainly. I don't want any veiled insults and sneers from +you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has arisen, but we must +look facts in the face. You may be Mrs. Camberley's husband, but she +has not seen you for four years, and--well, she and I love each other. +There you have it. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS (anxiously). You don't feel that I have neglected her, Mr. +Norwood? You see, I couldn't come home for week-ends very well, and-- + +NORWOOD. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS (pleasantly). Well, what do you suggest? + +NORWOOD (taken aback). Really, sir, I--er-- + +DENNIS. You see, I feel so out of it all. I've been leading such a +nasty, uncivilised life for the last four years, I really hardly know +what is--what is being done. Now _you_ have been mixing in Society . . . +making munitions . . . + +NORWOOD (stiffly). I have been engaged on important work for the +Government of a confidential nature-- + +DENNIS. You, as I was saying, have been mixing in Society, engaged on +important work for the Government of a confidential nature---- + +NORWOOD. It was my great regret that I had no opportunity of +enlisting---- + +DENNIS. With no opportunity, as I was about to say, of enlisting, but +with many opportunities, fortunately, of making love to my wife. + +NORWOOD. Now look here, Mr. Camberley, I've already told you---- + +DENNIS (soothing him). But, my dear Mr. Norwood, I'm only doing what +you said. I'm looking facts in the face. (Surprised) You aren't +ashamed of having made love to my wife, are you? + +NORWOOD (impatiently). What are you going to do? That's all that +matters between you and me. What are you going to do? + +DENNIS. Well, that was what I was going to ask you. You're so much +more in the swim than I am. (Earnestly) What _is_ being done in +Society just now? You must have heard a good deal of gossip about it. +All your friends, who were also engaged on important work of a +confidential nature, with no opportunity of enlisting--don't they tell +you their own experiences? What _have_ the husbands been doing lately +when they came back from the front? + +NORWOOD (advancing on him angrily). Now, once and for all, sir---- + +(KATE comes in, with a hat in each hand, calling to NORWOOD as she +comes.) + +KATE. Oh, Cyril--which of these two hats--(she sees her +husband)--Dennis! + +DENNIS (looking at her steadfastly). How are _you_, Kate? + +KATE (stammering). You've--you've come back? (She puts the hats down.) + +DENNIS. I've come back. As I was telling Mr. Norwood. + +KATE (looking from one to the other). You--? + +DENNIS (smiling). Oh, we're quite old friends. + +NORWOOD (going to her). I've told him, Kate. + +(He takes her hands, and tries to look defiantly at DENNIS, though he +is not feeling like that at all.) + +KATE (looking anxiously at DENNIS). What are you going to do? + +(She can hardly make him out. He is different from the husband who +left her four years ago.) + +DENNIS. Well, that's what Cyril keeps asking me. (to NORWOOD) You +don't mind my calling you Cyril?--such an old friend of my wife's-- + +KATE (unable to make him out). Dennis! (She is frightened.) + +NORWOOD (soothingly). It's all right, dear. + +DENNIS. Do let's sit down and talk it over in a friendly way. + +KATE (going to him). Dennis, can you ever forgive me? We never ought +to have got married--we knew each other so little--you had to go away +so soon--I--I was going to write and tell you--oh, I wish-- + +DENNIS. That's all right, Kate. (He will not let her come too close to +him. He steps back and looks at her from head to feet) You've altered. + +KATE. That's just it, Dennis. I'm not the girl who-- + +DENNIS. You've grown four years younger and four years prettier. + +KATE (dropping her eyes). Have I? + +DENNIS. Yes. . . . You do your hair a new way. + +KATE (surprised). Do you like it? + +DENNIS. I love it. + +NORWOOD (coughing). Yes, well, perhaps we'd better-- + +DENNIS (with a start). I beg your pardon, Cyril. I was forgetting you +for the moment. Well, now do sit down, (NORWOOD and KATE sit down +together on the sofa, but DENNIS remains standing) That's right. + +KATE. Well? + +DENNIS (to KATE). You want to marry him, eh? + +NORWOOD. We have already told you the circumstances, Mr. Camberley. I +need hardly say how regrettable it is that--er--but at the same time +these--er--things will happen, and since it--er--has happened-- + +KATE. I feel I hardly know you, Dennis. Did I love you when I married +you? I don't know. It was so sudden. We had no time to find out +anything about each other. And now you come back--a stranger-- + +DENNIS (jerking his head at NORWOOD). And he's not a stranger, eh? + +KATE (dropping her eyes). N-no. + +DENNIS. You feel you know all about _him_? + +KATE. I--we--(She is unhappy.) + +NORWOOD. We have discovered that we love each other. (Taking her +hands) My darling one, this is distressing for you. Let _me_-- + +DENNIS (sharply). It wouldn't be distressing for her, if you didn't +keep messing her about. Why the devil can't you sit on a chair by +yourself? + +NORWOOD (indignantly). Really! + +KATE (freeing herself from him, and moving to the extreme end of the +sofa). What are you going to do, Dennis? + +DENNIS (looking at them thoughtfully, his chin on his hand). I don't +know. . . . It's difficult. I don't want to do anything melodramatic. I +mean (to KATE) it wouldn't really help matters if I did shoot him, +would it? + +(KATE looks at him without saying anything, trying to understand this +new man who has come into her life. NORWOOD swallows, and tries very +hard to say something) + +NORWOOD. I--I-- + +DENNIS (turning to him). You_ don't think so, do you? + +NORWOOD. I--I-- + +DENNIS. No, I'm quite sure you're right. It wouldn't really help. It +is difficult, isn't it? You see (to KATE) _you_ love _him_--(he waits +a moment for her to say it if she will, but she only looks at +him)--and _he_ says _he_ loves _you_, but at the same time I _am_ your +husband. . . . (He walks up and down thoughtfully, and then says suddenly +to NORWOOD) I'll tell you what--I'll fight you for her. + +NORWOOD (trying to be firm). I think we'd better leave this +eighteenth-century nonsense out of it. + +DENNIS (pleasantly). They fight in the twentieth century, too, Mr. +Norwood. Perhaps you hadn't heard what we've been doing these last +four years? Oh, quite a lot of it. . . . Well? + +NORWOOD. You don't wish me to believe that you're serious? + +DENNIS. Perfectly. Swords, pistols, fists, catch-as-catch-can--what +would you like? + +NORWOOD. I do not propose to indulge in an undignified scuffle for +the--er--lady of my heart. + +DENNIS (cheerfully). Nothing doing in scuffles, eh? All right, then, +I'll toss you for her. + +NORWOOD. Now you're merely being vulgar. (to KATE) My dear-- + +(She motions him back with her hand, but does not take her eyes off +DENNIS.) + +DENNIS. Really, Mr. Norwood, you're a little hard to please. If you +don't like my suggestions, perhaps you will make one of your own. + +NORWOOD. This is obviously a matter in which it is for the--er--lady +to choose. + +DENNIS. You think Mrs. Camberley should choose between us? + +NORWOOD. Certainly. + +DENNIS. What do you say, Kate? + +KATE. You are very generous, Dennis. + +DENNIS (after a pause). Very well, you shall choose. + +NORWOOD (complacently). Ah! + +DENNIS. Wait a moment, Mr. Norwood. (to KATE) When did you first meet +him? + +KATE. A year ago. + +DENNIS. And he's been making love to you for a year? (KATE bends her +head) He's been making love to you for a year? + +NORWOOD. I think, sir, that the sooner the lady makes her choice, and +brings this distressing scene to a close--After all, is it fair to her +to--? + +DENNIS. Are you fair to _me_? You've been making love to her for a +year. _I_ made love to her for a fort-night--four years ago. And now +you want her to choose between us. Is _that_ fair? + +NORWOOD. You hardly expect us to wait a year before she is allowed to +make up her mind? + +DENNIS. I waited four years for her out there. . . . However, I won't ask +you to wait a year. I'll ask you to wait for five minutes. + +KATE. What is it you want us to do, Dennis? + +DENNIS. I want you to listen to both of us, for five minutes each; +that's all. After all, we're your suitors, aren't we? You're going to +choose between us. Very well, then, you must hear what we have to say. +Mr. Norwood shall have five minutes alone with you in which to present +his case; five minutes in which to tell you how beautiful you +are. . . . and how rich he is . . . and how happy you'll be together. +And I shall have _my_ five minutes. + +NORWOOD (sneering). Five minutes in which to tell her lies about _me_, +eh? + +DENNIS. Damn it, you've had a whole year in which to tell her lies +about yourself; you oughtn't to grudge me five minutes. (to KATE) +Well? + +KATE. I agree, Dennis. + +DENNIS. Good. (He spins a coin, puts it on the back of his hand, and +says to NORWOOD) Call! + +NORWOOD. What on _earth_-- + +DENNIS. Choice of innings. + +NORWOOD. I never heard of anything so--Tails. + +DENNIS (uncovering it). Heads. You shall have first knock. + +NORWOOD (bewildered). What do you--I don't-- + +DENNIS. You have five minutes in which to lay your case before Mrs. +Camberley. (He looks at his watch) Five minutes--and then I shall come +back. . . . Is there a fire in the dining-room, Kate? + +KATE (smiling in spite of herself). A gas-fire; it isn't lit. + +DENNIS. Then I shall light it. (to NORWOOD) That will make the room +nice and warm for you by the time you've finished. (He goes to the +door and says again) Five minutes. + +(There is an awkward silence after he is gone. KATE waits for NORWOOD +to say something, but NORWOOD doesn't know in the least what is +expected of him.) + +NORWOOD (looking anxiously at the door). What's the fellow's game, eh? + +KATE. Game? + +NORWOOD. Yes. What's he up to? + +KATE. Is he up to anything? + +NORWOOD. I don't like it. Why the devil did he choose to-day to come +back? If he'd waited another week, we'd have been safely away +together. What's his game, I wonder? + +(He walks up and down, worrying it out.) + +KATE. I don't think he's playing a game. He's just giving me my +chance. + +NORWOOD. What chance? + +KATE. A chance to decide between you. + +NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think about +it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming away with +me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he up to? + +KATE (sitting down and talking to herself). You're quite right about +my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage in those early +days of the war--knowing nothing about each other. And then they come +back, and even the little one thought one did know is different. . . . I +suppose he feels the same about me. + +NORWOOD (to himself). Damn him! + +KATE (after a pause). Well, Cyril? + +NORWOOD (looking sharply round at her). Well? + +KATE. We haven't got very long. + +NORWOOD (looking at his watch). He really means to come back--in five +minutes? + +KATE. You heard him say so. + +NORWOOD (going up to her and speaking eagerly). What's the matter with +slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can slip out quietly. He +won't hear us. He'll come back and find us gone--well, what can he do? +Probably he'll hang about for a bit and then go to his club. We'll +have a bit of dinner; ring up your maid; get her to meet you with some +things, and go off by the night mail. Scotland--anywhere you like. Let +the whole business simmer down a bit. We don't want any melodramatic +eighteenth-century nonsense. + +KATE. Go out now, and not wait for him to have _his_ five minutes? + +NORWOOD (impatiently). What does he _want_ with five minutes? What's +the _good_ of it to him? Just to take a pathetic farewell of you, and +pretend that you've ruined his life, when all the time he's chuckling +in his sleeve at having got rid of you so easily. _I_ know these young +fellows. Some Major's wife in India is what _he's_ got his eye on. . . . +Or else he'll try fooling around with the hands-up business. You don't +want to be mixed up with any scandal of _that_ sort. No, the best +thing we can do--I'm speaking for _your_ sake, Kate--is to slip off +quietly, while we've got the chance. We can _write_ and explain all +that we want to explain. + +KATE (looking wonderingly at him--another man whom she doesn't know). +Is that playing quite fair to Dennis? + +NORWOOD. Good Lord, this isn't a game! Camberley may think so with his +tossing-up and all the rest of it, but you and I aren't children. +Everything's fair in a case like this. Put your hat on--quickly--(he +gets it for her)--here you are-- + +KATE (standing up). I'm not sure, Cyril. + +NORWOOD. What d'you mean? + +KATE. He expects me to wait for him. + +NORWOOD. If it comes to that, he expected you to wait for him four +years ago. + +KATE. Yes. . . . (Quietly) Thank you for reminding me. + +NORWOOD. Kate, don't be stupid. What's happened to you? Of course, I +know it's been beastly upsetting for you, all this--but then, why do +you want to go on with it? Why do you want _more_ upsetting scenes? + +You've got a chance now of getting out of it all, and--(He looks at +his watch) Good Lord! + +KATE. Is the five minutes over? + +NORWOOD. Quick, quick! (He puts his fingers to his lips) Quietly. (He +walks on tiptoe to the door.) + +KATE. Cyril! + +NORWOOD. H'sh! + +KATE (sitting down again). It's no good, Cyril, I must wait for him. + +(The door opens, and NORWOOD starts back quickly as DENNIS comes in.) + +DENNIS (looking at his watch). Innings declared closed. (to NORWOOD) +The dining-room is nicely warmed now, and I've left you an evening +paper. + +NORWOOD (going to KATE). Look here, Mr. Camberley, Kate and I-- + +DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley, no doubt, will tell me. + +(He holds the door open and waits politely for NORWOOD to go.) + +NORWOOD. I don't know what your game is-- + +DENNIS. You've never been in Mesopotamia, Mr. Norwood? + +NORWOOD. Never. + +DENNIS. It's a very trying place for the temper. . . . I'm waiting for +you. + +NORWOOD (irresolute). Well, I---- (He comes sulkily to the door) Well, +I shall come back for Kate in five minutes. + +DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley and I will be ready for you. You know your way? + + [NORWOOD goes out. + +(DENNIS shuts the door. He comes into the room and stands looking at +KATE.) + +KATE (uncomfortably). Well? + +DENNIS. No, don't move. I just want to look at you. . . . I've seen you +like that for four years. Don't move. . . . I've been in some dreary +places, but you've been with me most of the time. Just let's have a +last look. + +KATE. A last look? + +DENNIS. Yes. + +KATE. You're saying good-bye to me? + +DENNIS. I don't know whether it's to you, Kate. To the girl who has +been with me these last four years. Was that you? + +KATE (dropping her eyes). I don't know, Dennis. + +DENNIS. I wish to God I wasn't your husband. + +KATE. What would you do if you weren't my husband? + +DENNIS. Make love to you. + +KATE. Can't you do that now? + +DENNIS. Being your husband rather handicaps me, you know. I never +really stood a chance against the other fellow. + +KATE. I was to choose between you, you said. You think that I have +already made up my mind? + +DENNIS (smiling). I think so. + +KATE. And chosen him? + +DENNIS (shaking his head). Oh, no! + +KATE (surprised). You think I have chosen _you_? + +DENNIS (nodding). M'm. + +KATE (indignantly). Really, Dennis! Considering that I had practically +arranged to run away with him twenty minutes ago! You must think me +very fickle. + +DENNIS. Not fickle. Imaginative. + +KATE. What do you mean? And why are you so certain that I am going to +choose you? And why in that case did you talk about taking a last look +at me? And what--? + +DENNIS. Of course, we've only got five minutes, but I think that if +you asked your questions one at a time---- + +KATE (smiling). Well, you needn't _answer_ them all together. + +DENNIS. All right then, one at a time. Why am I certain that you will +choose me? Because for the first time in your life you have just been +alone with Mr. Cyril Norwood. That's what I meant by saying you were +imaginative. The Norwood you've been thinking yourself in love with +doesn't exist. I'm certain that you've seen him for the first time in +these last few minutes. Why, the Archangel Gabriel would have made a +hash of a five minutes like that; it would have been impossible for +him to have said the right thing to you. Norwood? Good Lord, he didn't +stand a chance. You were judging him all the time, weren't you? + +KATE (thoughtfully). You're very clever, Dennis. + +DENNIS (cheerfully). Four years' study of the Turkish character. + +KATE. But how do you know I'm not judging _you_ all the time? + +DENNIS. Of course you are. But there's all the difference in the world +between judging a stranger like me, and judging the man you thought +you were in love with. + +KATE. You _are_ a stranger to me. + +DENNIS. I know. That's why I said good-bye to the girl who had been +with me these last four years, the girl I had married. Well, I've said +good-bye to her. You're not my wife any longer, Kate; but if you don't +mind pretending that I'm not your husband, and just give me a chance +of making love to you--well, that's all I want. + +KATE. You're very generous, Dennis. + +DENNIS. No, I'm not. I'm very much in love; and for a man very much in +love I'm being rather less of a silly ass than usual. Why should you +love me? You fell in love with my uniform at the beginning of the war. +I was ordered out, and you fell in love with the departing hero. After +that? Well, I had four years--alone--in which to think about _you_, +and you had four years--with other men--in which to forget _me_. Is it +any wonder that--? + +(NORWOOD comes in.) + +NORWOOD (roughly). Well? + +DENNIS. You arrive just in time, Mr. Norwood. I was talking too much. +(to KATE) Mrs. Camberley, we are both at your disposal. Will you +choose between us, which one is to have the happiness of--serving you? + +NORWOOD (holding out his hand to her, and speaking in the voice of the +proprietor). Kate! + +(KATE goes slowly up to him with her hand held out.) + +KATE (shaking NORWOOD'S hand). Good-bye, Mr. Norwood. + +NORWOOD (astounded). Kate! (to DENNIS) You devil! + +DENNIS. And only a moment ago I was comparing you to the Archangel +Gabriel. + +NORWOOD (sneeringly to KATE). So you're going to be a loving wife to +him after all? + +DENNIS (tapping him kindly on the shoulder). You'll remember what I +said about Mesopotamia? + +NORWOOD (pulling himself together hastily). Good-bye, Mrs. Camberley. +I can only hope that you will be happy. + +(He goes out with dignity.) + +DENNIS (closing the door). Well, there we agree. + +(He comes back to her.) + +KATE. What a stupid little fool I have been. (She holds out her arms +to him) Dennis! + +DENNIS (retreating in mock alarm). Oh no, you don't! (He shakes a +finger at her) We're not going to rush it _this_ time. + +KATE (reproachfully). Dennis! + +DENNIS. I think you should call me Mr. Camberley. + +KATE (with a smile). Mr. Camberley. + +DENNIS. That's better. Now our courtship begins. (Bowing low) Madam, +will you do me the great honour of dining with me this evening? + +KATE (curtseying). I shall be charmed. + +DENNIS. Then let us hasten. The carriage waits. + +KATE (holding up the two hats). Which of these two chapeaux do you +prefer, Mr. Camberley? + +DENNIS. Might I express a preference for the black one with the pink +roses? + +KATE. It is very elegant, is it not? (She puts it on.) + +DENNIS. Vastly becoming, upon my life. . . . I might mention that I am +staying at the club. Is your ladyship doing anything to-morrow? + +KATE. Nothing of any great importance. + +(He offers his arm and she takes it.) + +DENNIS (as they go to the door). Then perhaps I may be permitted to +call round to-morrow morning about eleven, and make inquiries as to +your ladyship's health. + +KATE. It would be very obliging of you, sir. + + [They go out together. + + + + + +THE ROMANTIC AGE + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + +CHARACTERS + +HENRY KNOWLE. +MARY KNOWLE (his wife). +MELISANDE (his daughter). +JANE BAGOT (his niece). +BOBBY COOTE. +GERVASE MALLORY. +ERN. +GENTLEMAN SUSAN. +ALICE. + + * * * * * + +ACT I +The hall of MR. KNOWLE'S house. Evening. + +ACT II +A glade in the wood. Morning. + +ACT III +The hall again. Afternoon. + + * * * * * + +This play was first produced by Mr. Arthur Wontner at the Comedy +Theatre on October 18, 1920, with the following cast: + +Henry Knowle--A. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT. +Mary Knowle--LOTTIE VENNE. +Melisande--BARBARA HOFFE. +Jane--DOROTHY TETLEY. +Bobby--JOHN WILLIAMS. +Gervase Mallory--ARTHUR WONTNER. +Ern--ROY LENNOL. +Gentleman Susan--H.O. NICHOLSON. +Alice--IRENE RATHBONE. + + + + +THE ROMANTIC AGE + +ACT I + + +(We are looking at the inner hall of MR. HENRY KNOWLE'S country house, +at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors R. and L.--on the +right leading to the drawing-room, on the left to the entrance hall, +the dining-room and the library. At the back are windows--French +windows on the right, then an interval of wall, then casement +windows.) + +(MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, her daughter, MELISANDE, and her niece, JANE +BAGOT, are waiting for their coffee, MRS. KNOWLE, short and stoutish, +is reclining on the sofa; JANE, pleasant-looking and rather obviously +pretty, is sitting in a chair near her, glancing at a book; MELISANDE, +the beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows, +gazing into the night.) + +(ALICE, the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands in front +of MRS. KNOWLE, a little embarrassed because MRS. KNOWLE'S eyes are +closed. She waits there until JANE looks up from her book.) + +JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee? + +MRS. KNOWLE (opening her eyes with a start). Coffee. Oh, yes, coffee. +Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr. Anderson is very firm +about that. "No sugar, Mrs. Knowle," he said. "Oh, Dr. Anderson!" I +said. + +(ALICE has taken the tray to JANE, who pours out her own and her +aunt's coffee, and takes her cup off the tray.) + +JANE. Thank you. + +(ALICE takes the tray to MRS. KNOWLE.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. + +(ALICE goes over to MELISANDE, who says nothing, but waves her away.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (as soon as ALICE is gone). Jane! + +JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open? + +JANE. Oh, _no_, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I'm glad of that. It's so bad for the servants. (She +finishes her coffee.) + +JANE (getting up). Shall I put it down for you? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. + +(JANE puts the two cups down and goes back to her book. MRS. KNOWLE +fidgets a little on her sofa.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (There is no answer) Sandy! + +JANE. Melisande! + +(MELISANDE turns round and comes slowly towards her mother.) + +MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn't you hear me? + +MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other things. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the great +poet tells us. "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." +Tennyson, wasn't it? I know I wrote it in your album for you when you +were a little girl. It's so true. + +MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson. + +JANE (nodding). Kingsley, that's right. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it's the same thing. I know when _my_ mother used +to call me I used to come running up, saying, "What is it, Mummy, +darling?" And even if it was anything upstairs, like a handkerchief or +a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off happily, saying to +myself, "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." + +MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want doing? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I've forgotten. If only you'd come at +once, dear-- + +MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It's a wonderful night. +Midsummer Night. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will start +drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know where we +are. All these changes of the seasons are very inconsiderate to an +invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted, dear. Can you find me +another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it most important that the +small of the back should be well supported after a meal. (Indicating +the place) Just here, dear. + +JANE (jumping up with the cushion from her chair). Let me, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. (JANE arranges it.) + +JANE. Is that right? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson's sake. + +(JANE goes back to her book and MELISANDE goes back to her Midsummer +Night. There is silence for a little.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy! + +JANE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE (coming patiently down to them). Yes, Mother? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I've just remembered--(MELISANDE shudders.) +What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That comes of standing by the +open window in a treacherous climate like this. Close the window and +come and sit down properly. + +MELISANDE. It's a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I'm not +cold. + +MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder. Didn't +you see her, Jane? + +JANE. I'm afraid I wasn't looking, Aunt Mary. + +MELISANDE. I didn't shudder because I was cold. I shuddered because +you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder every time I +hear it. + +MRS. KNOWLE (surprised). What name, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by such a +wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were going to +call me Sandy? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I've told you, that was a mistake +of your father's. I suppose he got it out of some book. I should +certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him distinctly. I +thought he said Millicent--after your Aunt Milly. And not being very +well at the time, and leaving it all to him, I never really knew about +it until it was too late to do anything. I did say to your father, +"Can't we christen her again?" But there was nothing in the prayer +book about it except "riper years," and nobody seemed to know when +riper years began. Besides, we were all calling you Sandy then. I +think Sandy is a very pretty name, don't you, Jane? + +JANE. Oh, but don't you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary? I +mean really beautiful. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not for a +nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes me think +of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to whom she has +never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest with her hair +coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a pool. Not at all +the thing one wants for one's daughter. + +JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with "Jane," dear. Your +mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child from +floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it is my +duty to do so. + +MELISANDE (to her self ecstatically). Melisande! + +MRS. KNOWLE (to MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about floating in a pool +reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner to-night. You heard what +your father said? You must give cook a good talking to in the morning. +She has been getting very careless lately. I don't know what's come +over her. + +MELISANDE. _I've_ come over her. When _you_ were over her, everything +was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you take an interest +in it. I don't. I hate it. How can you expect the house to be run +properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you ever give it up and +make me do it when you know how I hate it? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I'm sure Jane here +doesn't hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a great help +she is. + +MELISANDE (warningly). It's no good your saying you like it, Jane, +after what you told me yesterday. + +JANE. I don't like it, but it doesn't make me miserable doing it. But +then I'm different. I'm not romantic like Melisande. + +MELISANDE. One doesn't need to be very romantic not to want to talk +about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of myself. If +I thought about myself I should disregard all the warnings that Dr. +Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on doing the +housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to think of you. I +want to see you married to some nice, steady young man before I +die--my handkerchief, Jane--(JANE gets up and gives her her +handkerchief from the other end of the sofa)--before I die (she +touches her eyes with her handkerchief), and no nice young man will +want to marry you, if you haven't learnt how to look after his house +for him. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). If that's marriage, I shall never get +married. + +JANE (shocked). Melisande, darling! + +MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to make +me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live another +hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't _want_ to live +another hundred years. I only want to live until my dear daughter, +Melisande"--I didn't say Sandy to him because it seemed rather +familiar--"I only want to live until my daughter Melisande is happily +married to some nice, steady young man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson," +I said, "and I shall be your lifelong debtor." He promised to do his +best. It was then that he mentioned about the cushion in the small of +the back after meals. And so don't forget to tell cook about the +bread-sauce, will you, dear? + +MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his food. +I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper interest +in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been married some +years, and told each other everything you did and saw before you met, +there isn't really anything to talk about at meals except food. And +you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. Nothing breaks up +the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, breakfast doesn't +matter, because he has his paper then; and after you have said, "Is +there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has said, "No," then he +doesn't expect anything more. I wonder sometimes why they go on +printing the newspapers. I've been married twenty years, and there has +never been anything in the paper yet. + +MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage like +that. Wasn't there ever _any_ kind of romance between you and Father? +Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one magic Midsummer +morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald twinkle in the +grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't there ever one +passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with one long kiss my +whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew"? Or did you talk +about bread-sauce _all_ the time? + +JANE (eagerly). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am quite +sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, as Sandy +suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at Surbiton. He used +to come down from London with his racquet and play tennis with us. And +then he would stay on to supper sometimes, and then after supper we +would go into the garden together--it was quite dark then, but +everything smelt so beautifully, I shall always remember it--and we +talked, oh, I don't know what about, but I knew somehow that I should +marry him one day. I don't think _he_ knew--he wasn't sure--and then +he came to a subscription dance one evening--I think Mother, your +grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because she +was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me +upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right pair +of shoes on--rather a tight pair--however, I put them on. And there +was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and +he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?" Well, of course, I was +only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round +Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don't know, but, +of course, I never told her. And when we got home after the dance, I +went up to her room--as soon as I'd got my shoes off--and said, +"Mother, I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "_Not_ Mr. +Knowle--Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, and +wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" and--Jane, +where's my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks +it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that's really all, +you know, except that--(she dabs her eyes again)--I'm afraid I'm +feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very +bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, dear, +why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and compose +myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't know what I +should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And +after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that +if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little +girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather +than cause either of them a moment's remorse. (She is up now) There! + +JANE. Shall I come with you? + +MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a little. +(She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the +men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your +Uncle Henry--if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of +course. + + [She goes. + +JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so +queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their +romances too. + +MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription +dances and wearing tight shoes? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you +know what I mean. + +MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has +just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history. +Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so +little? + +JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt Mary-- + +MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost everywhere +nowadays. There is no romance left. + +JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do +agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is no--(she searches for +the right word)--no _romance_ left. + +MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one shudder. + +JANE (doing her best). Positively shudder! + +MELISANDE. He meets Her at--(she shudders)--a subscription dance, or a +tennis party--(she shudders again) or--at _golf_. He calls upon her +mother--perhaps in a top hat--perhaps (tragically) even in a bowler +hat. + +JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders. + +MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his +income--discovers that he is a nice, steady young man--and decides +that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked to come again, he is +invited to parties; it is understood that he is falling in love with +the daughter. The rest of the family are encouraged to leave them +alone together--if the opportunity occurs, Jane. (Contemptuously) But, +of course, only if it occurs. + +JANE (awkwardly). Yes, dear. + +MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her. + +JANE (to herself ecstatically). Oh! + +MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she takes to +be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and tells Father. +They are engaged. They talk about each other as "my fiance." Perhaps +they are engaged for months and months-- + +JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. For years and years--and wherever they go, people make +silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if they go into a +room where the two of them are. And then they get married at last, and +everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly +jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell +everybody--they shout it out in the newspapers--_where_ they are going +for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about +bread-sauce. Oh, Jane, it's horrible. + +JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you? + +MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I, +Jane? + +JANE. Because you see, Sandy--I mean Melisande--you see, darling, this +_is_ the twentieth century, and-- + +MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my +lattice window. + +All in the blue unclouded weather +Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather, +The helmet and the helmet feather +Burned like one burning flame together, + As he rode down to Camelot. + +And from his blazoned baldric slung +A mighty silver bugle hung, +And as he rode his armour rung + As he rode down to Camelot. + +JANE. I know, dear. But of course they _don't_ nowadays. + +MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave +one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage +for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose. + +JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him? +(She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather--_you_ know. Rather +forward. + +MELISANDE. Forward! + +JANE (upset). Well, I mean--Well, of course, I suppose it was +different in those days. + +MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he +wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle? + +JANE. Well, of course, there _is_ that. + +MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes +back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope--for I have +been immured in my room--and I let myself down to him. He places me on +the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the +world--together for always! + +JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get _married_, I suppose, +darling, or do you--er-- + +MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest +marries us. + +JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes. + +MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince from +Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a country +which is sorely troubled by a dragon. + +JANE. By a what, dear? + +MELISANDE. A dragon. + +JANE. Oh, yes, of course. + +MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his kingdom to +anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens to be passing +through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the dragon devours +him. + +JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't _the_ one? + +MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused no +emotion in my heart. + +JANE. Oh, I'm so glad. + +MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes upon +the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed. + +JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow + +MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in blue +and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be allowed +to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the great hall on +my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our eyes meet. . . . Oh, +Jane! + +JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, Melisande. +They would have suited you so well. + +MELISANDE. Will they never come back again? + +JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress in blue +and gold nowadays. I mean men. + +MELISANDE. No. (She sighs) Well, I suppose I shall never marry. + +JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't have +time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I quite +agree with everything you say, and of course it must have been +thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still here we +are, and (with a wave of the hand)--and what I mean is--here we are. + +MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and to +make the ordinary commonplace marriage? + +JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was the +right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't say +beautiful--pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not very clever +perhaps, but making enough money---- + +MELISANDE (carelessly). It sounds rather like Bobby. + +JANE (confused). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else particularly. +It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I was just +describing the sort of man without thinking of any one in---- + +MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right. + +JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to _you_. + +MELISANDE (firmly). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you solemnly that if +you think you are going to leave me and Bobby alone together this +evening---- (Voices are heard outside.) Well, I warn you. + +JANE (in a whisper). Of course not, darling. (With perfect tact) And, +as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the most----Ah, here you are +at last! We wondered what had happened to you! + +(Enter BOBBY and MR. KNOWLE. JANE has already described BOBBY for us. +MR. KNOWLE is a pleasant, middle-aged man with a sense of humour, +which he cultivates for his own amusement entirely.) + +BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (He goes towards them.) + +JANE (laughing). Very. + +(MELISANDE gets up as BOBBY comes, and moves away.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget what I +said about the bread-sauce, will you? + +MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What you +said? + +MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that you +should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between +bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there is +no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy chicken, +such as we had to-night, but that a properly made bread-sauce is a +necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to be obtained. + +MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A little +quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer Night. Why +aren't you two out in the garden looking for fairies? + +BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be out. +D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out. + +BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take _you_ out. If we meet any of +Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me. + +MELISANDE (looking across warningly at her). Jane---- + +JANE (awkwardly). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande and I--I +promised Sandy--we---- + +MR. KNOWLE (putting her arm firmly through his). Nonsense. I'm not +going to have my niece taken away from me, when she is only staying +with us for such a short time. Besides I insist upon being introduced +to Titania. I want to complain about the rings on the tennis-lawn. +They must dance somewhere else. + +JANE (looking anxiously at MELISANDE). You see, Uncle Henry, I'm not +feeling very---- + +MELISANDE (resigned) All right, Jane. + +JANE (brightly). All right, Uncle Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE (very brightly). It's all right, Bobby. + +JANE. Come along! (They go to the open windows together.) + +MR. KNOWLE (as they go). Any message for Oberon, if we meet him? + +MELISANDE (gravely). No, thank you, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose. + +(JANE laughs as they go out together.) + +(Left alone, MELISANDE takes up a book and goes to the sofa with it, +while BOBBY walks about the room unhappily, whistling to himself. He +keeps looking across at her, and at last their eyes meet.) + +MELISANDE (putting down her book). Well, Bobby? + +BOBBY (awkwardly). Well, Sandy? + +MELISANDE (angrily). Don't call me that; you know how I hate it. + +BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And your +father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say anything. + +MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes a time +when it is almost useless to say things to them. + +BOBBY (eagerly). I never mind your saying things to _me_, Sandy--I +mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, really I shan't. Of course, I +know I'm not worthy of you, and all that, but--I say, Melisande, isn't +there _any_ hope? + +MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that again. + +BOBBY (coming to her). I know you did, but I must. I can't believe +that you-- + +MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like that +again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that it +shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not even +Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they propose to a +girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of the country and +shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to do. But I did try +and make it easy for _you_, Bobby. (Sadly) And now you're beginning +all over again. + +BOBBY (awkwardly). I though perhaps you might have changed your mind. +Lots of girls do. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). Lots of girls! Is that how you think of +me? + +BOBBY. Well, your mother said--(He breaks off hurriedly.) + +MELISANDE (coldly). Have you been discussing me with my mother? + +BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on. + +BOBBY. Well, I didn't _discuss_ you with your mother. She just +happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and that they +always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be downhearted, +because-- + +MELISANDE. That _you_ needn't? You mean you _told_ her? + +BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out. + +MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, you went +and _told_ her! And then I suppose you went and told the cook, and +_she_ said that her brother's young woman was just the same, and then +you told the butcher, and _he_ said, "You stick to it, sir. All women +are alike. My missis said 'No' to me the first time." And then you +went and told the gardeners--I suppose you had all the gardeners +together in the potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it--and +when you had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go +and tell the postman," and then-- + +BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair. + +MELISANDE. Oh, what a world! + +BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair. + +MELISANDE (picking up her book). Father and Jane are outside, Bobby, +if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I suppose they know +already. (She pretends to read.) + +BOBBY. I say, you know--(He doesn't quite know what to say. There is +an awkward silence. Then he says humbly) I'm awfully sorry, Melisande. +Please forgive me. + +MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). That's nice of you, Bobby. Please +forgive _me_. I wasn't fair. + +BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your +mother. And it sort of came out with _her_. She began talking about +you-- + +MELISANDE. _I_ know. + +BOBBY. But I never told anybody else. + +MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother. + +BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should mind +so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't help +falling in love with you, and--well, it _is_ a sort of a compliment to +you, isn't it?--even if it's only me. + +MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the +compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so--so unromantic. +(After a pause) Sometimes I think I shall never marry. + +BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do _like_ me, don't you? + +MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't +say beautiful-- + +BOBBY. I should hope not! + +MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable--not very clever, +perhaps, but making enough money-- + +BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad. + +MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more! + +BOBBY. What sort of things? + +MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so--so ordinary! + +BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did you? + +MELISANDE. So--commonplace. So--unromantic. + +BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry and all +that, if that's what you mean by romantic, but--commonplace! I'm +blessed if I see how you make out that. + +MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings-- + +BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings. + +MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass! + +(BOBBY goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his clothes.) + +BOBBY (looking back at her). Well? + +MELISANDE. Well! + +BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong. + +MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give +myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my +prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how +can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like that! + +BOBBY (looking at it). What's the matter with it? It's what every +other fellow wears. + +MELISANDE (contemptuously). What every other fellow wears! And you +think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what every other fellow +talks, and eat what every other--I suppose _you_ didn't like the +bread-sauce this evening? + +BOBBY (guardedly). Well, not as bread-sauce. + +MELISANDE (nodding her head). I thought so, I thought so. + +BOBBY (struck by an idea). I say, you didn't make it, did you? + +MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it? + +BOBBY. I thought perhaps--You know, I really don't know what you _do_ +want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean-- + +MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did. + +BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is _he_ going to do +the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I don't. + +MELISANDE (shaking her head gently at him). No, I'm sure you don't, +Bobby. + +BOBBY (still trying, however). I suppose it's because he's doing the +cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. He sounds a funny +sort of chap; I should like to see him. + +MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him. + +BOBBY (jealously). Have you seen him? + +MELISANDE. Only in my dreams. + +BOBBY (relieved). Oh, well. + +MELISANDE (dreamily to herself). Perhaps I shall never see him in this +world--and then I shall never marry. But if he ever comes for me, he +will come not like other men; and because he is so different from +everybody else, then I shall know him when he comes for me. He won't +talk about bread-sauce--billiards--and the money market. He won't wear +a little black suit, with a little black tie--all sideways. (BOBBY +hastily pulls his tie straight.) I don't know how he will be dressed, +but I know this, that when I see him, that when my eyes have looked +into his, when his eyes have looked into mine-- + +BOBBY. I say, steady! + +MELISANDE (waking from her dream). Yes? (She gives a little laugh) +Poor Bobby! + +BOBBY (appealingly). I say, Sandy! (He goes up to her.) + +(MRS. KNOWLE has seized this moment to come back for her handkerchief. +She sees them together, and begins to walk out on tiptoe.) + +(They hear her and turn round suddenly.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a whisper). Don't take any notice of me. I only just +came for my handkerchief. (She continues to walk on tiptoe towards the +opposite door.) + +MELISANDE (getting up). We were just wondering where you were, Mother. +Here's your handkerchief. (She picks it up from the sofa.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (still in the voice in which you speak to an invalid). +Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you--I was just going-- + +MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to +Bobby, won't you? + +MRS. KNOWLE (with a happy smile, hoping for the best). Yes, my +darling. + +MELISANDE (going to the windows). That's right. (She stops at the +windows and holds out her hands to the night)-- + +The moon shines bright: In such a night as this +When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees +And they did make no noise, in such a night +Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, +And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents, +Where Cressid lay that night. In such a night +Stood Dido with a willow in her hand, +Upon the wild sea banks, and waft her love +To come again to Carthage. + +(She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling voice) In such +a night! Ah! + + [She goes to it. + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a different voice). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. Coote? + +BOBBY (turning back to her with a start). Oh--er--yes? + +MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you Bobby, +mayn't I? + +BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle. + +MRS. KNOWLE (archly). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of a better +name? + +BOBBY (wondering if he ought to call her MARY). Er--I'm--I'm afraid I +don't quite-- + +MRS. KNOWLE. Mother. + +BOBBY. Oh, but I say-- + +MRS. KNOWLE (giving him her hand). And now come and sit on the sofa +with me, and tell me all about it. + +(They go to the sofa together.) + +BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle-- + +MRS. KNOWLE (shaking a finger playfully at him). Not Mrs. Knowle, +Bobby. + +BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think--I mean Sandy and I--we aren't-- + +MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has +refused you again. + +BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other day +was true. Girls don't know their own minds. + +BOBBY (ruefully). I think Sandy knows hers--about me, anyhow. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet +said--Shakespeare, or was it the other man?--"Faint heart never won +fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would never have +won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he came again--like +Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a revolver, and threatened to shoot +himself. I was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I +loved him. "Henry," I said, "I am yours." He took me in his +arms--putting down the revolver first, of course. I have never +regretted my surrender, Mr. Coote. (With a sigh) Ah, me! We women are +strange creatures. + +BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot myself. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very warm-hearted. +I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you are taking too +gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it. + +BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her again. +I know when I'm not wanted. + +MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and I-- + +BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I +practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to you this +time. + +MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how should +I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not? + +BOBBY. Well, of course--I mean I haven't really said anything, have I? +Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about things. + +MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she gets it +from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was all the +result of being christened in that irreligious way--I quite thought he +said Millicent--and reading all those books, instead of visiting the +sick as I used to do. I was quite a little Red Riding Hood until Henry +sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE and JANE come in by the window, +and she turns round towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was +wondering where you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all +about his prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get +your feet wet, I hope. + +JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary. + +MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been talking +to the fairies--haven't we, Jane? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see Sandy? + +MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania--and Peters. He had an +appointment, apparently--but not with Titania. + +JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the +morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an +unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a mistake. + +MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about it as +you. He is doing his best to remedy the error. + +MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I have been +through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know about. + +MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What's the matter, my love? Indigestion? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my lips +are sealed. I shall suffer my cross--my mental cross--in silence. + +JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary? + +MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (To Heaven) My only daughter has +left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece has offered to +help me out of my--to help me. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Mr. +Coote. + +BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (in a loud whisper) what +Shakespeare said. (She presses his hand and holds it) Good-night! +Good-night! . . . Good-night! + +MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he said, +"Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I could +say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE looks at him severely, +and then, without saying anything, goes over to him and holds up her +cheek.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well. + +MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane. + +JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary. + +(MRS. KNOWLE goes to the door, BOBBY hurrying in front to open it for +her.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (at the door). I shall _not_ sleep well. I shall lie awake +all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much distressed. "Dr. Anderson," +I shall say, "it is not your fault. I lay awake all night, thinking of +my loved ones." In five minutes, Jane. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the library, if +anybody wants to think of me--or say good-night to me--or anything +like that. + +JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now, Uncle Henry. (She +goes up to him.) + +MR. KNOWLE (kissing her). Good-night, dear. + +JANE. Good-night. + +MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss me--what about +you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library and have a smoke first? + +BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather tired +to-day, somehow. + +MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a business this +is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she should come back, +Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she will find it in the +library--just above the back of the armchair nearest the door. [He +goes out. + +JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden? + +BOBBY (gloomily). Yes--about five minutes ago. + +JANE (timidly). I'm so sorry, Bobby. + +BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (After a pause) Don't let's +talk about it. + +JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I _had_ to +say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did you? + +BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind. + +JANE (gently). I mind very much when my friends are unhappy. + +BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (He stands up, buttons his coat, and looks at +himself) I say, do _you_ see anything wrong with it? + +JANE. Wrong with what? + +BOBBY. My clothes. (He revolves slowly.) + +JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully. + +BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she means half +the time. + +JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what you +mean. She's so (searching for the right word)--so _romantic_. + +BOBBY (eagerly). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of living up to. +I say, have a cigarette, won't you? + +JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do +feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who marries her. + +BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that? + +JANE. Yes. She's too (getting the right word at last)--too _romantic_. + +BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about doing +deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but when one +marries and settles down--you know what I mean? + +JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to Melisande +only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I happen to +like the twentieth century. That's all. + +BOBBY. I see what you mean. + +JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen on +games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else wears--as long as +they fit well, of course--and to talk about the ordinary things that +everybody talks about. Of course, Melisande would say that that was +very stupid and unromantic of me---- + +BOBBY. I don't think it is at all. + +JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do understand so +wonderfully. + +BOBBY (with a laugh). I say, that's rather funny. I was just thinking +the same about you. + +JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that we are +really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't know +whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make friends very +easily. + +BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends? + +JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly think of +any--not what you call real friends. + +BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each other all +your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you? + +JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I could +never tell even her. (Impressively) I could never show her my inmost +heart. + +BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I bet +there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything. + +JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. That +sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be liked. + +BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit +horrid. + +JANE. How nice of you. (She gets up) Well, I must be going, I suppose. + +BOBBY. What's the hurry? + +JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes. + +BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down again, +won't you? + +JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. (Holding +out her hand) Good-night, Bobby. + +BOBBY (taking it). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light your candle +for you. + +JANE. How nice of you! + +(She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door +together.) + +BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself. + +JANE (at the door). Well, if you are, we'd better put the lights out. + +BOBBY. Righto. (He puts them out.) I say, what a night! (The moonlight +streams through the windows on them.) You'll hardly want a candle. + + [They go out together. + +(The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to ring. +After a little interval, ALICE comes in, turns on the light, and looks +round the hall. She is walking across the hall to the drawing-room +when MR. KNOWLE comes in from behind her, and she turns round.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice? + +ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it? + +ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he wondered +if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how very sorry he +was to trouble you---- + +MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all--particularly if Peters +is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if it's not +troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And ask the +gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the door-mat. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is about +to bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out, and returns a moment later) He says, +thank you very much, sir, but he really won't come in, and he's very +sorry indeed to trouble you about the petrol. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him. + +ALICE (hopefully). Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present Mr. +Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much honoured if he +will drink a glass of whiskey with me before proceeding on his +journey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. + +MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. + +ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out. In a little while she comes back +followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in a long +cloak.) Mr. Gervase Mallory. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see you. +(They shake hands.) + +GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for bothering +you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance. + +MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far? + +GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty miles +away. Do you know it? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as far +away as that. + +GERVASE (with a laugh). Well, perhaps only by the way I came. The fact +is I've lost myself rather. + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to have come +within five miles of us. + +GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now that you +_are_ here. + +GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you. + +(ALICE comes in.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE puts down the whiskey.) You've +told Peters? + +ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now. + +MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE goes out.) You'll have some whiskey, +won't you? + +GERVASE. Thanks very much. + +(He comes to the table.) + +MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make yourself +comfortable? + +GERVASE. Er--thanks. I don't think---- (He smiles to himself and keeps +his cloak on.) + +MR. KNOWLE (busy with the drinks). Say when. + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +MR. KNOWLE. And soda? + +GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks! + +(He takes the glass.) + +MR. KNOWLE (giving himself one). I'm so glad you came, because I have +a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives me cough-mixture, +I insist on somebody else in the house having cough-mixture too. A +glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just before going to bed---- +(He looks up) But do take your coat off, won't you, and sit down and +be comfortable? + +GERVASE. Er--thanks very much, but I don't think---- (With a shrug and +a smile) Oh, well! (He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. +He is in fancy dress--the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold of +MELISANDE'S dream.) + +(MR. KNOWLE turns round to him again just as he has put his cloak +down. He looks at GERVASE in amazement.) + +MR. KNOWLE (pointing to his whiskey glass). But I haven't even begun +it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port. + +GERVASE (laughing). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder what on earth +I'm doing. + +MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth _I'd_ been doing. + +GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at Collingham. + +MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably. + +GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in--or take my cloak off. + +MR. KNOWLE (inspecting him). It becomes you extraordinarily well, if I +may say so. + +GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it when +other people are in ordinary clothes. + +MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. I +don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but +(looking at himself) I am sure that I could have found something more +expressive of my emotions than this. + +GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, Davy." + +MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed. + +GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a whiskey and +soda. + +MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette, too? + +GERVASE. May I have one of my own? + +MR. KNOWLE. Do. + +GERVASE (feeling for it). If I can find it. They were very careless +about pockets in the old days. I had a special one put in somewhere, +only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, here it is. (He takes a +cigarette from his case, and after trying to put the case back in his +pocket again, places it on the table.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Match? + +GERVASE. Thanks. (Picking up his whiskey) Well, here's luck, and--my +most grateful thanks. + +MR. KNOWLE (raising his glass). May you slay all your dragons. + +GERVASE. Thank you. (They drink.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw a map +outside in the hall. + +GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was too much +interested in your prints. + +MR. KNOWLE (eagerly). You don't say that you are interested in prints? + +GERVASE. Very much--as an entire amateur. + +MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the art +began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I have +something in the library--but of course I mustn't take up your time +now. If you could bear to come over another day--after all, we are +neighbours---- + +GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it. + +MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it because +you seem to have lost your way so completely---- + +GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different in the +moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on +afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your +hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in +one afternoon. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea. + +GERVASE. That will be ripping. (Getting up) Well, I suppose I ought to +be getting on. (He picks up his cloak.) + +MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the way. + +GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's. + +(They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking at the +casement windows.) + +MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (He switches off the +lights, and the moon streams through the windows) Just look. + +GERVASE (with a deep sigh). Wonderful! + + [They go out together. + +(The hall is empty for a moment. Then GERVASE reappears. He has +forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and on his way out again +stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking through the casement +windows.) + +(MELISANDE comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and at the +same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. It is He! +The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each other. . . . Silently +he makes obeisance to her; silently she acknowledges it. . . . Then he is +gone.) + + + + +ACT II + +(It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The scene is a +glade in a wood a little way above the village of Hedgling.) + + +GERVASE MALLORY, still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak on, +comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He takes +off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns round, and, +seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While he is looking he +hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round with a start; the +whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries to get to his cloak. +It is too late. ERN, a very small boy, comes through the trees into +the glade. GERVASE gives a sigh of resignation and stands there. ERN +stops in the middle of his tune and gazes at him. + +ERN. Oo--er! Oo! (He circles slowly round GERVASE.) + +GERVASE. I quite agree with you. + +ERN. Oo! Look! + +GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the +back--take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . . Been all +round? Good! + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very difficult. +Do you mind if I sit down? + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE (sitting down on a log). I gather that I have your consent. I +thank you. + +ERN. Oo! Look! (He points at GERVASE'S legs.) + +GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed those +before? + +ERN (sitting down in front of GERVASE). Oo! + +GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a walk in +a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say "Oo." What +does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you don't walk +all round _him_ and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle George wear when +he's reaping? I suppose you don't--By the way, I wish you'd tell me +your name. (ERN gazes at him dumbly.) Oh, come! They must have told +you your name when you got up this moving. + +ERN (smiling sheepishly). Ern. + +GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? I am very glad to meet you, Mr. +Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN grins) Thank you. + +ERN (tapping himself). I'm Ern. + +GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory. + +ERN. Ern. + +GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, you +know, because then we never get any farther. Once an introduction is +over, Mr. Hearne, we are-- + +ERN. Ern. + +GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But now--Oh, I see +what you mean. Ern--short for Ernest? + +ERN (nodding). They calls me Ern. + +GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger I +shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest-- (getting up) Just excuse me a +moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree has. It must be a +Pomeranian. (He folds his cloak upon it and sits down again) That's +better. Now we can talk comfortably together. I don't know if there's +anything you particularly want to discuss--nothing?--well, then, I +will suggest the subject of breakfast. + +ERN (grinning). 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. You've _had_ yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of course, you're +wondering why I haven't had mine. + +ERN. Bacon fat. (He makes reminiscent noises.) + +GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what +happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a motor +car of your own. + +ERN. Don't like moty cars. + +GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree with +you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't broken +down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if you're +married or anything of that sort, but I think even your rough stern +heart would have been moved by that vision of loveliness which I saw +last night. (He is silent for a little, thinking of her.) Well, then, +I lost my way. There I was--ten miles from anywhere--in the middle of +what was supposed to be a short cut--late at night--Midsummer +Night--what would _you_ have done, Ernest? + +ERN. Gone 'ome. + +GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know where +home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen the +Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or any wise +man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of Her. + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . Have you +ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer Night--I don't mean just +for a minute or two, but all through the night until the dawn came? +You aren't really alone, you know. All round you there are little +whisperings going on, little breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is +out hunting; somebody stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt +of yesterday; somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, +and then, finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little +head back under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies +are out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in +them last night. I heard them whispering. + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE (coming out of his thoughts with a laugh). Well, of course, I +can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about thinking that +there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and bull's-eyes. Well, +then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up suddenly and it was +morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical morning--but, of course, +_you_ were just settling down to business then. + +ERN. Oo! (He makes more reminiscent noises.) + +GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, breakfast. + +ERN. 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old friend, +Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, has got an +estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his simple meal +with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you didn't do, +young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on a +pocket-handkerchief--one of my sister's, unfortunately--and then I +came out to look for breakfast. And suddenly, whom should I meet but +my old friend, Ernest, the same hearty fellow, the same inveterate +talker as when we shot dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay. +(Shaking his hand) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about +it? + +ERN. 'Ad my-- + +GERVASE. S'sh. (He gets up) Now then--to business. Do you mind looking +the other way while I try to find my purse. (Feeling for it.) Every +morning when you get up, you should say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big +boy now and I've got pockets in my trousers." And you should feel very +sorry for the poor people who lived in fairy books and had no trousers +to put pockets in. Ah, here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very +carefully. Where do you live? + +ERN. 'Ome. + +GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, how +far away is your home? (ERN grins and says nothing) A mile? (ERN +continues to grin) Half a mile? (ERN grins) Six inches? + +ERN (pointing). Down there. + +GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this-- (giving him +half-a-crown)-- + +ERN. Oo! + +GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you--and I want you to ask +your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, listen +very carefully, because we are coming to the important part. +Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk--and anything +else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because your old +friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is starving by +the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket quickly, I'll +give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a week. (Very +earnestly) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and emotion of which I am +capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you got that? + +ERN (nodding). Going 'ome. (He looks at the half-crown again.) + +GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But--returning with breakfast. Starving +man--lost in forest--return with basket--save life. (To himself) I +believe I could explain it better to a Chinaman. (to ERN) Now then, +off you go. + +ERN (as he goes off). 'Ad my breakfast. + +GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine. + +(GERVASE walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as he goes +down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another stranger in the +distance.) + +GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (He walks towards the log) +Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (He puts on his +coat.) + +(A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of SUSAN, comes in singing. +He sees GERVASE sitting on the log.) + +SUSAN (with a bow). Good morning, sir. + +GERVASE. (looking round). Good morning. + +SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not +discommode you. + +GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on. + +SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there. + +GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again? + +SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (Taking off his hat) Would +it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few minutes? + +GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? Have you +come far this morning? + +SUSAN. Three or four miles--a mere nothing on a morning like this. +Besides, what does the great William say? + +GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say? + +SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way. + +GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes. + +SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry? + +GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you merry? + +SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say? + +GERVASE (trying hard). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've got me there. +I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he say? + +SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of Empires +ridiculous. + +GERVASE. Emerson, of course. Silly of me. + +SUSAN. So you see, sir--I am well, the day is well, all is well. + +GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great Percy--(to +himself) that's got him. + +SUSAN (at a loss). The--er--great Percy? + +GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! + +SUSAN (eagerly). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, there's a poet, +Mr.--er--I don't think I quite caught your name. + +GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory--to be referred to by +posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase. + +SUSAN. Not a poet, too? + +GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally. + +SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit--like myself. I am very glad +to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you to converse +with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE bows.) Generally called Master +Susan in these parts, or sometimes Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling +Peddler by profession. + +GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure. + +SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (He begins to undo his +pack,) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I may so far +venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, or +collar-studs? + +GERVASE (smiling). Well, no, not at this actual moment. On almost any +other day perhaps--but no, not this morning. + +SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing--_en passant_, as the +French say. (He brings out a paper bag from his pack.) Would the fact +of my eating my breakfast in this pleasant resting place detract at +all from your appreciation of the beautiful day which Heaven has sent +us? + +GERVASE. Eating your _what_? + +SUSAN. My simple breakfast. + +GERVASE (shaking his head). I'm very sorry, but I really don't think I +could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest--I don't know if you know +Ernest? + +SUSAN. The great Ernest? + +GERVASE (indicating with his hand). No, the very small one--Well, +_he_ was telling me all about the breakfast he'd just had, and now +_you're_ showing me the breakfast you're just going to have--no, I +can't bear it. + +SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do me the +honour of joining me at my simple repast? + +GERVASE (jumping up excitedly). The honour of joining you!--the +_honour_! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why they call you Gentleman +Susan. (Shaking his head sadly) But no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I +should eat too much. Besides, Ernest may come back. No, I will wait. +It wouldn't be fair. + +SUSAN (unpacking his breakfast). Bacon or cheese? + +GERVASE. Cheese--I mean bacon--I mean--I say, you aren't serious? + +SUSAN (handing him bread and cheese). I trust you will find it up to +your expectations. + +GERVASE (taking it). I say, you really--(Solemnly) Master Susan, with +all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I +say "Thank you." (He takes a bite) Thank you. + +SUSAN (eating also). Please do not mention it. I am more than repaid +by your company. + +GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to be +your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful +cheese. + +SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it. + +GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for this +delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your boot-laces. Nay, +more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your buttons. Your +profession would then be gone. + +SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence? + +GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, nothing +less than half-a-crown will satisfy me. + +SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more. + +GERVASE (with a sigh). Very well, then. (He begins to feel in his +pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress. SUSAN opens his +eyes at it, and then goes on eating. GERVASE finds his purse and +produces sixpence, which he gives to SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (He +resumes his breakfast.) + +SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but you are not +by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road? + +GERVASE. Do you mean professionally? + +SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and +sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human +Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I +wondered-- + +(He glances at GERVASE's legs, which are uncovered. GERVASE hastily +wraps his coat round them.) + +GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . . . +Er--my costume-- + +SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to have +inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free world. + +GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe. + +SUSAN (with a bow). I congratulate you on your bathing costume. + +GERVASE. Not at all. + +SUSAN. You live near here then? + +GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car. + +SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away. + +GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely. + +SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there. + +GERVASE (surprised). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have lost my +way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. And I never +knew! + +SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No. Not yet. + +SUSAN. Get married. + +GERVASE. What? + +SUSAN. Take my advice and get married. + +GERVASE. You recommend it? + +SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you marry the +right woman. + +GERVASE. Oh? + +SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of happiness. + +GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife a good +deal. + +SUSAN (smiling). But then I come back to her a good deal. + +GERVASE (thoughtfully). Yes, that must be rather jolly. + +SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I came +upon you here this morning? + +GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well---- + +SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. When +you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You have your +adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have your adventure +again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second time. You can say +the things which you didn't quite say the first time, and do the +things which you didn't quite do. When my week's travels are ever, and +I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole week's happenings to tell +her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. Mallory. Our little breakfast +here this morning--she will love to hear about that. I can see her +happy excited face as I tell her all that I said to you, and--if I +can remember it--all that you said to me. + +GERVASE (eagerly). I say, how jolly! (Thoughtfully) You won't forget +what I said about the Great Percy? I thought that was rather good. + +SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I shall find +myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. That's why I say +"Get married." Then you can make things fair for yourself. You can +tell her all the good things of mine which _you_ said. + +GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that. + +SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship is at +the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship means? + +GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally? + +SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art of +having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of +sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible to +_them_, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not impossible to +two people who have found what love is. + +GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic. + +SUSAN (solemnly). It is the most romantic thing in the whole world. . . . +Some more cheese? + +GERVASE (taking it). Thank you. . . . (Thoughtfully) Do you believe in +love at first sight, Master Susan? + +SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not only +the face. + +GERVASE. I see. (After a pause) It's rather hard to tell, you know. I +suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have breakfast with +you, and see how you get on. + +SUSAN. Well, you might do worse. + +GERVASE (laughing). And propose to her after breakfast? + +SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball as +some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss in the +moonlight. + +GERVASE (shaking his head). Nothing like that happened last night. + +SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss? + +GERVASE. I never read the _Daily Mail_. + +SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson. + +GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon. + +SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem but to +be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have found in +thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the art of having +breakfast with a person. (Getting up) Well, I must be moving on. _We_ +have been companions for a short time; I thank you for it. I wish you +well. + +GERVASE (getting up). I say, I've been awfully glad to meet you. And I +shall never forget the breakfast you gave me. + +SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so. + +GERVASE (hesitatingly). You won't mind my having another one when +Ernest comes back--I mean, if Ernest comes back? You won't think I'm +slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor bathe, you know, one +does---- + +SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an appetite. + +GERVASE (holding out his hand). Well, good-bye, Mr. Susan, (SUSAN +looks at his hand doubtfully, and GERVASE says with a laugh) Oh, come +on! + +SUSAN (shaking it). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said. + +SUSAN (smiling). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. Good-bye. + + [He goes off. + +GERVASE (calling after him). Because it wasn't the moonlight, it +wasn't really. It was just _Her_. (To himself) It was just _Her_. . . . I +suppose the great Whatsisname would say, "It was just She," but then, +that isn't what I mean. + +(GERVASE watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to the other +side, says, "Hallo!" suddenly in great astonishment, and withdraws a +few steps.) + +GERVASE. It can't be! (He goes cautiously forward and looks again) It +is! + +(He comes back, and walks gently off through the trees.) + +(MELISANDE comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two plaits to her +waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to any century. She +stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, holds out her hands +to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a sigh of happiness. . . .) + +(GERVASE, his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a moment he +is half-hidden by the trees.) + +GERVASE (very softly). Princess! + +(She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a little.) + +GERVASE (a little more loudly). Princess! + +(She listens and nods to herself, GERVASE steps out into the open.) + +GERVASE. Princess! + +(She turns round.) + +MELISANDE (looking at him wonderingly). You! + +GERVASE. At your service, Princess. + +MELISANDE. It was you who came last night. + +GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You +looked at me. + +MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I +thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a +dream? + +GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming. + +MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland? + +GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest. + +MELISANDE (with a sigh of happiness). Ah! + +GERVASE. You have been looking for it? + +MELISANDE. For so long. (She is silent for a little, and then says +with a smile) May one sit down in an enchanted forest? + +GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (He spreads his cloak over the log.) + +MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too? + +GERVASE (shaking his head). I haven't finished looking at you yet. . . . +You are very lovely, Princess. + +MELISANDE. Am I? + +GERVASE. Haven't they told you? + +MELISANDE. Perhaps I wondered sometimes. + +GERVASE. Very lovely. . . . Have you a name which goes with it? + +MELISANDE. My name is Melisande. + +GERVASE (his whole heart in it). Melisande! + +MELISANDE (content at last). Ah! + +GERVASE (solemnly). Now the Princess Melisande was very beautiful. (He +lies down on the grass near her, looks up at her and is silent for a +little.) + +MELISANDE (smiling shyly). May we talk about _you_, now? + +GERVASE. It is for the Princess to say what we shall talk about. If +your Royal Highness commands, then I will even talk about myself. + +MELISANDE. You see, I don't know your name yet. + +GERVASE. I am called Gervase. + +MELISANDE. Gervase. It is a pretty name. + +GERVASE. I have been keeping it for this morning. + +MELISANDE. It will be Prince Gervase, will it not, if this is +Fairyland? + +GERVASE. Alas, no. For I am only a humble woodcutter's son. One of +seven. + +MELISANDE. Of seven? I thought that humble woodcutters always had +three sons, and that it was the youngest who went into the world to +seek his fortune. + +GERVASE. Three--that's right. I said "one of several." Now that I +count them up, three. (Counting on his fingers) Er--Bowshanks, +er--Mulberry-face and myself. Three. I am the youngest. + +MELISANDE. And the fairies came to your christening? + +GERVASE. Now for the first time I think that they did. + +MELISANDE (nodding). They always come to the christening of the third +and youngest son, and they make him the tallest and the bravest and +the most handsome. + +GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well. + +MELISANDE. You _are_ the tallest and the bravest and the most +handsome, aren't you? + +GERVASE (with a modest smile). Well, of course, Mulberry-face is +hardly a starter, and then Bowshanks-- (he indicates the curve of his +legs)--I mean, there's not much competition. + +MELISANDE. I have no sisters. + +GERVASE. The Princess never has sisters. She has suitors. + +MELISANDE (with a sigh). Yes, she has suitors. + +GERVASE (taking out his dagger). Tell me their names that I may remove +them for you. + +MELISANDE. There is one dressed in black and white who seeks to win my +hand. + +GERVASE (feeling the point). He bites the dust to-morrow. + +MELISANDE. To-morrow? + +GERVASE. Unless it rains in the night. Perhaps it would be safer if we +arranged for him to bite it this afternoon. + +MELISANDE. How brave you are! + +GERVASE. Say no more. It will be a pleasure. + +MELISANDE. Ah, but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for me. + +GERVASE. The sacrifice will be his. + +MELISANDE. But are you so certain that _you_ will kill him? Suppose he +were to kill _you_? + +GERVASE (getting up). Madam, when the third son of a humble woodcutter +engages in mortal combat with one upon whom the beautiful Princess has +frowned, there can be but one end to the struggle. To doubt this would +be to let Romance go. + +MELISANDE. You are right. I should never have doubted. + +GERVASE. At the same time, it would perhaps be as well to ask the help +of my Uncle Otto. + +MELISANDE. But is it fair to seek the assistance of an uncle in order +to kill one small black and white suitor? + +GERVASE. Ah, but he is a wizard. One is always allowed to ask the help +of a wizard. My idea was that he should cast a spell upon the +presumptuous youth who seeks to woo you, so that to those who gazed +upon him he should have the outward semblance of a rabbit. He would +then realise the hopelessness of his suit and . . . go away. + +MELISANDE (with dignity). I should certainly never marry a small black +and white rabbit. + +GERVASE. No, you couldn't, could you? + +MELISANDE (gravely). No. (Then their eyes meet. There is a twinkle in +his; hers respond; and suddenly they are laughing together.) What +nonsense you talk! + +GERVASE. Well, it's such an absurdly fine morning, isn't it? There's a +sort of sparkle in the air. I'm really trying to be quite sensible. + +MELISANDE (making room for him at her feet). Go on talking nonsense. +(He sits down on the ground and leans against the log at her side.) +Tell me about yourself. You have told me nothing yet, but that (she +smiles at him) your father is a woodcutter. + +GERVASE. Yes. He--er--cuts wood. + +MELISANDE. And you resolved to go out into the world and seek your +fortune? + +GERVASE. Yes. You see if you are a third son of a humble woodcutter, +nobody thinks very much of you at home, and they never take you out +with them; and when you are cutting wood, they always put you where +the sawdust gets into your mouth. Because, you see, they have never +read history, and so they don't know that the third and youngest son +is always the nicest of the family. + +MELISANDE. And the tallest and the bravest and the most handsome. + +GERVASE. _And_ all the other things you mention. + +MELISANDE. So you ran away? + +GERVASE. So I ran away--to seek my fortune. + +MELISANDE. But your uncle the wizard, or your godmother or somebody, +gave you a magic ring to take with you on your travels? (Nodding) They +always do, you know. + +GERVASE (showing the ring on his finger). Yes, my fairy godmother gave +me a magic ring. Here it is. + +MELISANDE (looking at it). What does it do? + +GERVASE. You turn it round once and think very hard of anybody you +want, and suddenly the person you are thinking of appears before you. + +MELISANDE. How wonderful! Have you tried it yet? + +GERVASE. Once. . . . That's why you are here. + +MELISANDE. Oh! (Softly) Have you been thinking of me? + +GERVASE. All night. + +MELISANDE. I dreamed of you all night. + +GERVASE (happily). Did you, Melisande? How dear of you to dream of me! +(Anxiously) Was I--was I all right? + +MELISANDE. Oh, yes! + +GERVASE (pleased). Ah! (He spreads himself a little and removes a +speck of dust from his sleeve) + +MELISANDE (thinking of it still). You were so brave. + +GERVASE. Yes, I expect I'm pretty brave in other people's dreams--I'm +so cowardly in my own. Did I kill anybody? + +MELISANDE. You were engaged in a terrible fight with a dragon when I +woke up. + +GERVASE. Leaving me and the dragon still asleep--I mean, still +fighting? Oh, Melisande, how could you leave us until you knew who had +won? + +MELISANDE. I tried so hard to get back to you. + +GERVASE. I expect I was winning, you know. I wish you could have got +back for the finish. . . . Melisande, let me come into your dreams again +to-night. + +MELISANDE. You never asked me last night. You just came. + +GERVASE. Thank you for letting me come. + +MELISANDE. And then when I woke up early this morning, the world was +so young, so beautiful, so fresh that I had to be with it. It called +to me so clearly--to come out and find its secret. So I came up here, +to this enchanted place, and all the way it whispered to me--wonderful +things. + +GERVASE. What did it whisper, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. The secret of happiness. + +GERVASE. Ah, what is it, Melisande? (She smiles and shakes her +head). . . . I met a magician in the woods this morning. + +MELISANDE. Did he speak to you? + +GERVASE. _He_ told _me_ the secret of happiness. + +MELISANDE. What did he tell you? + +GERVASE. He said it was marriage. + +MELISANDE. Ah, but he didn't mean by marriage what so many people +mean. + +GERVASE. He seemed a very potent magician. + +MELISANDE. Marriage to many people means just food. Housekeeping. _He_ +didn't mean that. + +GERVASE. A very wise and reverend magician. + +MELISANDE. Love is romance. Is there anything romantic in +breakfast--or lunch? + +GERVASE. Well, not so much in lunch, of course, but--- + +MELISANDE. How well you understand! Why do the others not understand? + +GERVASE (smiling at her). Perhaps because they have not seen +Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Oh no, no, that isn't it. All the others--- + +GERVASE. Do you mean your suitors? + +MELISANDE. Yes. They are so unromantic, so material. The clothes they +wear; the things they talk about. But you are so different. Why is it? + +GERVASE. I don't know. Perhaps because I am the third son of a +woodcutter. Perhaps because they don't know that you are the Princess. +Perhaps because they have never been in the enchanted forest. + +MELISANDE. What would the forest tell them? + +GERVASE. All the birds in the forest are singing "Melisande"; the +little brook runs through the forest murmuring "Melisande"; the tall +trees bend their heads and whisper to each other "Melisande." All the +flowers have put on their gay dresses for her. Oh, Melisande! + +MELISANDE (awed). Is it true? (They are silent for a little, happy to +be together. . . . He looks back at her and gives a sudden little laugh.) +What is it? + +GERVASE. Just you and I--together--on the top of the world like this. + +MELISANDE. Yes, that's what I feel, too. (After a pause) Go on +pretending. + +GERVASE. Pretending? + +MELISANDE. That the world is very young. + +GERVASE. _We_ are very young, Melisande. + +MELISANDE (timidly). It is only a dream, isn't it? + +GERVASE. Who knows what a dream is? Perhaps we fell asleep in +Fairyland a thousand years ago, and all that we thought real was a +dream, until now at last we are awake again. + +MELISANDE. How wonderful that would be. + +GERVASE. Perhaps we are dreaming now. But is it your dream or my +dream, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (after thinking it out). I think I would rather it were your +dream, Gervase. For then I should be in it, and that would mean that +you had been thinking of me. + +GERVASE. Then it shall be _my_ dream, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. Let it be a long one, my dear. + +GERVASE. For ever and for ever. + +MELISANDE (dreamily). Oh, I know that it is only a dream, and that +presently we shall wake up; or else that you will go away and I will +go away, too, and we shall never meet again; for in the real world, +what could I be to you, or you to me? So go on pretending. + +(He stands up and faces her.) + +GERVASE. Melisande, if this were Fairyland, or if we were knights and +ladies in some old romance, would you trust yourself to me? + +MELISANDE. So very proudly. + +GERVASE. You would let me come to your father's court and claim you +over all your other suitors, and fight for you, and take you away with +me? + +MELISANDE. If this were Fairyland, yes. + +GERVASE. You would trust me? + +MELISANDE. I would trust my lord. + +GERVASE (smiling at her). Then I will come for the Princess this +afternoon. (With sudden feeling) Ah, how can I keep away now that I +have seen the Princess? + +MELISANDE (shyly--happily). When you saw me last night, did you know +that you would see me again? + +GERVASE. I have been waiting for you here. + +MELISANDE. How did you know that I would come? + +GERVASE. On such a morning--in such a place--how could the loved one +not be here? + +MELISANDE (looking away). The loved one? + +GERVASE. I saw you last night. + +MELISANDE (softly). Was that enough? + +GERVASE. Enough, yes. Enough? Oh no, no, no! + +MELISANDE (nodding). I will wait for you this afternoon. + +GERVASE. And you will come away with me? Out into the world with me? +Over the hills and far away with me? + +MELISANDE (softly). Over the hills and far away. + +GERVASE (going to her). Princess! + +MELISANDE. Not Princess. + +GERVASE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE (holding out her hand to him). Ah! + +GERVASE. May I kiss your hands, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. They are my lord's to kiss. + +GERVASE (kissing them). Dear hands. + +MELISANDE. Now I shall love them, too. + +GERVASE. May I kiss your lips, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (proudly). Who shall, if not my lord? + +GERVASE. Melisande! (He touches her lips with his.) + +MELISANDE (breaking away from him). Oh! + +GERVASE (triumphantly). I love you, Melisande! I love you! + +MELISANDE (wonderingly). Why didn't I wake up when you kissed me? We +are still here. The dream goes on. + +GERVASE. It is no dream, Melisande. Or if it is a dream, then in my +dream I love you, and if we are awake, then awake I love you. I love +you if this is Fairyland, and if there is no Fairyland, then my love +will make a faery land of the world for you. For I love you, +Melisande. + +MELISANDE (timidly). Are we pretending still? + +GERVASE. No, no, no! + +(She looks at him gravely for a moment and then nods her head.) + +MELISANDE (pointing). I live down there. You will come for me? + +GERVASE. I will come. + +MELISANDE. I am my lord's servant. I will wait for him. (She moves +away from him. Then she curtsies and says) This afternoon, my lord. + +(She goes down the hill.) + +(He stands looking after her. While he is standing there, ERN comes +through the trees with breakfast.) + + + + +ACT III + + +(It is about four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. JANE is +sitting on the sofa in the hall, glancing at a paper, but evidently +rather bored with it, and hoping that somebody--BOBBY, did you +say?--will appear presently. However, it is MR. KNOWLE who comes in.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Jane! + +JANE (looking up). Hallo, Uncle Henry. Did you have a good day? + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, Peters and I had a very enjoyable drive. + +JANE. But you found nothing at the sale? What a pity! + +MR. KNOWLE (taking a catalogue from his pocket). Nothing which I +wanted myself, but there were several very interesting lots. Peters +was strongly tempted by Lot 29--"Two hip-baths and a stuffed +crocodile." Very useful things to have by you if you think of getting +married, Jane, and setting up house for yourself. I don't know if you +have any thoughts in that direction? + +JANE (a little embarrassed). Well, I suppose I shall some day. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Where's Bobby? + +JANE (carelessly). Bobby? Oh, he's about somewhere. + +MR. KNOWLE. I think Bobby would like to hear about Lot 29. (Returning +to his catalogue) Or perhaps Lot 42. "Lot 42--Twelve aspidistras, +towel-horse, and 'The Maiden's Prayer.'" All for seven and sixpence. I +ought to have had Bobby with me. He could have made a firm offer of +eight shillings. . . . By the way, I have a daughter, haven't I? How was +Sandy this morning? + +JANE. I didn't see her. Aunt Mary is rather anxious about her. + +MR. KNOWLE. Has she left us for ever? + +JANE. There's nothing to be frightened about really. + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm not frightened. + +JANE. She had breakfast before any of us were up, and went out with +some sandwiches afterwards, and she hasn't come back yet. + +MR. KNOWLE. A very healthy way of spending the day. (MRS. KNOWLE comes +in) Well, Mary, I hear that we have no daughter now. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, there you are, Henry. Thank Heaven that _you_ are +back safely. + +MR. KNOWLE. My dear, I always meant to come back safely. Didn't you +expect me? + +MRS. KNOWLE. I had given up hope. Jane here will tell you what a +terrible morning I have had; prostrate on the sofa, mourning for my +loved ones. My only child torn from me, my husband--dead. + +MR. KNOWLE (surprised). Oh, I was dead? + +MRS. KNOWLE. I pictured the car smashed to atoms, and you lying in the +road, dead, with Peters by your side. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! How was Peters? + +MRS. KNOWLE (with a shrug). I didn't look. What is a chauffeur to one +who has lost her husband and her only child in the same morning? + +MR. KNOWLE. Still, I think you might have looked. + +JANE. Sandy's all right, Aunt Mary. You know she often goes out alone +all day like this. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, _is_ she alone? Jane, did you count the gardeners as +I asked you? + +MR. KNOWLE. Count the gardeners? + +MRS. KNOWLE. To make sure that none of them is missing too. + +JANE. It's quite all right, Aunt Mary. Sandy will be back by tea-time. + +MRS. KNOWLE (resigned). It all comes of christening her Melisande. You +know, Henry, I quite thought you said Millicent. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, talking about tea, my dear--at which happy meal our +long-lost daughter will be restored to us--we have a visitor coming, a +nice young fellow who takes an interest in prints. + +MRS. KNOWLE. I've heard nothing of this, Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE. No, my dear, that's why I'm telling you now. + +MRS. KNOWLE. A young man? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Nice-looking? + +MR. KNOWLE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Rich? + +MR. KNOWLE. I forgot to ask him, Mary. However, we can remedy that +omission as soon as he arrives. + +MRS. KNOWLE. It's a very unfortunate day for him to have chosen. +Here's Sandy lost, and I'm not fit to be seen, and--Jane, your hair +wants tidying---- + +MR. KNOWLE. He is not coming to see you or Sandy or Jane, my dear; he +is coming to see me. Fortunately, I am looking very beautiful this +afternoon. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, you had better be in the garden, dear, and see if +you can stop Sandy before she comes in, and just give her a warning. I +don't know _what_ she'll look like after roaming the fields all day, +and falling into pools---- + +MR. KNOWLE. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a +wantonness. + +MRS. KNOWLE. I will go and tidy myself. Jane, I think your mother +would like you to--but, after all, one must think of one's own child +first. You will tell Sandy, won't you? We had better have tea in +here. . . . Henry, your trousers--(she looks to see that JANE is not +listening, and then says in a loud whisper) your trousers---- + +MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear, Mary. It's a young +fellow who is coming to see my prints; not the Prince of Wales who is +coming to see my trousers. + +MRS. KNOWLE (turning to JANE). You'll remember, Jane? + +JANE (smiling). Yes, Aunt Mary. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's a good girl. + + [She goes out. + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Your aunt wasn't very lucid, Jane. Which one of you +is it who is going to marry the gentleman? + +JANE. Don't be so absurd, Uncle Henry. + +MR. KNOWLE (taking out his catalogue again). Perhaps _he_ would be +interested in Lot 29. (BOBBY comes in through the windows.) Ah, here's +Bobby. Bobby, they tell me that you think of setting up house. + +BOBBY (looking quickly at JANE). Who told you that? + +MR. KNOWLE. Now, starting with two hip-baths and a stuffed crocodile +for nine shillings and sixpence, and working up to twelve aspidistras, +a towel-horse and "The Maiden's Prayer" for eight shillings, you +practically have the spare room furnished for seventeen and six. But +perhaps I had better leave the catalogue with you. (He presses it into +the bewildered BOBBY'S hands) I must go and tidy myself up. Somebody +is coming to propose to me this afternoon. + + [He hurries out. + +(BOBBY looks after him blankly, and then turns to JANE.) + +BOBBY. I say, what's happened? + +JANE. Happened? + +BOBBY. Yes, why did he say that about my setting up house? + +JANE. I think he was just being funny. He is sometimes, you know. + +BOBBY. You don't think he guessed---- + +JANE. Guessed what? About you and Melisande? + +BOBBY. I say, shut up, Jane. I thought we agreed not to say anything +more about that. + +JANE. But what else could he have guessed? + +BOBBY. _You_ know well enough. + +JANE (shaking her head). No, I don't. + +BOBBY. I told you this morning. + +JANE. What did you tell me? + +BOBBY. _You_ know. + +JANE. No, I don't. + +BOBBY. Yes, you do. + +JANE. No, I don't. + +BOBBY (coming closer). All right, shall I tell you again? + +JANE (edging away). I don't want to hear it. + +BOBBY. How do you know you don't want to hear it, if you don't know +what it is? + +JANE. I can guess what it is. + +BOBBY. There you are! + +JANE. It's what you say to everybody, isn't it? + +BOBBY (loftily). If you want to know, Miss Bagot, I have only said it +to one other person in my life, and that was in mistake for you. + +JANE (coldly). Melisande and I are not very much alike, Mr. Coote. + +BOBBY. No. You're much prettier. + +JANE (turning her head away). You don't really think so. Anyhow, it +isn't true. + +BOBBY. It is true, Jane. I swear it. + +JANE. Well, you didn't think so yesterday. + +BOBBY. Why do you keep talking about yesterday? I'm talking about +to-day. + +JANE. A girl has her pride, Bobby. + +BOBBY. So has a man. I'm awfully proud of being in love with _you_. + +JANE. That isn't what I mean. + +BOBBY. What do you mean? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well--well--well, what it comes to is that you get +refused by Sandy, and then you immediately come to me and expect me to +jump at you. + +BOBBY. Suppose I had waited a year and then come to you, would that +have been better? + +JANE. Of course it would. + +BOBBY. Well, really I can't follow you, darling. + +JANE (indignantly). You mustn't call me darling. + +BOBBY. Mustn't call you what? + +JANE (awkwardly). Darling. + +BOBBY. Did I call you darling? + +JANE (shortly). Yes. + +BOBBY (to himself). "Darling." No, I suppose I mustn't. But it suits +you so awfully well--darling. (She stamps her foot) I'm sorry, +darl---- I mean Jane, but really I can't follow you. Because you're so +frightfully fascinating, that after twenty-four hours of it, I simply +have to tell you how much I love you, then your pride is hurt. But if +you had been so frightfully unattractive that it took me a whole year +to see anything in you at all, then apparently you'd have been awfully +proud. + +JANE. You _have_ known me a whole year, Bobby. + +BOBBY. Not really, you know. Directly I saw you and Sandy together I +knew I was in love with one of you, but--well, love is a dashed rummy +thing, and I thought it was Sandy. And so I didn't really see you till +last night, when you were so awfully decent to me. + +JANE (wistfully). It sounds very well, but the trouble is that it will +sound just as well to the next girl. + +BOBBY. What next girl? + +JANE. The one you propose to to-morrow. + +BOBBY. You know, Jane, when you talk like that I feel that you don't +deserve to be proposed to at all. + +JANE (loftily). I'm sure I don't want to be. + +BOBBY (coming closer). Are you? + +JANE. Am I what? + +BOBBY. Quite sure. + +JANE. I should have thought it was pretty obvious seeing that I've +just refused you. + +BOBBY. Have you? + +JANE. Have I what? + +BOBBY. Refused me. + +JANE. I thought I had. + +BOBBY. And would you be glad if I went away and never saw you again? +(She hesitates) Honest, Jane. Would you? + +JANE (awkwardly). Well, of course, I _like_ you, Bobby. I always have. + +BOBBY. But you feel that you would like me better if I were somebody +else's husband? + +JANE (indignantly). Oh, I _never_ said that. + +BOBBY. Dash it, you've been saying it all this afternoon. + +JANE (weakly). Bobby, don't; I can't argue with you. But really, dear, +I can't say now that I will marry you. Oh, you _must_ understand. Oh, +_think_ what Sandy---- + +BOBBY. We won't tell Sandy. + +JANE (surprised). But she's bound to know. + +BOBBY. We won't tell anybody. + +JANE (eagerly). Bobby! + +BOBBY (nodding). Just you and me. Nobody else for a long time. A +little private secret. + +JANE. Bobby! + +BOBBY (coming to her). Is it a bargain, Jane? Because if it's a +bargain---- + +JANE (going away from him). No, no, Bobby. Not now. I must go upstairs +and tidy myself--no, I mustn't, I must wait for Melisande--no, Bobby, +don't. Not yet. I mean it, really. Do go, dear, anybody might come in. + +(BOBBY, who has been following her round the hall, as she retreats +nervously, stops and nods to her.) + +BOBBY. All right, darling, I'll go. + +JANE. You mustn't say "darling." You might say it accidentally in +front of them all. + +BOBBY (grinning). All right, Miss Bagot . . . I am going now, Miss +Bagot. (At the windows) Good-bye, Miss Bagot. (JANE blows him a kiss. +He bows) Your favour to hand, Miss Bagot. (He turns and sees MELISANDE +coming through the garden) Hallo, here's Sandy! (He hurries off in the +opposite direction.) + +MELISANDE. Oh, Jane, Jane! (She sinks into a chair.) + +JANE. What, dear? + +MELISANDE. Everything. + +JANE. Yes, but that's so vague, darling. Do you mean that---- + +MELISANDE (dreamily). I have seen him; I have talked to him; he has +kissed me. + +JANE (amazed). _Kissed_ you? Do you mean that he has--kissed you? + +MELISANDE. I have looked into his eyes, and he has looked into mine. + +JANE. Yes, but who? + +MELISANDE. The true knight, the prince, for whom I have been waiting +so long. + +JANE. But _who_ is he? + +MELISANDE. They call him Gervase. + +JANE. Gervase _who_? + +MELISANDE (scornfully). Did Elaine say, "Lancelot who" when they told +her his name was Lancelot? + +JANE. Yes, dear, but this is the twentieth century. He must have a +name. + +MELISANDE (dreamily). Through the forest he came to me, dressed in +blue and gold. + +JANE (sharply). Sandy! (Struck with an idea) Have you been out all day +without your hat, darling? + +MELISANDE (vaguely). Have I? + +JANE. I mean--blue and gold. They don't do it nowadays. + +MELISANDE (nodding to her). _He_ did, Jane. + +JANE. But how?--Why? Who can he be? + +MELISANDE. He said he was a humble woodcutter's son. That means he was +a prince in disguise. He called me his princess. + +JANE. Darling, how could he be a prince? + +MELISANDE. I have read stories sometimes of men who went to sleep and +woke up thousands of years afterwards and found themselves in a +different world. Perhaps, Jane, _he_ lived in those old days, and---- + +JANE. Did he _talk_ like an ordinary person? + +MELISANDE. Oh no, no! + +JANE. Well, it's really extraordinary. . . . Was he a gentleman? + +MELISANDE (smiling at her). I didn't ask him, Jane. + +JANE (crossly). You know what I mean. + +MELISANDE. He is coming this afternoon to take me away. + +JANE (amazed). To take you away? But what about Aunt Mary? + +MELISANDE (vaguely). Aunt Mary? What has _she_ got to do with it? + +JANE (impatiently). Oh, but---- (With a shrug of resignation) I don't +understand. Do you mean he's coming _here_? (MELISANDE nods gravely) +Melisande, you'll let me see him? + +MELISANDE. Yes. I've thought it all out. I wanted you here, Jane. He +will come in; I will present you; and then you must leave us alone. +But I should like you to see him. Just to see how different, how +utterly different he is from every other man. . . . But you will promise +to go when you have seen him, won't you? + +JANE (nodding). I'll say, "I'm afraid I must leave you now, and----" +Sandy, how _can_ he be a prince? + +MELISANDE. When you see him, Jane, you will say, "How can he not be a +prince?" + +JANE. But one has to leave princes backward. I mean--he won't +expect--_you_ know---- + +MELISANDE. I don't think so. Besides, after all, you are my cousin. + +JANE. Yes. I think I shall get that in; just to be on the safe side. +"Well, cousin, I must leave you now, as I have to attend my aunt." And +then a sort of--not exactly a curtsey, but--(she practises, murmuring +the words to herself). I suppose you didn't happen to mention _me_ to +him this morning? + +MELISANDE (half smiling). Oh no! + +JANE (hurt). I don't see why you shouldn't have. What did you talk +about? + +MELISANDE. I don't know. (She grips JANE'S arm suddenly) Jane, I +didn't dream it all this morning, did I? It did happen? I saw him--he +kissed me--he is coming for me--he---- + +(Enter ALICE) + +ALICE. Mr. Gervase Mallory. + +MELISANDE (happily). Ah! + +(GERVASE comes in, an apparently ordinary young man in a loud golfing +suit.) + +GERVASE. How do you do? + +MELISANDE (looking at him with growing amazement and horror). Oh! + +(JANE looks from one to the other in bewilderment.) + +GERVASE. I ought to explain. Mr. Knowle was kind enough to lend me +some petrol last night; my car broke down; he was good enough to say I +might come this afternoon and see his prints. I am hoping to be +allowed to thank him again for his kindness last night. And--er--I've +brought back the petrol. + +MELISANDE (still with her eyes on him). My father will no doubt be +here directly. This is my cousin, Miss Bagot. + +GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? + +JANE (nervously). How do you do? (After a pause) Well, I'm afraid I +must leave you now, as---- + +MELISANDE (with her eyes still on GERVASE, putting out a hand and +clutching at JANE). No! + +JANE (startled). What? + +MELISANDE. Don't go, Jane. Do sit down, won't you, Mr.--er---- + +GERVASE. Mallory. + +MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +MELISANDE. Where will you sit, Mr. Mallory? (She is still talking in +an utterly expressionless voice.) + +GERVASE. Thank you. Where are you---- (he indicates the sofa.) + +MELISANDE (moving to it, but still holding JANE). Thank _you_. + +(MELISANDE and JANE sit down together on the sofa. GERVASE sits on a +chair near. There is an awkward silence.) + +JANE (half getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must---- + +(MELISANDE pulls her down. She subsides.) + +MELISANDE. Charming weather we are having, are we not, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE (enthusiastically). Oh, rather. Absolutely top-hole. + +MELISANDE (to JANE). Absolutely top-hole weather, is it not, Jane? + +JANE. Oh, I love it. + +MELISANDE. You play golf, I expect, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh, rather. I've been playing this morning. (With a smile) +Pretty rotten, too, I'm afraid. + +MELISANDE. Jane plays golf. (to JANE) You're pretty rotten, too, +aren't you, Jane? + +JANE. Bobby and I were both very bad to-day. + +MELISANDE. I think you will like Bobby, Mr. Mallory. He is staying +with us just now. I expect you will have a good deal in common. He is +on the Stock Exchange. + +GERVASE (smiling). So am I. + +MELISANDE (valiantly repressing a shudder). Jane, Mr. Mallory is on +the Stock Exchange. Isn't that curious? I felt sure that he must be +directly I saw him. + +(There is another awkward silence.) + +JANE (getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must---- + +MELISANDE (pulling her down). Don't go, Jane. I suppose there are a +great many of you on the Stock Exchange, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh, quite a lot. + +MELISANDE. Quite a lot, Jane. . . . You don't know Bobby--Mr. Coote? + +GERVASE. N--no, I don't think so. + +MELISANDE. I suppose there are so many of you, and you dress so much +alike, and look so much alike, that it's difficult to be quite sure +whom you do know. + +GERVASE. Yes, of course, that makes it more difficult. + +MELISANDE. Yes. You see that, don't you, Jane? . . . You play billiards +and bridge, of course, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Oh yes. + +MELISANDE. They are absolutely top-hole games, aren't they? Are +you--pretty rotten at them? + +GERVASE. Well---- + +MELISANDE (getting up). Ah, here's my father. + +(Enter MR. KNOWLE) + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Mr. Mallory, delighted to see you. And Sandy and Jane +to entertain you. That's right. + +(They shake hands) + +GERVASE. How do you do? + +(ALICE comes in with tea) + +MR. KNOWLE. I've been wasting my day at a sale. I hope you spent yours +more profitably, (GERVASE laughs pleasantly) And what have you been +doing, Sandy? + +MELISANDE. Wasting mine, too, Father. + +MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. Well, they say that the wasted hours are the +best. + +MELISANDE (moving to the door). I think I will go and---- (MRS. KNOWLE +comes in with outstretched hands) + +MR. KNOWLE. My dear, this is Mr. Mallory. + +MRS. KNOWLE. My dear Mr. Mallory! (Turning round) Sandy, dear! +(MELISANDE comes slowly back) How do you do? + +GERVASE (shaking hands). How do you do? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy, dear! (to GERVASE) My daughter, Melisande, Mr. +Mallory. My only child. + +GERVASE. Oh--er--we---- + +MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory and I have met, Mother. + +MRS. KNOWLE (indicating JANE). And our dear Jane. + +My dear sister's only daughter. But dear Jane has a brother. Dear +Harold! In the Civil Service. Sandy, dear, will you pour out tea? + +MELISANDE (resigned). Yes, Mother. (She goes to the tea-table.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (going to the sofa). I am such an invalid now, Mr. +Mallory---- + +GERVASE (helping her). Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I----? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. Dr. Anderson insists on my resting as much as +possible. So my dear Melisande looks after the house for me. Such a +comfort. You are not married yourself, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No. Oh no. + +MRS. KNOWLE (smiling to herself). Ah! + +MELISANDE. Jane, Mother's tea. (JANE takes it.) + +GERVASE (coming forward). Oh, I beg your pardon. Let me---- + +JANE. It's all right. + +(GERVASE takes up a cake-stand.) + +MR. KNOWLE. Where's Bobby? Bobby is the real expert at this. + +MELISANDE. I expect Mr. Mallory is an expert, too, Father. You enjoy +tea-parties, I expect, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. I enjoy most things, Miss Knowle. (To MRS. KNOWLE) What will +you have? + +MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. I have to be careful. Dr. Anderson insists on +my being careful, Mr. Mallory. (Confidentially) Nothing organic, you +understand. Both my husband and I--Melisande has an absolutely sound +constitution. + +MELISANDE (indicating cup). Jane . . . Sugar and milk, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Please. (To MR. KNOWLE) Won't _you_ have this, sir? + +MR. KNOWLE. No thank you. I have a special cup. + +(He takes a large cup from MELISANDE). A family tradition, Mr. +Mallory. But whether it is that I am supposed to require more +nourishment than the others, or that I can't be trusted with anything +breakable, History does not relate. + +GERVASE (laughing). Well, I think you're lucky. I like a big cup. + +MR. KNOWLE. Have mine. + +GERVASE. No, thanks. + +BOBBY (coming in). Hallo! Tea? + +MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Bobby, you're just in time. (to GERVASE) This is Mr. +Coote. Bobby, this is Mr. Mallory. (They nod to each other and say, +"How do you do?") + +MELISANDE (indicating a seat next to her). Come and sit here, Bobby. + +BOBBY (who was making for JANE). Oh--er--righto. (He sits down.) + +MR. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). And how did the dance go last night? + +JANE. Oh, were you at a dance? How lovely! + +MELISANDE. Dance? + +MR. KNOWLE. And a fancy dress dance, too, Sandy. _You_ ought to have +been there. + +MELISANDE (understanding). Ah! + +MRS. KNOWLE. My daughter is devoted to dancing, Mr. Mallory. Dances so +beautifully, they all say. + +BOBBY. Where was it? + +GERVASE. Collingham. + +MR. KNOWLE. And did they all fall in love with you? You ought to have +seen him, Sandy. + +GERVASE. Well, I'm afraid I never got there. + +MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. . . . Peters is in love just now. . . . I hope he +didn't give you cider in mistake for petrol. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You have a car, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Ah! (to MELISANDE) Won't Mr. Mallory have some more tea, +Sandy? + +MELISANDE. Will you have some more tea, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. Thank you. (to MRS. KNOWLE) Won't you---- + +(He begins to get up.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. _Please_ don't trouble. I never have more than one cup. +Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. Only one cup, Mrs. Knowle. + +BOBBY (to MELISANDE). Sandwich? Oh, you're busy. Sandwich, Jane? + +JANE (taking one). Thank you. + +BOBBY (to GERVASE). Sandwich? + +GERVASE. Thank you. + +BOBBY (to MR. KNOWLE). Sandwich? + +MR. KNOWLE. Thank you, Bobby. Fortunately nobody minds what _I_ eat or +drink. + +BOBBY (to himself). Sandwich, Mr. Coote? Thank you. (He takes one.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). Being such an invalid, Mr. Mallory, it is a +great comfort to me to have Melisande to look after the house. + +GERVASE. I am sure it is. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Of course, I can't expect to keep her for ever. + +MELISANDE (coldly). More tea, Jane? + +JANE. Thank you, dear. + +MRS. KNOWLE. It's extraordinary how she has taken to it. I must say +that I do like a girl to be a good housekeeper. Don't you agree, Mr. +Mallory? + +GERVASE. Well, of course, all that sort of thing _is_ rather +important. + +MRS. KNOWLE. That's what I always tell Sandy. "Happiness begins in the +kitchen, Sandy." + +MELISANDE. I'm sure Mr. Mallory agrees with you, Mother. + +GERVASE (laughing). Well, one must eat. + +BOBBY (passing plate). Have another sandwich? + +GERVASE (taking one). Thanks. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Do you live in the neighbourhood, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. About twenty miles away. Little Malling. + +JANE (helpfully). Oh, yes. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I hope we shall see you here again. + +GERVASE. That's very kind of you indeed. I shall love to come. + +MELISANDE. More tea, Father? + +MR. KNOWLE. No, thank you, my love. + +MELISANDE. More tea, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. No, thank you. + +MR. KNOWLE (getting up). I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Mallory, but +if you have really finished---- + +GERVASE (getting up). Right. + +MRS. KNOWLE. You won't go without seeing the garden, Mr. Mallory? +Sandy, when your father has finished with Mr. Mallory, you must show +him the garden. We are very proud of our roses, Mr. Mallory. Melisande +takes a great interest in the roses. + +GERVASE. I should like very much to see the garden. (Going to her) +Shall I see you again, Mrs. Knowle. . . . Don't get up, _please_. + +MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). In case we don't--(she holds out her hand). + +GERVASE (shaking it). Good-bye. And thank you so much. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Not good-bye. _Au revoir_. + +GERVASE (smiling). Thank you. (With a bow to JANE and BOBBY) Good-bye, +in case---- + +BOBBY. Cheero. + +JANE. Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +MR. KNOWLE. Well, come along. (As they go out) It is curious how much +time one has to spend in saying "How do you do" and "Good-bye." I once +calculated that a man of seventy. . . . + + [MR. KNOWLE and GERVASE go out. + +MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, dear, would you mind coming with me to the +drawing-room, and helping me to--er---- + +JANE (resigned). Of course, Aunt Mary. + + [They go towards the door. + +BOBBY (with his mouth full). May I come too, Mrs. Knowle? + +MELISANDE. You haven't finished your tea, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I shan't be a moment. (He picks up his cup.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Please come, dear Mr. Coote, when you have finished. + + [MRS. KNOWLE goes out. + +(JANE turns at the door, sees that MELISANDE is not looking, and blows +a hasty kiss to BOBBY.) + +MELISANDE. More tea, Bobby? + +BOBBY. No thanks. + +MELISANDE. Something more to eat? + +BOBBY. No thanks. (He gets up and walks towards the door.) + +MELISANDE. Bobby! + +BOBBY (turning). Yes? + +MELISANDE. There's something I want to say to you. Don't go. + +BOBBY. Oh! Righto. (He comes slowly back.) + +MELISANDE (with difficulty, after a pause). I made a mistake +yesterday. + +BOBBY (not understating). A mistake? Yesterday? + +MELISANDE. Yes. . . . You were quite right. + +BOBBY. How do you mean? When? + +MELISANDE. When you said that girls didn't know their own minds. + +BOBBY. Oh! (With an awkward laugh) Yes. Well--er--I don't expect any +of us do, really, you know. I mean--er--that is to say---- + +MELISANDE. I'm sorry I said what I did say to you last night, Bobby. I +oughtn't to have said all those things. + +BOBBY. I say, that's all right + +MELISANDE. I didn't mean them. And--and Bobby--I _will_ marry you if +you like. + +BOBBY (staggered). Sandy! + +MELISANDE. And it was silly of me to mind your calling me Sandy, and +to say what I did about your clothes, and I _will_ marry you, Bobby. +And--and thank you for wanting it so much. + +BOBBY. I say, Sandy. I say! I say---- + +MELISANDE (offering her cheek). You may kiss me if you like, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I say! . . . Er--er--(he kisses her gingerly) thanks! . . . Er--I +say---- + +MELISANDE. What is it, Bobby? + +BOBBY. I say, you know--(he tries again) I don't want you to--to feel +that--I mean, just because I asked you twice--I mean I don't want you +to feel that--well, I mean you mustn't do it just for _my_ sake, +Sandy. I mean Melisande. + +MELISANDE. You may call me Sandy. + +BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy. + +MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that. + +BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last night--afterwards, you +know--and I began to see, I began to see that perhaps you were right. +I mean about my not being romantic and--and all that. I mean, I'm +rather an ordinary sort of chap, and---- + +MELISANDE (sadly). We are all rather ordinary sort of chaps. + +BOBBY (eagerly). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, Sandy. I mean +Melisande. You _aren't_ ordinary. I don't say you'd be throwing +yourself away on me, but--but I think you could find somebody more +suitable. (Earnestly). I'm sure you could. I mean somebody who would +remember to call you Melisande, and who would read poetry with you +and--and all that. I mean, there are lots of fellows---- + +MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you _want_ to marry me now? + +BOBBY (with dignity). I don't want to be married out of pity. + +MELISANDE (coldly). I have told you that it isn't out of pity. + +BOBBY. Well, what _is_ it out of? I mean, after what you said +yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved me---- + +MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to you? + +BOBBY (taken aback). W-what? + +MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing me? + +BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all. + +MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (Carelessly) It _is_ +Jane, isn't it? + +BOBBY. I say, look here---- (She doesn't) Of course, I know you think +I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . well--oh, _damn_! + +MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you. + +(MRS. KNOWLE comes in.) + +MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you. + +BOBBY. Oh--er---- + +MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you. + +BOBBY (realising that he is not quite at his best). Er--oh--er, +righto. (He goes to the door and hesitates there) Er--(Now if he can +only think of something really good, he may yet carry it off.) +Er--(something really witty)--er--er, righto! (He goes out--to join +JANE, who is waiting for him.) + +MRS. KNOWLE (in a soft gentle voice). Where is your father, dear? In +the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to speak to him. Just on a +little matter of business. . . . Dear child! + + [She goes to the library. + +MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible! + +(She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling herself that +she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and she goes to the +open windows, and stands for a moment looking out, trying to recover +herself) + +(GERVASE comes in.) + +GERVASE (gently). Princess! (She hears; her hand closes and tightens; +but she says nothing.) Princess! + +(With an effort she controls herself, turns round and speaks coldly) + +MELISANDE. Please don't call me by that ridiculous name. + +GERVASE. Melisande! + +MELISANDE. Nor by that one. + +GERVASE. Miss Knowle. + +MELISANDE. Yes? What do you want, Mr. Mallory? + +GERVASE. I want to marry you. + +MELISANDE (taken by surprise). Oh! . . . How dare you! + +GERVASE. But I told you this morning. + +MELISANDE. I think you had better leave this morning out of it. + +GERVASE. But if I leave this morning out of it, then I have only just +met you. + +MELISANDE. That is what I would prefer. + +GERVASE. Oh! . . . Then if I have only just met you, perhaps I oughtn't +to have said straight off that I want to marry you. + +MELISANDE. It is unusual. + +GERVASE. Yes. But not unusual to _want_ to marry you. + +MELISANDE. I am not interested in your wants. + +GERVASE. Oh! (Gently) I'm sorry that we've got to forget about this +morning. (Going closer to her) Is it so easy to forget, Melisande? + +MELISANDE. Very easy for you, I should think. + +GERVASE. But not for you? + +MELISANDE (bitterly). You dress up and amuse yourself, and then laugh +and go back to your ordinary life again--you don't want to remember +_that_, do you, every time you do it? + +GERVASE. You let your hair down and flirt with me and laugh and go +home again, but _you_ can't forget. Why should I? + +MELISANDE (furiously). How dare you say I flirted with you? + +GERVASE. How dare you say I laughed at you? + +MELISANDE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up to +the wood? + +GERVASE. Do you think _I_ knew you would be there when _I_ went up? + +MELISANDE. Then why were you there all dressed up like that? + +GERVASE. My car broke down and I spent the night in it. I went up the +hill to look for breakfast. + +MELISANDE. Breakfast! That's all you think about. + +GERVASE (cheerfully). Well, it's always cropping up. + +MELISANDE (in disgust). Oh! (She moves away from him and then turns +round holding out her hand) Good-bye, Mr. Mallory. + +GERVASE (taking it). Good-bye, Miss Knowle. . . . (Gently) May I kiss +your hands, Melisande? + +MELISANDE (pathetically). Oh, don't! (She hides her face in them.) + +GERVASE. Dear hands. . . . May I kiss your lips, Melisande? (She says +nothing. He comes closer to her) Melisande! + +(He is about to put his arms round her, but she breaks away from him.) + +MELISANDE. Oh, don't, don't! What's the good of pretending? It was +only pretence this morning--what's the good of going on with it? I +thought you were so different from other men, but you're just the +same, just the same. You talk about the things they talk about, you +wear the clothes they wear. You were my true knight, my fairy Prince, +this morning, and this afternoon you come down dressed like that (she +waves her hand at it) and tell me that you are on the Stock Exchange! +Oh, can't you see what you've done? All the beautiful world that I had +built up for you and me--shattered, shattered. + +GERVASE (going to her). Melisande! + +MELISANDE. No, no! + +GERVASE (stopping). All right. + +MELISANDE (recovering herself). Please go. + +GERVASE (with a smile). Well, that's not quite fair, you know. + +MELISANDE. What do you mean? + +GERVASE. Well, what about _my_ beautiful world--the world that _I_ had +built up? + +MELISANDE. I don't understand. + +GERVASE. What about _your_ pretence this morning? I thought you were +so different from other women, but you're just the same, just the +same. You were my true lady, my fairy Princess, this morning; and this +afternoon the Queen, your mother, disabled herself by indigestion, +tells me that you do all the housekeeping for her just like any +ordinary commonplace girl. Your father, the King, has obviously never +had a battle-axe in his hand in his life; your suitor, Prince Robert +of Coote, is much more at home with a niblick than with a lance; and +your cousin, the Lady Jane---- + +MELISANDE (sinking on to the sofa and hiding her face). Oh, cruel, +cruel! + +GERVASE (remorsefully). Oh, forgive me, Melisande. It was horrible of +me. + +MELISANDE. No, but it's true. How could any romance come into this +house? Now you know why I wanted you to take me away--away to the ends +of the earth with you. + +GERVASE. Well, that's what I want to do. + +MELISANDE. Ah, don't! When you're on the Stock Exchange! + +GERVASE. But there's plenty of romance on the Stock Exchange. (Nodding +his head) Oh yes, you want to look out for it. + +MELISANDE (reproachfully). Now you're laughing at me again. + +GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am +laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can be +happy together, Melisande. + +MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want jokes. + +GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers. + +MELISANDE (bewildered). Did you expect me to? + +GERVASE. No. (After a pause) I think that's why I put 'em on. (She +looks at him in surprise.) You see, we had to come back to the +twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on pretending for ever. +Well, here we are--(indicating his clothes)--back. But I feel just as +romantic, Melisande. I want beauty--your beauty--just as much. (He +goes to her.) + +MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to you this +morning in the wood, or the one who--(bitterly) does all the +housekeeping for her mother? (Violently) And badly, badly, badly! + +GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her mother--and +badly, badly, badly, _bless_ her, because she has never realised what +a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping is. + +MELISANDE (amazed). Romantic! + +GERVASE (with enthusiasm). Most gloriously romantic. . . . Did you ever +long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert island? + +MELISANDE (clasping her hands). Oh yes! + +GERVASE. You imagined yourself there--alone or with a companion? + +MELISANDE. Often! + +GERVASE. And what were you doing? What is the romance of the desert +island which draws us all? Climbing the bread-fruit tree, following +the turtle to see where it deposits its eggs, discovering the spring +of water, building the hut--_housekeeping_, Melisande. . . . Or take +Robinson Crusoe. When Man Friday came along and left his footprint in +the sand, why did Robinson Crusoe stagger back in amazement? Because +he said to himself, like a good housekeeper, "By Jove, I'm on the +track of a servant at last." There's romance for you! + +MELISANDE (smiling and shaking her head at him). What nonsense you +talk! + +GERVASE. It isn't nonsense; indeed, indeed it isn't. There's romance +everywhere if you look for it. _You_ look for it in the old +fairy-stories, but did _they_ find it there? Did the gentleman who had +just been given a new pair of seven-league boots think it romantic to +be changed into a fish? He probably thought it a confounded nuisance, +and wondered what on earth to do with his boots. Did Cinderella and +the Prince find the world romantic after they were married? Think of +the endless silent evenings which they spent together, with nothing in +common but an admiration for Cinderella's feet--do you think _they_ +didn't long for the romantic days of old? And in two thousand or two +hundred thousand years, people will read stories about _us_, and sigh +and say, "Will those romantic days never come back again?" Ah, they +are here now, Melisande, for _us_; for the people with imagination; +for you and for me. + +MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were! + +GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this morning. +Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. Look at +yourself in the glass--how can you help being a princess? But if we +could be companions, Melisande! That's difficult; that's worth trying. + +MELISANDE (gently). What do you want me to do? + +GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat--see me in a bowler-hat. +Help me with my work; play games with me--I'll teach you if you don't +know how. I want to share the world with you for all our lives. That's +a long time, you know; we can't do it on one twenty-minutes' practice +before breakfast. We can be lovers so easily--can we be friends? + +MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). You are very wise. + +GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've been +thinking over what he said. (Suddenly) But when you look at me like +that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away with me now, now, +now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, you adorable child, +you funny foolish little girl. (Holding up a finger) Smile, Melisande. +Smile! (Slowly, reluctantly, she gives him a smile.) I suppose the +fairies taught you that. Keep it for _me_, will you--but give it to me +often. Do you ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together +sometimes--that makes life so easy. + +MELISANDE (with a happy little laugh). Oh, what can I say to you? + +GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase." + +MELISANDE (shyly). I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase. + +GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase." + +MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase. + +GERVASE (Jumping up and waving his hand) Say, "Hooray for things!" + +MELISANDE (standing up, but shyly still). Hooray for things! + +GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (He presses her hand and +goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes back, bends on one +knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it) My Princess! + + [Then GERVASE goes out. + +(MELISANDE stays there, looking after him, her hand to her cheek. . . . +But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must begin. With a +little smile at herself, at GERVASE, at things, she fetches out the +Great Book from its hiding-place, where she had buried it many weeks +ago in disgust. Now it comes into its own. She settles down with it in +her favourite chair. . . .) + +MELISANDE (reading). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an onion, peel and +quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . . + +(But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with it, +curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish little +girl.) + + + + +THE STEPMOTHER + +A PLAY IN ONE ACT + + + +CHARACTERS + +SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. +LADY PEMBURY. +PERKINS. +THE STRANGER. + + * * * * * + +The first performance of this play was given at the Alhambra Theatre +on November 16, 1920, with the following cast: + +Sir John Pembury--GILBERT HARE. +Lady Pembury--WINIFRED EMERY. +Perkins--C.M. LOWNE. +The Stranger--GERALD DU MAURIER. + + + + +THE STEPMOTHER + + +(A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest room in +the London house of SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. For this reason LADY +PEMBURY uses it a good deal, although it is not officially hers. It is +plainly furnished, and probably set out to be a sort of waiting-room +for SIR JOHN'S many callers, but LADY PEMBURY has left her mark upon +it.) + +(PERKINS, the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past his +prime, leads the may in, followed by THE STRANGER, PERKINS has already +placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the intelligent person +in the pit perceives that he is something better than that, though +whether he is in the process of falling from a higher estate, or of +rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty odd, shabbily dressed (but +then, so are most of us nowadays), and ill at ease; not because he is +shabby, but because he is ashamed of himself. To make up for this, he +adopts a blustering manner, as if to persuade himself that he is a +fine fellow after all. There is a touch of commonness about his voice, +but he is not uneducated.) + +PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll see +you, mind. + +STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right enough. + +PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well---- (He looks at THE STRANGER +doubtfully.) + +STRANGER (bitterly). I suppose you think I've got no business in a +gentleman's house. Is that it? + +PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a constituent? +Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty queer ones at times. +All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps you're a deputation? + +STRANGER (violently). What the hell's it got to do with you who I am. +You go and tell your master I'm here--that's all you've got to do. +See? + +PERKINS (unruffled). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even told me your +name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. Bottomley? + +STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, "Somebody +from Lambeth"--_he'll_ know what I mean. + +PERKINS (humorously). Ah, I beg your pardon--the Archbishop of +Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace. + +STRANGER (angrily). It's people like you who make one sick of the +world. Parasites--servile flunkeys, bolstering up an effete +aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to do? + +PERKINS (good-naturedly). Now, look here, young man, this isn't the +time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you want to get off +your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever it may be, keep it +till Sunday afternoon--when I'm off duty. (He comes a little closer to +THE STRANGER) Four o'clock Sunday afternoon--(jerking his thumb over +his shoulder)--just round the corner--in the Bolton Mews. See? Nobody +there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and secluded, and a +friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (He edges closer as he talks.) + +STRANGER (retreating nervously). No offence meant, mate. We're in the +same boat--you and me; we don't want to get fighting. My quarrel isn't +with you. You go and tell Sir John that there's a gentleman come to +see him--wants a few minutes of his valuable time--from Lambeth way. +_He'll_ know. That's all right. + +PERKINS (drawing back, disappointedly). Then I shan't be seeing you +Sunday afternoon? + +STRANGER (laughing awkwardly). There, that's all right. No offence +meant. Somebody from Lambeth--that's what _you've_ got to say. And +tell 'im I'm in a hurry. _He'll_ know what I mean. + +PERKINS (going slowly to the door). Well, it's a queer game, but being +in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be surprised. All sorts, as +you might say, _all_ sorts. + + [Exit PERKINS. + +(THE STRANGER, left alone, walks up and down the room, nervously +impatient.) + +(LADY PEMBURY comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married life, +she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has never had +a son--her only sorrow. Her motto might be, "It is just as easy to be +kind"; and whether you go to her for comfort or congratulation, you +will come away feeling that she is the only person who really +understands.) + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh! (She stops and then comes towards THE STRANGER) How +do you do? Are you waiting to see my husband? + +STRANGER (taken aback at seeing her). Yes. + +(He is not sure for the moment if this upsets his plans or forwards +them.) + +LADY PEMBURY. I think he's engaged just now. But he won't be long. +Perkins will tell him as soon as he is free. + +STRANGER (contemptuously). His name is Perkins, is it? + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Yes. + +STRANGER (contemptuously). Mister Perkins, the Butler. + +LADY PEMBURY (with a friendly smile). You don't _mind_ our having a +butler? (She picks up some work from the table and takes it to the +sofa) + +STRANGER (shrugging his shoulders). One more parasite. + +LADY PEMBURY (interested). I always thought parasites were much +smaller than Perkins. (Sitting down) Do sit down, won't you? (He sits +down reluctantly.) You mustn't mind my being here. This is really my +work-room. I expect my husband will take you into his own room when +he's ready. + +STRANGER. Your work-room? + +LADY PEMBURY (looking up at him with a smile). You don't seem to like +our domestic arrangements. + +STRANGER (waving his hand at her embroidery). You call that work? + +LADY PEMBURY (pleasantly). Other people's work always seems so +contemptible, doesn't it? Now I expect if you tried to do this, you +would find it very difficult indeed, and if I tried to do yours--what +_is_ your work, Mr.--er--Dear me, I don't even know your name. + +STRANGER (bitterly). Never mind my name. Take it that I haven't got a +name. + +LADY PEMBURY. But your friends must call you something. + +STRANGER. Take it that I haven't got any friends. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, _don't_ say that! How _can_ you? + +STRANGER (surly). What's it matter to you whether anybody cares about +me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, never mind whether anybody cares about _you_; don't +_you_ care about anybody? + +STRANGER. Nobody. + +LADY PEMBURY. Poor, poor man! (Going on with her work) If you can't +tell me your name, I wish you would tell me what work you do. +(Winningly) You don't mind my asking, do you? + +STRANGER. I can tell you what work I'm going to do after to-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, do! + +STRANGER (violently). None! + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). None? + +STRANGER. No more work after to-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. Won't that be rather dull? + +STRANGER. Well, _you_ ought to know. I'm going to be one of the idle +rich--like you and Sir John--and let other people work for me. + +LADY PEMBURY (thoughtfully). I shouldn't have said my husband was +idle. But there it is. No two people ever agree as to what is work and +what isn't. + +STRANGER. What do you know about work--you aristocrats? + +LADY PEMBURY (mildly). My husband is only a K.B.E., you know. Quite a +recent creation. + +STRANGER (not heeding her). You, who've been brought up in the lap of +luxury--never known a day's discomfort in your life---- + +LADY PEMBURY. My dear young man, you really mustn't tell a woman who +has had five children that she has never known a day's discomfort in +her life. . . . Ask any woman. + +STRANGER (upset). What's that? . . . I didn't come here to argue with +you. You began it. Why can't you let me alone? + +LADY PEMBURY (going to a side-table and taking up a photograph). Five +children--all girls--and now I'm a grandmother. (Showing him the +photograph) There! That's my eldest daughter with her eldest son and +my eldest grandchild. Isn't he a duck? He's supposed to be like me. . . . +I never had a son of my own. (THE STRANGER has taken the photograph in +his hand and is holding it awkwardly.) Oh, let me take it away from +you. Other's people's relations are so uninteresting, aren't they? +(She takes it away and puts it back in its place. Then she returns to +her seat and goes on with her work.) So you've made a lot of money? +How exciting for you! + +STRANGER (grimly). I haven't got it yet, but it's coming. + +LADY PEMBURY. Soon? + +STRANGER. To-day. + +LADY PEMBURY. You're not married, are you? + +STRANGER. You want to know a lot, don't you? Well, I'm not married. + +LADY PEMBURY. I was thinking how much nicer it is when you can share +that sort of news with somebody else, somebody you love. It makes good +news so much better, and bad news so much more bearable. + +STRANGER. That's what you and your husband do, is it? + +LADY PEMBURY (nodding). Always. For eight-and-twenty years. + +STRANGER. He tells you everything, eh? + +LADY PEMBURY. Well, not his official secrets, of course. Everything +else. + +STRANGER. Ha! I wonder. + +LADY PEMBURY. But you have nobody, you say. Well, you must share your +good news with _me_. Will you? + +STRANGER. Oh yes, you shall hear about it all right. + +LADY PEMBURY. That's nice of you. Well then, first question. How much +money is it going to be? + +STRANGER (thoughtfully). Well, I don't quite know yet. What do you say +to a thousand a year? + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh, but what a lot! + +STRANGER. You think a thousand a year would be all right. Enough to +live on? + +LADY PEMBURY. For a bachelor, ample. + +STRANGER. For a bachelor. + +LADY PEMBURY. There's no one dependent on you? + +STRANGER. Not a soul. Only got one relation living. + +LADY PEMBURY. Oh? + +STRANGER (enjoying a joke of his own). A father. But I shall not be +supporting _him_. Oh no. Far from it. + +LADY PEMBURY (a little puzzled by this, though the is not going to +show it) Then I think you will be very rich with a thousand a year. + +STRANGER. Yes, that's what _I_ thought. I should think it would stand +a thousand. + +LADY PEMBURY. What is it? An invention of some sort? + +STRANGER. Oh no, not an invention. . . . A discovery. + +LADY PEMBURY. How proud she would have been! + +STRANGER. Who? + +LADY PEMBURY. Your wife if you had had one; your mother if she had +been alive. + +STRANGER (violently). Look here, you leave my mother out of it. My +business is with Sir John---- (sneeringly) Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. If +I want to talk about my mother, he and I will have a nice little talk +together about her. Yes, and about my father, too. + +(LADY PEMBURY understands at last. She stands up slowly, and looks at +him, horrified.) + +LADY PEMBURY. What do you mean? + +STRANGER. A thousand a year. You said so yourself. Yes, I think it's +worth a thousand a year. + +LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name? + +STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? (Bitterly) And if you +want to know why, ask Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. + +LADY PEMBURY (in a whisper). He's your father. + +STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son--come to see him at last, after +all these years. + +LADY PEMBURY (hardly able to ask it). How--how old are you? + +STRANGER. Thirty. + +LADY PEMBURY (sitting down on the sofa). Oh, thank God! Thank God! + +STRANGER (upset by her emotion). Look here, I didn't want all this. I +ask you--did I begin it? It was you who kept asking questions. I just +came for a quiet talk with Sir John--Father and Son talking together +quietly--talking about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did +you want to come into it for? + +(LADY PEMBURY is quiet again now. She wipes away a tear or two, and +sits up, looking at him thoughtfully.) + +LADY PEMBURY. So _you_ are the son that I never had. + +STRANGER. What d'you mean? + +LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). The son whom I wanted so. Five +girls--never a boy. Let me look at you. (She goes up to him.) + +STRANGER (edging away). Here, none of that. + +LADY PEMBURY (looking at him earnestly to see if she can see a +likeness). No--and yet--(shaking her head sadly) Poor boy! What an +unhappy life you must have had! + +STRANGER. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to get my rightful +allowance--same as any other son. + +LADY PEMBURY (to herself). Poor boy! (She goes back to her seat and +then says) You don't mind my asking you questions _now_, do you? + +STRANGER. Go on. There's no mistake about it. I can promise you that. + +LADY PEMBURY. How did you find out? Did your Mother tell you? + +STRANGER. Never a word. "Don't ask questions, sonny----" "Father's +dead"--all that sort of thing. + +LADY PEMBURY. Does Sir John know? Did he ever know? + +STRANGER (feeling in his pocket). _He_ knew right enough. (Bringing +out letters) Look here--here you are. This was how I found out. +(Selecting one) There--read that one. + +LADY PEMBURY (taking it). Yes--that's John's writing. (She holds it +out to him.) + +STRANGER. Aren't you going to read it? + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head pathetically). He didn't write it to +_me_. + +STRANGER. He didn't write it to _me_, if it comes to that. + +LADY PEMBURY. You're her son--you have a right. I'm--nobody. + +STRANGER (putting it back in his pocket). Oh well, please yourself. + +LADY PEMBURY. Did Sir John provide for your mother? + +STRANGER. Well, why shouldn't he? He was a rich man. + +LADY PEMBURY. Not in those days. . . . But indeed--why shouldn't he? What +else could he do? I'm glad he did. + +STRANGER. And now he's going to provide for his loving son. He's rich +enough for that in these days. + +LADY PEMBURY. He's never seen you? + +STRANGER. Never. The historic meeting of Father and Son will take +place this afternoon. (With a feeble attempt at what he thinks is the +aristocratic manner) Afraid the Governor will be in the deuce of a +rage. Been exceedin' my allowance--what? Make it a thousand, dear old +Gov. + +LADY PEMBURY. Don't they call that blackmail? + +STRANGER (violently). Now look here, I'd better tell you straight that +there's no blackmail about this at all. He's my father, isn't he? +Well, can't a son come to his father if he's hard up? Where are your +threatening letters? Where's the blackmail? Anyway, what's he going to +do about it? Put his son in prison? + +LADY PEMBURY (following her own thoughts). You're thirty. Thank God +for that. We hadn't met then. . . . Ah, but he ought to have told me. He +ought to have told me. + +STRANGER. P'raps he thought you wouldn't marry him, if he did. + +LADY PEMBURY. Do you think that was it? (Earnestly to him, as if he +were an old friend) You know men--young men. I never had a son; I +never had any brothers. Do they tell? They ought to, oughtn't they? + +STRANGER. Well--well, if you ask _me_--I say, look here, this isn't +the sort of thing one discusses with a lady. + +LADY PEMBURY. Isn't it? But one can talk to a friend. + +STRANGER (scornfully). You and me look like friends, don't we? + +LADY PEMBURY (smiling). Well, we do, rather. + +(He gets up hastily and moves further away from her.) + +STRANGER. I know what _your_ game is. Don't think I don't see it. + +LADY PEMBURY. What is it? + +STRANGER. Falling on your knees, and saying with tears in your eyes: +"Oh, kind friend, spare me poor husband!" _I_ know the sort of thing. +And trying to work me up friendly before you begin. + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head). No, if I went on my knees to you, I +shouldn't say that. How can you hurt my husband now? + +STRANGER. Well, I don't suppose the scandal will do him much good. Not +an important Member of Parliament like _him_. + +LADY PEMBURY. Ah, but it isn't the outside things that really hurt +you, the things which are done to you, but the things which you do to +yourself. And so if I went on my knees to you, it would not be for my +husband's sake. For I should go on my knees, and I should say: "Oh, my +son that might have been, think before you give up everything that a +man should have. Ambition, hope, pride, self-respect--are not these +worth keeping? Is your life to end now? Have you done all that you +came into the world to do, so that now you can look back and say, 'It +is finished; I have given all that I had to give; henceforward I will +spend'?" (Very gently) Oh, my son that might have been! + +STRANGER (very uncomfortable). Here, I say, that isn't fair. + +LADY PEMBURY (gently). When did your mother die? + +STRANGER. Look here, I wish you wouldn't keep on about mothers. + +LADY PEMBURY. When did she die, proud mother? + +STRANGER (sulkily). Well, why shouldn't she be proud? (After a pause) +Two years ago, if you want to know. + +LADY PEMBURY. It was then that you found out who your father was? + +STRANGER. That's right. I found these old letters. She'd kept them +locked up all those years. Bit of luck for me. + +LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). And that was two years ago. And for +two years you had your hopes, your ambitions, for two years you were +proud and independent. . . . Why did you not come to us then? + +STRANGER (with a touch of vanity). Well, I was getting on all right, +you know--and---- + +LADY PEMBURY. And then suddenly, after two years, you lost hope. + +STRANGER. I lost my job. + +LADY PEMBURY. Poor boy! And couldn't get another. + +STRANGER (bitterly). It's a beast of a world if you're down. He's in +the gutter--kick him down--trample on him. Nobody wants him. That's +the way to treat them when they're down. Trample on 'em. + +LADY PEMBURY. And so you came to your father to help you up again. To +help you out of the gutter. + +STRANGER. That's right. + +LADY PEMBURY (pleadingly). Ah, but give him a chance! + +STRANGER. Now, look here, I've told you already that I'm not going to +have any of _that_ game. + +LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head sadly). Foolish boy! You don't +understand. Give him a chance to help you out of the gutter. + +STRANGER. Well, I'm----! Isn't that what I am doing? + +LADY PEMBURY. No, no. You're asking him to trample you right down into +it, deeper and deeper into the mud and slime. I want you to let him +help you back to where you were two years ago--when you were proud and +hopeful. + +STRANGER (looking at her in a puzzled way). I can't make out what your +game is. It's no good pretending you don't hate the sight of me--it +stands to reason you must. + +LADY PEMBURY (smiling). But then women _are_ unreasonable, aren't +they? And I think it is only in fairy-stories that stepmothers are +always so unkind. + +STRANGER (surprised). Stepmother! + +LADY PEMBURY. Well, that's practically what I am, isn't it? +(Whimsically) I've never been a stepmother before. (Persuasively) +Couldn't you let me be proud of my stepson? + +STRANGER. Well, you _are_ a one! . . . Do you mean to say that you and +your husband aren't going to have a row about this? + +LADY PEMBURY. It's rather late to begin a row, isn't it, thirty years +after it's happened? . . . Besides, perhaps you aren't going to tell him +anything about it. + +STRANGER. But what else have I come for except to tell him? + +LADY PEMBURY. To tell _me_. . . . I asked you to give him a chance of +helping you out of your troubles, but I'd rather you gave _me_ the +chance. . . . You see, John would be very unhappy if he knew that I knew +this; and he would have to tell me, because when a man has been +happily married to anybody for twenty-eight years, he can't really +keep a secret from the other one. He pretends to himself that he can, +but he knows all the time what a miserable pretence it is. And so John +would tell me, and say he was sorry, and I would say: "It's all right, +darling, I knew," but it would make him ashamed, and he would be +afraid that perhaps I wasn't thinking him such a wonderful man as I +did before. And it's very bad for a public man like John when he +begins to lose faith in what his wife is thinking about him. . . . So let +_me_ be your friend, will you? (There is a silence between them for a +little. He looks at her wonderingly. Suddenly she stands up, her +finger to her lips) H'sh! It's John. (She moves away from him) + +(SIR JOHN PEMBURY comes in quickly; big, good-looking, decisive, +friendly; a man who wears very naturally, and without any +self-consciousness, an air of being somebody.) + +PEMBURY (walking hastily past his wife to her writing-desk). Hallo, +darling! Did I leave a cheque-book in here? I was writing a cheque for +you this morning. Ah, here we are. (As he comes back, he sees THE +STRANGER) I beg your pardon, Kate. I didn't see---- (He is making for +the door with the cheque-book in his hand, and then stops and says +with a pleasant smile to THE STRANGER) But, perhaps you are waiting to +see _me_? Perkins said something---- + +STRANGER (coming forward). Yes, I came to see you, Sir John. + +(He stands close in front of SIR JOHN, looking at him. LADY PEMBURY +watches them steadfastly.) + +PEMBURY (tapping his cheque-book against his hand). Important? + +STRANGER. I came to ask your help. + +PEMBURY (looking at his cheque-book and then back with a smile at THE +STRANGER). A good many people do that. Have you any special claim on +me? + +STRANGER (after a long pause). No. + +(PEMBURY looks at him, undecided, LADY PEMBURY comes forward.) + +LADY PEMBURY. All right, dear. (Meaning that she will look after THE +STRANGER till he comes back.) + +PEMBURY. I'll be back in a moment. (He nods and hurries out) + +(There is silence for a little, and then LADY PEMBURY claps her hands +gently.) + +LADY PEMBURY (with shining eyes). Oh, brave, brave! Ah, but I am a +proud stepmother to-day. (She holds out her hand to him) Thank you, +son. + +STRANGER (not seeing it, and speaking in a hard voice). I'd better go. + +LADY PEMBURY. Mayn't I help you? + +STRANGER. I'd better go. + +LADY PEMBURY (distressed). You can't go like this. I don't even know +your name, nor where you live. + +STRANGER. Don't be afraid--you shan't hear from _me_ again. + +LADY PEMBURY (gently). Not even when you've got back to where you were +two years ago? Mayn't I then? + +STRANGER (looking at her, and then nodding slowly). Yes, you shall +then. + +LADY PEMBURY. Thank you. I shall wait. I shall hope. I shall pray. +(She holds out her hand again) Good-bye! + +STRANGER (shaking his head). Wait till you hear from me. (He goes to +the door, and then stops and comes slowly back. He says awkwardly) +Wish you'd do one thing for me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Yes? + +STRANGER. That fellow--what did you say his name was--Perkins? + +LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Perkins--yes? + +STRANGER. Would you give him a message from me? + +LADY PEMBURY. Of course. + +STRANGER (still awkwardly). Just to say--I'll _be_ there--at the +Mews--on Sunday afternoon. _He'll_ know. Tell him I'll be there. (He +squares his shoulders and walks out defiantly--ready to take the world +on again--beginning with PERKINS on Sunday afternoon) + +(LADY PEMBURY stands watching him as he goes. She waits after he has +gone, thinking her own thoughts, out of which she comes with something +of a shock as the door opens and SIR JOHN comes in.) + +PEMBURY. Hallo! Has he gone? + +LADY PEMBURY. Yes. + +PEMBURY. What did he want? Five pounds--or a place in the Cabinet? + +LADY PEMBURY. He came for--a subscription. + +PEMBURY. And got it, if I know my Kate. (Carelessly) What did he take +from you? + +LADY PEMBURY (with a wistful little sigh). Yes; he took something from +me. Not very much, I think. But just--something. (She takes his arm, +leads him to the sofa, and says affectionately) And now tell me all +that you've been doing this morning. + +(So he begins to tell her--just as he has told her a thousand times +before. . . . But it isn't quite the same) + + + + + +Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Plays, by A. A. 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