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diff --git a/7805-h/7805-h.htm b/7805-h/7805-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d5db9bf --- /dev/null +++ b/7805-h/7805-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11979 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + First Plays, by A. A. Milne + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of First 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: First Plays + +Author: A. A. Milne + +Release Date: August 6, 2009 [EBook #7805] +Last Updated: February 6, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIRST PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + FIRST PLAYS + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By A. A. Milne + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + TO MY MOTHER + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>WURTZEL-FLUMMERY</b> </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>THE LUCKY ONE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ACT III </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> <b>THE BOY COMES HOME</b> </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> <b>BELINDA</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ACT III </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> <b>THE RED FEATHERS</b> </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + These five plays were written, in the order in which they appear now, + during the years 1916 and 1917. They would hardly have been written had it + not been for the war, although only one of them is concerned with that + subject. To his other responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume. + </p> + <p> + For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but the + recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing is a luxury + to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more expensive in time and + money. When an article is written, the financial reward (and we may as + well live as not) is a matter of certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is + not in "the front rank"—but I never heard of one who wasn't—can + at least be sure of publication. But when a play is written, there is no + certainty of anything save disillusionment. + </p> + <p> + To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a depraved + proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the morning. I thought I + could write one (we all think we can), but I could not afford so + unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the case was altered. No duty + now urged me to write. My job was soldiering, and my spare time was my own + affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf; that was one way of + amusing oneself. Another way was—why not?—to write plays. + </p> + <p> + So we began with Wurzel-Flummery. I say "we," because another is mixed up + in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She wrote; I + dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out for a walk along + the byways—where there was no saluting, and one could smoke a pipe + without shocking the Duke of Cambridge—then it was to discuss the + last scene and to wonder what would happen in the next. We did not + estimate the money or publicity which might come from this new venture; + there has never been any serious thought of making money by my + bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when I am trying to play golf. + But secretly, of course, we hoped. It was that which made it so much more + exciting than any other game. + </p> + <p> + Our hopes were realized to the following extent: + </p> + <p> + Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in + April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in which form it was + shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of 1917 I was offered the + chance of production in a triple bill if I cut it down into a two-act + play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut thirty pages of one's + first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on the way, has at least a + certain morbid fascination. It appeared, therefore, in two acts; and one + kindly critic embarrassed us by saying that a lesser artist would have + written it in three acts, and most of the other critics annoyed us by + saying that a greater artist would have written it in one act. However, I + amused myself some months later by slaying another character—the + office-boy, no less—thereby getting it down to one act, and was + surprised to find that the one-act version was, after all, the best... At + least I think it is.... At any rate, that is the version I am printing + here; but, as can be imagined, I am rather tired of the whole business by + now, and I am beginning to wonder if anyone ever did take the name of + Wurzel-Flummery at all. Probably the whole thing is an invention. + </p> + <p> + The Lucky One was doomed from the start with a name like that. And the + girl marries the wrong man. I see no hope of its being produced. But if + any critic wishes to endear himself to me (though I don't see why he + should) he will agree with me that it is the best play of the five. + </p> + <p> + The Boy Comes Home was produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria Palace + in September, 1918, introduced afterwards into Hallo, America! at the + Palace, and played by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the Coliseum in the following + April. + </p> + <p> + Belinda was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in April, + 1918, with Miss Irene Vanbrugh in the name-part. Miss Ethel Barrymore + played it in New York. I hope it will read pleasantly, but I am quite + incapable of judging it, for every speech of Belinda's comes to me now in + Miss Vanbrugh's voice. + </p> + <p> + The Red Feathers has not yet been produced, one reason being (perhaps) + that it has never been offered to anybody. It is difficult enough to find + a manager, but when one has also to get hold of a composer, the business + of production becomes terrifying. I suppose there is a way of negotiating + these difficulties, but I suspect that most of the fun to be got out of + this operetta we have already had in writing it. + </p> + <p> + In conclusion, I must distress my friend J. M. Barrie (who gave me a first + chance) by acknowledging my great debt to him. It would be more polite to + leave him out of it, but I cannot let him off. After all, these are only + "First Plays." I can always hope that "Last Plays" will be more worthy of + that early encouragement. + </p> + <p> + A. A. MILNE. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div class="play"> + <h2> + WURTZEL-FLUMMERY + </h2> + <h3> + A COMEDY IN ONE ACT + </h3> + CHARACTERS. +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P. + MARGARET CRAWSHAW (his wife). + VIOLA CRAWSHAW (his daughter). + RICHARD MERITON, M.P. + DENIS CLIFTON. +</pre> + <p> + A Two-Act version of this play was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at + the New Theatre on April 7, 1917, with the following cast: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Robert Crawshaw—NIGEL PLAYFAIR. + Margaret Crawshaw—HELEN HAYE. + Viola Crawshaw—PEGGY KURTON. + Richard Meriton—MARTIN LEWIS. + Denis Clifton—DION BOUCICAULT. + Lancelot Dodd—BERTRAM SIEMS. +</pre> + <p> + [SCENE.—ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Morning.] + </p> + <p> + [It is a June day before the war in the morning-room of ROBERT + CRAWSHAW'S town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, our + attention would first be called to the delightful club fender round the + fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out at right + angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is sitting, deep in + "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to catalogue her, but we + notice for ourselves, before he points out the comfortable armchair + opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the middle of the room and + facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid knee-hole writing-table, + covered with papers and books of reference, and supported by a chair at + the middle and another at the side. The rest of the furniture, and the + books and pictures round the walls, we must leave until another time, + for at this moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON + comes in. He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent + face, and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he + comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes.] + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Three guesses who it is. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. No. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. The Archbishop of York. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your last + guess. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes + round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the fireplace.) + How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.) + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway. Anything + in the paper? + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that— + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. It would be. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as father. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that + before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference? + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other + day. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. No, I don't, really. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled by + your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it + doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke + to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Of course not. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Then why does he say it? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole + structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say + things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very good + friends. He's always asking my advice about things—he doesn't take + it, of course, but still he asks it; and it awfully good of him to + insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up. (Seriously) I + bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I should never + have known you. You were just "Viola"—the girl I'd seen at odd + times since she was a child; now—oh, why won't you let me tell + your father? I hate it like this. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA, Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would, as + they say in novels, show you the door. (Smiling) And I want you this + side of the door for a little bit longer. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (firmly). I shall tell him before I go. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days. You + see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. You + see, apart from politics you're so poor—and father hates poor + people. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (viciously). Damn money! + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual + instability. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes to + him and—) Oh, Lord, look out! + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW comes + in.) + </p> + <p> + (CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and whiskers, + his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in + trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, + and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he + undoubtedly is.) + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at + breakfasts? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother? + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (making for the door). I don't know, father; do you want her? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [She goes out.] + </p> + <p> + (RICHARD Picks up "The Times" and sits down again.) + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (sitting down in a business-like way at his desk). Richard, why + don't you get something to do? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your—ah—work + in the House. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (a trifle cool). I have something to do. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a + directorship or something in the City. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I hate the City. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance to + which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing personal. + (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest boasts of the + Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere with + his private friendships. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day. + </p> + <p> + [Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for + twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from habit. She is small, + comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, + but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.] + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all + right. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Excellent, thank you. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. (obviously uncomfortable). Yes—er—h'rm—Richard—er—what + are your—er—plans? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Of course not. (TO ROBERT) Are you, dear? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can + leave Richard here with the paper. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. No, no; I'm going. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (going to the door with him). I have some particular business + to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult you in the + matter afterwards. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Right! [He goes out.] + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for you. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (sitting down). Yes, Robert? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. (He reads it) "199, + Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have pleasure to inform you that under + the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the + extent of £50,000." + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Robert! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached—namely, that you + should take the name of—Wurzel-Flummery." + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Robert! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. "I have the honour to be, your obedient servant, Denis + Clifton." (He folds the letter up and puts it away.) + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the + money?— + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (calmly). I have not the slightest idea, Margaret. Doubtless we + shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis Clifton to come and + see me. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what about + moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more central part. + Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so much more—more + Cabinety. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street—I + don't know what <i>that</i> sounds like. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear. They + can't really expect us to change our name to—Wurzley-Fothergill. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk the + solicitor round—this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't + matter to him what we call ourselves. Write him one of your letters, + dear. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.—Mr.— + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with the + name of Wurzley-Fothergill— + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Wurzel—oh, well, never mind. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the fifty + thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too absurd, when + everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect you to call yourself + Wurzley-Fothergill. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (impatiently). Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr. Clifton has + left me the money on <i>condition</i> that I change my name. If I don't + take the name, I don't take the money. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. But is that legal? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on + succeeding to some property. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you changed + it to Talbot. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (to himself). Wurzel-Flummery! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it was + very nice of him, but if you didn't know him—Why do you think he + did, dear? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he had—ah—followed + my career, and was—ah—interested in it, and being a man with + no relations, felt that he could—ah—safely leave this money + to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or the + name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the name—ah—perpetuated, + perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the history of our country, and—ah—made + this will accordingly. In a way it is a kind of—ah—sacred + trust. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think + about, my duty to my country. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't it? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view of + riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is entirely + ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money thoughtfully, is + serving his country as nobly as anybody. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we <i>could</i> have that second car + and the house in Curzon Street? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly + invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the + income-tax—and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just + now— + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery it + would count as <i>earned</i> income. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even if it + is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in recognition + of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But Parliament takes + a different view. I do not for a moment say that fifty thousand pounds + would not be welcome. Fifty pounds is certainly not to be sneezed at— + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I should think not, indeed! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (unconsciously rising from his chair). And without this + preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this + trust, and I would endeavour, Mr. Speaker—(He sits down again + suddenly.) I would, Margaret, to, carry it out to the best of my poor + ability. But—Wurtzel-Flummery! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used to the + name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five years. It is + surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only signed my name + Margaret Debenham once after I was married. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (kindly). The cases are rather different, Margaret. Naturally a + woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day when she will change + her name, cannot have this feeling for the—ah—honour of his + name, which every man—ah—feels. Such a feeling is naturally + more present in my own case since I have been privileged to make the + name of Crawshaw in some degree—ah—well-known, I might + almost say famous. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (wistfully). I used to be called "the beautiful Miss Debenham + of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of course, I am very + proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (getting up and walking over to the fireplace). In a way it + would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in politics + to get your name before the public. "Whoever is this man + Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty thousand + pounds is fifty thousand pounds. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it. But—well, + all I say is that a <i>gentleman</i> would have left it without any + conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed his <i>wish</i> + that I should take the name, without going so far as to enforce it. Then + I could have looked at the matter all round in an impartial spirit. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (pursuing her thoughts). The linen is marked R. M. C. now. Of + course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F. would + do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. What? Oh—yes, there will be a good deal of that to + attend to. (Going up to her) I think, Margaret, I had better talk to + Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the money, + but—well, I should like to have his opinion. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (getting up). Do you think he would be very sympathetic, dear? + He makes jokes about serious things—like bishops and hunting just + as if they weren't at all serious. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new—ah—point + of view. I do not hold myself in the least bound to act on anything he + says. I regard him as a constituent, Margaret. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Then I will send him to you. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (putting his hands on her shoulders). Margaret, what do you + really feel about it? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Just whatever you feel, Robert. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (kissing her). Thank you, Margaret; you are a good wife to me. + [She goes out] + </p> + <p> + (CRAWSHAW goes to his desk and selects a "Who's Who" from a little pile + of reference-books on it. He walks round to his chair, sits down in it + and begins to turn the pages, murmuring names beginning with "C" to + himself as he gets near the place. When he finds it, he murmurs "Clifton—that's + funny," and closes the book. Evidently the publishers have failed him.) + </p> + <p> + [Enter RICHARD.] + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Well, what's the news? (He goes to his old seat on the fender.) + Been left a fortune? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (simply). Yes.... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. I never met him and + I know nothing about him. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (surprised). Not really? Well, I congratulate you. (He sighs.) + To them that hath—But what on earth do you want my advice about? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. There is a slight condition attached. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Oho! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. The condition is that with this money—fifty thousand + pounds—I take the name of—ah—Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (jumping up). What! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (sulkily). I said it quite distinctly—Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + (RICHARD in an awed silence walks over to the desk and stands looking + down at the unhappy CRAWSHAW. He throws out his left hand as if + introducing him.) + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (reverently). Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M. P., one of the most + prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. Oh, you...oh!... oh, how too + heavenly! (He goes back to his seat, looks up and catches CRAWSHAW'S + eye, and breaks down altogether.) + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (rising with dignity). Shall we discuss it seriously, or shall + we leave it? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery seriously? "Mr. + Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen words seconded the motion."... + "'Sir,' went on Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"—Oh, poor Robert! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (sitting down sulkily). You seem quite certain that I shall + take the money. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I am quite certain. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Would you take it? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (hesitating). Well—I wonder. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's in a name?" + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare—<i>William</i> + Shakespeare—said. (Dramatically rising) Who steals my purse with + fifty thousand in it—steals trash. (In his natural voice) Trash, + Robert: (Dramatically again) But he who filches from me my good name of + Crawshaw (lightly) and substitutes the rotten one of Wurzel— + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (annoyed). As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery is a very good + old name. I seem to remember some—ah—Hampshire + Wurzel-Flummeries. It is a very laudable spirit on the part of a dying + man to wish to—ah—perpetuate these old English names. It all + seems to me quite natural and straightforward. If I take this money I + shall have nothing to be ashamed of. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I see.... Look here, may I ask you a few questions? I should + like to know just how you feel about the whole business? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (complacently folding his hands). Go ahead. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you and said, "My + poor man, here's five pounds for you," what would you do? Tell him to go + to the devil, I suppose, wouldn't you? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (humorously). In more parliamentary language, perhaps, Richard. + I should tell him I never took money from strangers. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you would + take it? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, <i>then</i> you would? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (blandly). Ah, I thought you were leading up to that. That, of + course, is entirely different. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Why? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Well—ah—wouldn't <i>you</i> take ten thousand + pounds if it were left to you by a stranger? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would seem + different. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (professionally). Ha-hum! Well—in the first place, when a + man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be certain + that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot spare. And in + the neat place, it is the man's dying wish that you should have the + money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To accept becomes almost a + sacred duty. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it from him + when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently refuse him a + little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter a damn to him what + happens to his money after he's dead, and therefore you can take it + without feeling any gratitude at all. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (smiling). I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW No doubt you can twist it about so that— + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point. + Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your hair + down the middle, shave off your moustache, and wear only one whisker—if + he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike your appearance, + took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and alter yourself—of + course you'd pocket the money and go straight to your barber's? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left you + five pounds in his will?—well, then twenty pounds? a hundred + pounds?—a thousand pounds?—fifty thousand pounds?—(Jumping + up excitedly) It's only a question of price—fifty thousand pounds, + Robert—a pink tie with purple spots, hair across the back, + trousers with a patch in the fall myself Wurzel-Flummery—any old + thing you like, you can't insult me—anything you like, gentlemen, + for fifty thousand pounds. (Lowering his voice) Only you must leave it + in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty—a + sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. (He sinks back into the sofa and + relights his pipe.) + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. (rising with dignity). It is evidently useless to prolong this + conversation. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (waving him dorm again). No, no, Robert; I've finished. I just + took the other side—and I got carried away. I ought to have been + at the Bar. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. You take such extraordinary views of things. You must look + facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern world, and we are modern + people living in it. Take the matter-of-fact view. You may like or + dislike the name of—ah—Wurzel-Flummery, but you can't get + away from the fact that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (wistfully). I don't know why people shouldn't sneeze at money + sometimes. I should like to start a society for sneezing at fifty + thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in a small way, of course; we'd + begin by sneezing at five pounds—and work up. The trouble is that + we're all inoculated in our cradles against that kind of cold. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (pleasantly). You will have your little joke. But you know as + well as I do that it is only a joke. There can be no serious reason why + I should not take this money. And I—ah—gather that you don't + think it will affect my career? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (carelessly). Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get you into all + the comic papers. + </p> + <p> + [MARGARET comes in at this moment, to the relief of CRAWSHAW, who is not + quite certain if he is being flattered or insulted again.] + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Well, have you told him? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (making way for her on the sofa). I have heard the news, Mrs. + Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion that he should have no + difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery as famous as he has + already made that of Crawshaw. At any rate I hope he will. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. How nice of you! CRAWSHAW. Well, it's settled, then. (Looking + at his watch) This solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after + all, we can manage something about—Ah, Viola, did you want your + mother? + </p> + <p> + [Enter VIOLA.] + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's Richard, so it + can't be very serious. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. What a reputation! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Well, it's over now. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Viola had better know, hadn't she? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. She'll have to know some time, of course. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (sitting done firmly on the sofa). Of course she will. So you'd + better tell her now. I knew there was something exciting going on this + morning. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (embarrassed). Hum—ha—(To MARGARET) Perhaps you'd + better tell her, dear. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (simply and naturally). Father has come into some property, + Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. But your father doesn't + think it will matter. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. How thrilling! What is the name, mother? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Your father says it is—dear me, I shall never remember + it. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (mumbling). Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (after a pause). Dick, <i>you</i> tell me, if nobody else will. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Robert said it just now. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just a—do say + it again, father. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (sulkily but plainly). Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (surprised). Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel and + like flummery? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Exactly, I believe. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (to herself). Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery—I mean they'd have + to look at you, wouldn't they? (Bubbling over) Oh, Dick, what a heavenly + name! Who had it first? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family—that is so, isn't it, + Robert? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (annoyed). I said I thought that I remembered—Margaret, + can you find Burke there? + </p> + <p> + (She finds it, and he buries himself in the families of the great.) + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss + Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand in + front of my glass and tell myself who I am. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. It's all right for you. You know you'll change your name one + day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (secretly). H'sh! (She smiles lovingly at him, and then says + aloud) Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage has + been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery..." and everybody will + say, "And about time too, poor girl." + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). Have you found it, dear? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (resentfully). This is the 1912 edition. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in by + then. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick, what + fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman throwing open + the door and saying— + </p> + <p> + MAID (announcing). Mr. Denis Clifton. + </p> + <p> + (There is a little natural confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in his + summer suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW goes + towards him and shakes hands.) + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. (Looking + doubtfully at his clothes) Er—it is Mr. Denis Clifton, the + solicitor? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (cheerfully). It is. I must apologize for not looking the part + more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very + careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me from + the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (bewildered). Ah yes, quite so. But you have—ah—full + legal authority to act in this matter? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON.. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (introducing). My wife—and daughter. (CLIFTON bows + gracefully.) My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (happily).Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a situation, + as we say in the profession. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (amused by him). In the legal profession? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession.(Turning to MARGARET) I am a + writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional + secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have thanked + me for submitting my work to them. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (firmly).I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the solicitor + employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony Clifton. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a solicitor. + My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say probity, would give + me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the Law Society. But my + heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced the profession of a + solicitor—(Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW) But you know what these + official embraces are. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I'm afraid—(She turns to her husband for assistance.) + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (to RICHARD). Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the + Muses. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it that + we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to produce a + play, the case would be different. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor for as + long as you wish. (He puts his hat down on a chair with the papers in + it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily) Mr. Denis Clifton was + superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent make-up, his manner of + taking off his gloves and dropping them into his hat—(He does so.) + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). I think, perhaps, Viola and I— + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (making a move too). We'll leave you to your business, Robert. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (holding up his hand). Just one moment if I may. I have a letter + for you, Mr. Meriton. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (surprised). For me? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity—oh, but I + said that before—he took it round to your rooms this morning, but + found only painters and decorators there. (He is feeling in his pockets + and now brings the letter out.) I brought it along, hoping that Mr. + Crawshaw—but of course I never expected anything so delightful as + this. (He hands over the letter with a bow.) + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts it in his pocket.) + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? (To MR. CRAWSHAW) One so + rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own letters are + read. I think the habit they have on the stage of reading letters aloud + to other is such a very delightful one. + </p> + <p> + (RICHARD, with a smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while CLIFTON + is talking.) + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Good Lord! + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Dick, what is it? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (reading). "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the + pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony + Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of £50,000." + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Dick! + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. "A trifling condition is attached—namely, that you should + take the name of—Wurzel-Flummery." (CLIFTON, with his hand on his + heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them.) + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (annoyed). Impossible! Why should he leave any money to <i>you</i>? + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (mildly). I don't remember ever having had a morning quite like + this. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (angrily). Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the utmost— + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't even + argue about it. (Tearing the letter into bits) That's what I think of + your money. [He stalks indignantly from the room.] + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him—[She + hurries after him.] + </p> + <p> + MARGARET (with dignity). Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you. [She + goes out too.] + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (looking round the room). And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are alone. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to + explain— + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking forward + to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning dressing for + it. (He takes papers from his hat and moves to the sofa.) Perhaps I had + better begin from the beginning. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (interested, indicating the papers). The documents in the case? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Oh dear, no just something to carry in the hand. It makes one + look more like a solicitor. (Reading the title) "Watherston v. Towser—in + re Great Missenden Canal Company." My clerk invents the titles; it keeps + him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is always coming in. + (Frankly) You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first real case, and I only + got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My efforts to introduce a + little picturesqueness into the dull formalities of the law do not meet + with that response that one would have expected. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (looking at his watch). Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if you + could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this money to + me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these extraordinary + conditions, I shall be obliged to you. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being entirely + frank with you. It will be a pleasure. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may say that + I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as I am to accept + this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr. Antony Clifton has seen + fit—(modestly) one cannot say why—to bequeath to me, yet the + use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be excessively awkward. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (cheerfully). Excessively. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was absolutely + essential that the name should go with the money. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Well (thoughtfully), you may have the name <i>without</i> the + money if you like. But you must have the name. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (disappointed). Ah! (Bravely) Of course, I have nothing against + the name, a good old Hampshire name— + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (shocked). My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think—you + didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery before? + Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the founders of the + clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran— + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not a + real name at all? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because—er—<i>I</i> + made it up. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (outraged). And you have the impudence to propose, sir, that I + should take a made-up name? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (soothingly). Well, all names are made up some time or other. + Somebody had to think of—Adam. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this trifling + with serious subjects. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really.... You see, my Uncle Antony was a + rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to put it in + its proper place. The place he put it in was—er—a little + below golf and a little above classical concerts. If a man said to him, + "Would you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?" he would say—well, + it would depend what he was doing. If he were going to have a round at + Walton Heath— + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find many to + agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was nothing, however + contemptible, that a man would not do for money. One day I suggested + that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently foolish name attached to + it, somebody might be found to refuse it. He laughed at the idea. That + put me on my mettle. "Two people," I said; "leave the same silly name to + two people, two well-known people, rival politicians, say, men whose own + names are already public property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." + That touched him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said. "Upon what + vile bodies shall we experiment?" We decided on you and Mr. Meriton. The + next thing was to choose the name. I started on the wrong lines. I began + by suggesting names like Porker, Tosh, Bugge, Spiffkins—the + obvious sort. My uncle— + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (boiling with indignation). How <i>dare</i> you discuss me with + your uncle, Sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way whether I + am to be called—ah—Tosh—or—ah—Porker! + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't bear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a humorous + name—a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue—a name + expressing a sort of humorous contempt—Wurzel-Flummery! I can see + now the happy ruminating smile which came so often on my Uncle Antony's + face in those latter months. He was thinking of his two + Wurzel-Flummerys. I remember him saying once—it was at the Zoo—what + a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole Cabinet. A + whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummerys; it would have been rather jolly. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if <i>that</i> was the way you + and your uncle used to talk together at his death can only be described + as a merciful intervention of Providence. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere, you + know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was his one + regret that from the necessities of the case he could not live to enjoy + his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it would reach him + wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I fancy, that toward + the end he became interested in spiritualism. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (rising solemnly). Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the + present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of + overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if, as + you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like him to + hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified solicitor at + all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole story of the will + and the ridiculous condition attached to it is just the tomfool joke of + a man who, by his own admission, wastes most of his time writing + unsuccessful farces. And I propose— + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces, + comedies—of a whimsical nature. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole matter + to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr. + Crawshaw? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (startled). What's that? + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand pounds? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not refuse + it. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there—and the name. Both + waiting for you. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (thumping the table). Then, Sir, I accept them. I feel it my + duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the late + Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that you have + suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show what I think + of your story by accepting the trust which he has bequeathed to me. You + will arrange further matters with my solicitor. Good morning, Sir. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (to himself as he rises). Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass of + water. (To CRAWSHAW) Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I express the + parting wish that your future career will add fresh lustre to—my + name. (To himself as he goes out) Exit Mr. Denis Clifton with dignity. + (But he has left his papers behind him.) + </p> + <p> + (CRAWSHAW, walking indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers and + picks them up.) + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (contemptuously). "Watherston v. Towser—in re Great + Missenden Canal Company" Bah! (He tears them up and throws them into the + fare. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated there as VIOLA, + followed by MERITON, comes in.) + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told him + that of course he must. He must, mustn't he? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be + awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummerys in the House of + Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In any + case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA (surprised). But how can we get married if he doesn't take the + money? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (hardly understanding). Married? What does this mean, Richard? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told you + before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or two. Viola + and I want to get married. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (with a smile). Not very much, I'm afraid. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty thousand + pounds. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (sadly). Oh, Viola, Viola! + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on + matters. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father? + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to entrust + my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself that he + throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful objection to + the name which goes with it. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (in despair). You don't understand, Robert. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good enough + for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind asking Viola to + take <i>your</i> name, but you consider it an insult if you are asked to + take <i>my</i> name. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (miserably to VIOLA). Do you want to be Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery? + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (beaten). Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But you'll + never understand. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW (stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out). Come, + come, Richard. (Patting him on the shoulder) I understand perfectly. All + that you were saying about money a little while ago—it's all + perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in practice we + have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice our ideals for—ah—others. + I shall be very proud to have you for a son-in-law, and to feel that + there will be the two of us in Parliament together upholding the honour + of the—ah—name. And perhaps now that we are to be so closely + related, you may come to feel some day that your views could be—ah—more + adequately put forward from <i>my</i> side of the House. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it. + </p> + <p> + CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And you + must send that solicitor a line—or perhaps a telephone message + would be better. (He goes to the door and turns round just as he is + going out.) Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer. + [Exit.] + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (holding out his hands to VIOLA). Come here, Mrs. + Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please, darling. + (She comes to him.) + </p> + <p> + RICHARD (shaking his head sadly at her). I don't know what I've done, + Viola. (Suddenly) But you're worth it. (He kisses her, and then says in + a low voice) And God help me if I ever stop thinking so! + </p> + <p> + [Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very tactfully + with his back towards them, humming to himself.] + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Hullo! + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (to himself). Now where did I put those papers? (He hums to + himself again.) Now where—oh, I beg your pardon! I left some + papers behind. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. (As she goes out, she says to CLIFTON) + Good-bye, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice letters. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Crawshaw. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Wurzel-Flummery. + </p> + <p> + VIOLA. (smiling happily). No, not Miss, Mrs. + </p> + <p> + [She goes out.] + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. (looking in surprise from her to him). You don't mean— + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! (Thoughtfully to himself) I wonder + how a rough scenario would strike the managers. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton! + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. Why poor? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said to + Crawshaw about money before you came. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (thoughtfully). Oh I was it very—(Brightening up) But I + expect Uncle Antony heard. (After a pause) Well, I must be getting on. I + wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in connection + with the Great Missenden Canal Company—a most intricate case, in + which my clerk and I—(He has murmured himself across to the + fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch his + eye. He picks up one of the fragments.) Ah, yes. Well, I shall tell my + clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had got quite fond of + that canal. (He turns to go, but first says to MERITON) So you're taking + the money, Mr. Meriton? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too? + </p> + <p> + RICHARD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + CLIFTON (to himself as he goes out). They are both taking it. (He stops + and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile.) Good old Uncle Antony—he + knew—he knew! (MERITON stands watching him as he goes.) + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LUCKY ONE + </h2> + <h3> + A PLAY IN THREE ACTS + </h3> + CHARACTERS. +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GERALD FARRINGDON. + BOB FARRINGDON (his elder brother). + SIR JAMES FARRINGDON (his father). + LADY FARRINGDON (his mother). + MISS FARRINGDON (his great-aunt). + PAMELA CAREY (his betrothed). + HENRY WENTWORTH (his friend). + THOMAS TODD (his friend). + LETTY HERBERT (his friend). + MASON (his old nurse). +</pre> + <p> + ACT I. At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S in the country. + </p> + <p> + ACT II. A private hotel in Dover Street. Two months later. + </p> + <p> + ACT III. At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. Three months later. + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + <h3> + [SCENE.—The hall of SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S house in the country.] + </h3> + <p> + [It is a large and pleasantly unofficial sort of room, used as a + meeting-place rather than a resting place. To be in it pledges you to + nothing; whereas in the billiard-room you are presumably pledged to + billiards. The French windows at the back open on to lawns; the door on + the right at the back will take you into the outer hall; the door on the + left leads to the servants' quarters; the door on the right in front + will disclose other inhabited rooms to you. An oak gallery runs round + two sides of the hall and descends in broad and gentle stairs down the + right side of it. Four stairs from the bottom it turns round at right + angles and deposits you fairly in the hall. Entering in this way, you + will see immediately opposite to you the large open fireplace occupied + by a pile of unlit logs—for it is summer. There is a chair on each + side of the fireplace, but turned now away from it. In the left centre + of the hall there is a gate-legged table to which trays with drinks on + them, have a habit of finding their way; it is supported on each side by + a coffin-stool. A sofa, which will take two strangers comfortably and + three friends less comfortably, comes out at right angles to the + staircase, but leaves plenty of space between itself and the stool on + its side of the table. Beneath the window on the left of the French + windows is a small table on which letters and papers are put; beneath + the window on the other side is a writing-table. The walls are decorated + impartially with heads of wild animals and of Farringdons.] + </p> + <p> + [At the present moment the inhabitants of the hall are three. HENRY + WENTWORTH, a barrister between forty, and fifty, dressed in rather a + serious tweed suit, for a summer day, is on the sofa. THOMAS TODD, an + immaculate young gentleman of twenty-five, is half-sitting on the + gate-legged table with one foot on the ground and the other swinging. He + is dressed in a brown flannel coat and white trousers, shoes and socks, + and he has a putter in his hand indicative of his usual line of thought. + The third occupant is the Butler, who, in answer to TOMMY'S ring, has + appeared with the drinks.] + </p> + <p> + [The time is about four o'clock on a June afternoon.] + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (to the Butler). Thanks, James; just leave it here. [Exit Butler.] + Whisky or lemonade, Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Neither, thanks, Tommy. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Well, I will. (He pours himself out some lemonade and takes a + long drink.) I should have thought you would have been thirsty, driving + down from London a day like this. (He finishes his drink.) Let's see, + where was I up to? The sixth, wasn't it? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. The sixth, Tommy. (With resignation) Only twelve more. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Yes, that's right. Well, at the seventh I got an absolutely + topping drive, but my approach was sliced a bit. However, I chipped on + within about six feet, and was down in four. Gerald took it in three, + but I had a stroke, so I halved. Then the eighth I told you about. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Was that where you fell into the pond? + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. No, no; you're thinking of the fifth, where I topped my drive + into the pond. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I knew the pond came into it somewhere. I hoped—I mean + I thought you fell in. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Look here, you <i>must</i> remember the eighth, old chap; that + was the one I did in one. Awful bit of luck. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Bit of luck for me too, Tommy. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Why? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Because now you can hurry on to the ninth. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I say, Wentworth, I thought you were keen on golf. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Only on my own. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. You're a fraud. Here I've been absolutely wasting my precious + time on you and—I suppose it wouldn't even interest you to hear + that Gerald went round in seventy-two—five under bogey? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. It would interest me much more to hear something about this + girl he's engaged to. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Pamela Carey? Oh, she's an absolute ripper. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Yes, but you've said that of every girl you've met. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Well, dash it! you don't expect me to describe what she looks + like, do you? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Well, no. I shall see that for myself directly. One gets + introduced, you know, Tommy. It isn't as though I were meeting her at + Charing Cross Station for the first time. But who is she? + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Well, she was poor old Bob's friend originally. He brought her + down here, but, of course, as soon as she saw Gerald— + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (quickly). Why, <i>poor</i> old Bob? + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I don't know; everybody seems to call him that. After all, he + isn't quite like Gerald, is he? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Paderewski isn't quite like Tommy Todd, but I don't say "poor + old Paderewski"—nor "poor old Tommy," if it comes to that. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Well, hang it, old man, there's a bit of a difference. Paderewski + and I—well, I mean we don't compete. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Oh, I don't know. I daresay he's as rotten at golf as you, if + the truth were really known. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. No, but seriously, it's a bit different when you get two brothers + like Gerald and Bob; and whatever the elder one does, the younger one + does a jolly sight better. Now Paderewski and I— + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Good heavens! I wish I hadn't started you on that. Get back + to Bob. I thought Bob was on the Stock Exchange and Gerald in the + Foreign Office. There can't be very much competition between them there. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Well, but there you are! Why isn't Bob in the Foreign Office and + Gerald on the Stock Exchange? Why, because Gerald's the clever one, + Gerald's the popular one, the good-looking one, the lucky one, the + county cricketer, the plus three at golf— + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Oh Lord! I thought you'd get golf into it. I suppose you were + working up to your climax. Poor old Bob is about eighteen at golf, eh? + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. As a matter of fact, he's a very decent five. And there you are + again. In any other family, Bob would be thought rather a nut. As it is— + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. As it is, Tommy, there are about thirty-five million people + in England who've never played golf and who would recognize Bob, if they + met him, for the decent English gentleman that he is. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I think you exaggerate, old chap. Golf's been getting awfully + popular lately. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Personally I am very fond of Bob. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Oh, so am I. He's an absolute ripper. Still, <i>Gerald</i>, you + know—I mean it's jolly bad luck on poor old Bob. Now Paderewski + and I— + </p> + <p> + [Enter GERALD from the garden, a charming figure in a golfing coat and + white flannels. Perhaps he is a little conscious of his charm; if so, it + is hardly his fault, for hero-worship has been his lot from boyhood. He + is now about twenty-six; everything that he has ever tried to do he has + done well; and, if he is rather more unembarrassed than most of us when + praised, his unself-consciousness is to a stranger as charming as the + rest of him. With it all he is intensely reserved, with the result that + those who refuse to succumb to his charm sometimes make the mistake of + thinking that there is nothing behind it.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Hallo, Wentworth, how are you? All right? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (getting up and shaking hands). Yes, thanks. How are you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Simply bursting. Have you seen your room and all that sort of + thing? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Yes, thanks. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Good. And Tommy's been entertaining you. (To TOMMY) Tommy, I + interrupted your story about Paderewski. I don't think I know it. (To + WENTWORTH) You must listen to this; it may be fairly new. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Don't be an ass. As a matter of fact, we were discussing + something quite serious. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (to WENTWORTH). How long have you been here? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. About ten minutes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And Tommy hasn't told you that he did the eighth in one this + morning? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. He hasn't really told me yet. He's only mentioned it once or + twice in passing. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (modestly). Well, I mean it's bound to appear in the papers, so + naturally one— + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, it's a great business. Champagne will flow like water + to-night. There will also be speeches. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Which reminds me, Gerald, I have to congratulate you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Thank you very much. When you've seen her you'll want to do it + again. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (looking through the window). Hallo, there's Letty. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. If you want to tell her about it, run along, Tommy. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (moving off). I thought I'd just take her on at putting. [He goes + out.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD (sitting down). You'll stay till—well, how long can you? + Tuesday, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I think I can manage till Tuesday. Thanks very much. Miss + Carey is here, of course? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, she'll be in directly. She's gone to the station to meet + Bob. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (smiling). And Gerald didn't go with her? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (smiling). At least six people suggested that Gerald should go + with her. They suggested it very loudly and archly— + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. So Gerald didn't? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. So Gerald didn't. (After a pause) I can't stand that sort of + thing. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. What sort of thing? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (after a pause). Poor old boy! you've never been in love—barring + the nine or ten times you're just going to tell me about. I mean never + really in love. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Don't drag <i>me</i> into it. What is it you can't stand? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. People being tactful about Pamela and me.... Aunt Tabitha asked + me yesterday if she might have Pamela for half an hour to do something + or other—as if she were an umbrella, with my initials on it.... + And somebody else said, "I've quite fallen in love with your Pamela; I + hope you don't mind." <i>Mind</i>? I tell you, Wentworth, my boy, if you + aren't in love with Pamela by Tuesday, there'll be the very deuce of a + row. Your electro-plated butter-dish, or whatever it's going to be, will + be simply flung back at you. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Well, as long as Miss Pamela understands— + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course she understands. We understand each other. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (preening himself ). Then I'll do my best. Mind, if she does + happen to reciprocate my feelings, I wash my hands of all + responsibility. (Going towards the staircase) Good-afternoon, Miss + Farringdon. + </p> + <p> + [MISS FARRINGDON is coming slowly down the stairs.] + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Good-afternoon, Mr. Wentworth. Welcome. + </p> + <p> + (She must be well over eighty. She was pretty once, and sharp-tongued; + so much you could swear to now. For the rest she is very, very wise, and + intensely interested in life.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (going over and kissing her). Good-morning, Aunt Tabitha. Your + chair is waiting for you. (He conducts her to it.) + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I'm a nasty cross old thing before lunch, Mr. + Wentworth, so I don't come down till afterwards nowadays. Is Gerald + being as charming as usual? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (smiling). Oh, pretty well. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (looking at her lovingly and then turning to WENTWORTH). It's + having a very bad effect on her, this morning seclusion. She's supposed + to be resting, but she spends her time trying to think of nasty things + to say about me. The trouble with a mind like Aunt Tabitha's is that it + can't think of anything <i>really</i> nasty. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. The trouble with Gerald, Mr. Wentworth, is that he goes + about expecting everybody to love him. The result is that they nearly + all do. However, he can't get round <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It isn't true, Wentworth; she adores me. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. He wouldn't be happy if he didn't think so. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (gracefully). I can sympathize with him there. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The slight coolness which you perceive to have arisen between my + Aunt Tabitha and myself is due to the fact that I discovered her guilty + secret a few days ago. For years she has pretended that her real name + was Harriet. I have recently found out that she was christened Tabitha—or, + anyhow, would have been, if the clergyman had known his job. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. My great-nephew, Gerald, Mr. Wentworth— + </p> + <p> + GERALD. <i>Nephew</i>, Wentworth. I agreed to waive the "great" a long + time ago. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. You'll excuse my asking, but do you never talk to each other + except through the medium of a third person? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (to GERALD). That's how they prefer to do it in the + Foreign Office. Isn't it, dear? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Always, Aunt Tabitha. But really, you know, we both ought to be + talking to Wentworth and flaking after his mother and his liver—and + things like that. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Yes, I'm afraid we're rather rude, Mr. Wentworth. The + Farringdons' great fault. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (protesting). Oh no! + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. How <i>is</i> Mrs. Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Wonderfully well, thank you, considering her age. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Dear me, we met first in 1850. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All frills and lavender. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. And now here's Gerald engaged. Have you seen Pamela + yet? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Not yet. I have been hearing about her from Tommy. He classes + her with the absolute rippers. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Good old Tommy! + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Yes, she's much too good for Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course she is, Aunt Tabitha. But if women only married men + who were good enough for them, where should we be? As lots of young men + said to you, in vain—on those afternoons when they read Tennyson + aloud to you. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. She ought to have married Bob. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (surprised and amused). Bob? Is Bob good enough for her? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. She would have made a good wife for Bob. + </p> + <p> + [Enter suddenly LETTY HERBERT and TOMMY from the garden. LETTY is an + entirely delightful irresponsible girl of the type which might have + shocked Queen Victoria. However, she seems to suit TOMMY. They are not + engaged yet, but she has already that air of proprietorship.] + </p> + <p> + LETTY. I say, Tommy did the eighth in one. Why, there's Aunt Harriet. + (Going over and kissing her) How are you, darling? Tommy's done the + eighth in one. I know it doesn't mean much to you, but do say hooray, + because he's so bucked about it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (to WENTWORTH). Do you know Miss Herbert? Letty, come and be + introduced. Mr. Wentworth—Miss Herbert. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (shaking hands eagerly). How do you do? I say, Tommy did the + eighth in one. Do you know Tommy—<i>or</i> the eighth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Both, Miss Herbert. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. To a man who knows both, the performance seems truly + astonishing. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I don't know anything about golf, Mr. Todd. But doing + anything in one sounds rather clever. So I say hooray, too. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I wish you'd let me teach you, Miss Farringdon. Lots of people + begin when they're frightfully old. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (to WENTWORTH). This is one of Tommy's polite days. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Mr. Todd's famous old-world courtesy is the talk of many a + salon. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (to TOMMY). Don't you mind them. I <i>am</i> frightfully + old. I am very proud of it. I hope you'll all live to be as old as I am. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I only hope we shall be half as nice. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Gerald being charming as usual. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (firmly). I will also add that I hope we shall be kinder to our + great-nephews than some. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (putting her arm in his). Diddums! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I did. I am very much hurt. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I say, you know, Miss Farringdon, I never meant— + </p> + <p> + LETTY. I love Tommy when he apologizes. + </p> + <p> + [Enter SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON from the door to front of the + staircase. SIR JAMES, in a country check-suit, is a man of no particular + brain and no ideas, but he has an unconquerable belief in himself, and a + very genuine pride in, and admiration of, GERALD. His grey hair is bald + on the top, and he is clean-shaven except for a hint of whisker. He + might pass for a retired Captain R. N., and he has something of the + quarter-deck manner, so that even a remark on the weather is listened to + with attention. Neither of his sons loves him, but GERALD is no longer + afraid of him. LADY FARRINGDON is outwardly rather intimidating, but she + never feels so. She worships GERALD; and would love a good many other + people if they were not a little overawed by her.] + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Ah, you're here, Mr. Wentworth. How do you do? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (coming forward). How do you do, Lady Farringdon? How do you + do, Sir James? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. How are you, Wentworth? Come to see Gerald play for the + county? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. He's come to see Pamela. Haven't you, Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I rather hope to see both. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah, Aunt Harriet, I didn't see you. How are you to-day? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Very well, thank you, James. (He goes over to her.) + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I hope they've shown you your room, Mr. Wentworth, and + made you comfortable? Gerald, darling, you saw that Mr. Wentworth was + all right? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Oh yes, that's quite all right, thank you, Lady Farringdon. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Let me see, you're in the Blue Room, I think. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. It's much the nicest room to be in, Mr. Wentworth. There's a + straight way down the water-pipe in case of fire. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And a straight way up in case of burglars. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (fondly). Gerald, dear, don't be so foolish. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Gerald, is it true you went round in seventy-two? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. Tommy did the eighth in one. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (modestly). Awful fluke. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (casually). Ah—well done. (To GERALD) Seventy-two—that's + pretty good. That's five under bogey, Mr. Wentworth. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (to WENTWORTH). Gerald has always been so good at + everything. Even as a baby. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. He did the ninth in three, Letty. How's that for hot? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (to WENTWORTH). You must stay till Thursday, if you can, and + see the whole of the Surrey match. It isn't often Gerald gets a chance + of playing for the county now. It's difficult for him to get away from + the Foreign Office. Lord Edward was telling me at the club the other day— + </p> + <p> + LETTY (TO LADY FARRINGDON). Gerald dived off the Monk's Rock this + morning. I'm glad I didn't see him. I should have been horribly + frightened. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (proudly). I saw him. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Tommy, of course, slithered down over the limpets in the ordinary + way. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (fondly). Oh, Gerald, how could you? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (still talking to WENTWORTH). He tells me that Gerald is a + marked man in the Service now. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (to LETTY). Do you remember when Gerald— + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (incisively). Let's <i>all</i> talk about Gerald. + </p> + <p> + (GERALD, who has been listening to all this with more amusement than + embarrassment, gives a sudden shout of laughter.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, you're too lovely! (He blows her a kiss and + she shakes her stick at him.) + </p> + <p> + [Enter PAMELA from the door In front of the staircase, tall, beautiful + and serene, a born mother. GERALD carried her off her feet a month ago, + but it is a question if he really touched her heart—a heart moved + more readily by pity than by love.] + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Gerald, dear, I'd know your laugh anywhere. Am I too late for + the joke? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Hullo, Pamela. Brought Bob with you? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. He's just washing London off himself. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Pamela, dear, do you know Mr. Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (shaking hands). How do you do? + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (to WENTWORTH). Miss Carey—Gerald's Pamela. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I've heard so much about you, Mr. Wentworth. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. And I've heard so much about you, Miss Carey. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. That's nice. Then we can start straight off as friends. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. I suppose you know Tommy did the eighth in one? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Rather. It's splendid! + </p> + <p> + LETTY. <i>Do</i> say you haven't told Bob. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why shouldn't Bob know? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. No, I haven't told him, Letty. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Good, then Tommy can tell him. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. They do pull my leg, don't they, Miss Farringdon? + </p> + <p> + [Enter BOB from the outer hall in a blue flannel suit. He has spoilt any + chance he had of being considered handsome by a sullen expression now + habitual. Two years older than Gerald, he is not so tall, but bigger, + and altogether less graceful. He has got in the way of talking in rather + a surly voice, as if he suspected that any interest taken in him was + merely a polite one.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Hullo, Bob; good man. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Hullo. (He goes up to LADY FARRINGDON and kisses her.) How are you, + mother? + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. It's so nice that you could get away, dear. + </p> + <p> + BOB. How are you, father? All right? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah, Bob! Come down to see your brother play for the county? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (quickly). He's come down to see <i>me</i>, haven't you, Bob? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Hullo, Wentworth. Hullo, Letty. I say, I can't shake hands with you + all. (He smacks TOMMY on the back and goes over to Miss FARRINGDON.) How + are you, dear? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Very glad to see my elder great-nephew. I was getting + tired of Gerald. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (protesting). Aunt Harriet, dear. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (smiling). It's all right, mother. We quite understand each + other. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I quite understand Gerald. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I say, aren't we going to have any tea? + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. It's early yet, dear. Gerald, you'd like to have it + outside, wouldn't you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, rather. What do you say, Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I never want to be indoors in the country if I can help it. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Quite right, Wentworth—quite right. Gerald, you'll just + have time to take Wentworth round the stables before tea. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You'll have to see them officially after church to-morrow. I + don't know if you'd care about a private view now. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. He must see your new mare. I should like to have his opinion + of her. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (getting up). I never know what to say to a mare, but I should + like to come. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. She answers to "Hi!" or to any loud cry. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I'm sure you'll be all right, Mr. Wentworth. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. There's a way of putting one's head on one side and saying, + "Ah!" Anybody who's seen Tommy at the Royal Academy will know exactly + what I mean. + </p> + <p> + (GERALD, PAMELA and WENTWORTH move towards the door.) + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (to PAMELA). Ought I to have a straw in my mouth? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It's all right, we'll go and see the spaniels first. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (cheerfully). Oh, I'm all right with dogs. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (to TOMMY). Come on, Tommy. [They go out behind the others.] + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Would you like to have tea outside, Aunt Harriet? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I'm not too old for that, Mary. Bob will bring me out. + I want to have a word with him while I can. Everybody talks at once in + this house. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (picking up his hat). How's the City—hey? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Just as usual. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Coming round to the stables? + </p> + <p> + ROB. Later on, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Bob is bringing Aunt Harriet along, dear. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. [They go out together.] + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Smoke, Bob, and tell me how horrible the City is. + </p> + <p> + BOB (lighting a pipe and sitting down). It's damnable, Aunt Harriet. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. More damnable than usual? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Any particular reason why? + </p> + <p> + BOB (after a long pause). No. + </p> + <p> + (MISS FARRINGDON nods to herself and then speaks very casually.) + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. My bankers sent in my pass-book the other day. I seem + to have a deal of money lying idle, as they call it. If anybody wanted + it, I should really be in no hurry to get it back again. + </p> + <p> + BOB (awkwardly). Thanks very much. It isn't that. (After a pause) Not + altogether. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. It was a great pity you ever went into the City, Bob. + </p> + <p> + BOB (fiercely). I could have told anybody that. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (after waiting for him to say something more). Well, + suppose we go into the garden with the others. (She begins to get up and + he goes to help her,) There's nothing you want to tell me, Bob? + </p> + <p> + BOB (looking away). What would there be? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I'm a wise old woman, they say, and I don't talk. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I don't think you can help me. Er—thanks very much. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (quite naturally, as she turns towards the door). If you + don't mind giving me your arm. + </p> + <p> + (As they get to the door they are met by GERALD and PAMELA coming in.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Hullo, Bob, we were just coming back for you. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Thoughtful Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Pamela's idea. She thought that the elder members of the family + could discuss life more freely unhampered by the younger generation. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. What I really said was, "Where's Bob?" + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, it's the same thing. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Bob is looking after me, thank you very much. [They go + out together.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD (after watching them go, to PAMELA). Stay here a bit. There are + too many people and dogs and things outside. Come and sit on the sofa + and I'll tell you all the news. (He takes her hand and they go to the + sofa together.) What ages you've been away! + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. An hour and a half. And it need not have been that if you'd come + with me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (taking her hand). If I had come with you, I would have held your + hand all the way. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I shouldn't have minded. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But just think what would have happened: You would have had to + have driven with one hand down all the hills; we should have had a + smash-up before we got halfway; a well-known society beauty and a + promising young gentleman in the Foreign Office would have been maimed + for life; and Bob would have to have walked here carrying his + portmanteau. Besides, I love you going away from me when you come back. + You've only got to come into the room, and the sun seems to shine. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. The sun always shines on Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Does it? That's a different sort of sunshine. Not the gentle + caressing September afternoon sunshine which you wear all round you. + (She is looking at him lovingly and happily as he says this, but she + withdraws into herself quickly as he pulls himself up and says with a + sudden change of tone) Dear me, I'm getting quite poetical, and two + minutes ago I was talking to Wentworth about fetlocks. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (getting up). Oh, Gerald, Gerald! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (getting up and smiling at her). Oh, Pamela, Pamela! + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I wonder how much you really want me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'll show you when we're married. I don't think I could even + begin to tell you now. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (wistfully). Couldn't you try? + </p> + <p> + (GERALD catches hold of her suddenly, and holding her tightly to him, + kisses her again and again.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. There! + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (releasing herself). Oh, Gerald, my darling, you frighten me + sometimes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Did I frighten you then? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (happily). Oh, no, no, no, no! (Earnestly) Always want me very + much, Gerald. Always be in need of me. Don't be too successful without + me. However much the sun shines on you, let me make it gentler and more + caressing for you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It is so, darling. Didn't I say so? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Ah, but I want such a lot of telling. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (laughing happily as he goes over to the table by the fireplace + and takes a cigarette). Who was the fellow who threw something into the + sea because he was frightened by his own luck? What shall I throw? + (Looking at a presentation clock on the mantelpiece) That's rather + asking for it. In a way it would be killing two birds with one stone. + Oh, Lord, I am lucky! + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (coming to him and taking his arm). As long as you don't throw + me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Pamela, you're talking rubbish. I talk a good deal myself, but I + do keep within the bounds. Let's go and chatter to Bob about contangos. + I don't know what they are, but they sound extraordinarily sober. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (gently). Poor old Bob! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (quickly). Why <i>poor</i> old Bob? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. He's worried about something. I tried to get him to tell me as + we came from the station, but he wouldn't. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Poor old Bob! I suppose things are going up—or down, or + something. Brokerage one-eighth—that's what's worrying him, I + expect. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I think he wants to talk to you about it. Be nice to him, + darling, won't you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (surprised). Nice to him? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. You know what I mean—sympathetic. I know it's a difficult + relationship—brothers. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All relationships are difficult. But after you, he's the person + I love best in the world. (With a laugh) But I don't propose to fall on + his neck and tell him so. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (smiling). I know you will help him if you can. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course I will, though I don't quite see how. (Hopefully) + Perhaps he's only slicing his drives again. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh, I love you, Gerald. (Wonderingly) <i>Do</i> I love you, or + am I only just charmed by you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You said you loved me once. You can't go back on that. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Then I love you. And make a century for me on Monday. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, I'll try. Of course the bowler may be in love too. But + even if I get out first ball, I can say, "Well, anyhow, Pamela loves + me." + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh, I think I hope you get out first ball. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Baby Pamela. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. And on Thursday we shall be alone together here, and you've + promised to take me out in the boat for the day. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You mean you've promised to let me. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. What happy days there are in the world! + </p> + <p> + [Enter BOB from the garden.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Hullo, Bob. Tea? (He moves towards the door.) + </p> + <p> + BOB. Cigarettes. (He goes over to the fireplace and fills his cigarette + case.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Still, I expect tea's nearly ready. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (going towards door R. at the back). I'll join you; I'm not going + out without a sunshade again. [Exit.] + </p> + <p> + (There is an awkward silence.) + </p> + <p> + BOB (to GERALD). I say! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (turning round). Hullo! + </p> + <p> + BOB. Just wait a moment. + </p> + <p> + (GERALD comes back slowly.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I warn you those are rotten cigarettes. (Holds out his own case) + </p> + <p> + BOB (taking one). Thanks. (Awkwardly) You're so confoundedly difficult + to get hold of nowadays. Never less than half-a-dozen all round you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (laughing). Good old Bob! + </p> + <p> + BOB (after lighting a cigarette). I want to talk to you about something. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, of course. + </p> + <p> + BOB (after a pause). You've heard of Marcus, my partner? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (with the idea of putting himself and BOB more at their ease). + Good old Marcus and Farringdon! It's the most perfect name for a firm. + They sound so exactly as though they could sell you anything from a + share to a shaving-brush. Marcus and Farringdon's pure badger, two + shillings—gilt-edged badger half-a-crown. + </p> + <p> + BOB (fiercely). I suppose everything is just a pleasant joke to you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (utterly surprised). Bob! Bob, old boy, what's the matter? + (Putting his hand on BOB'S shoulder) I say, Bob, I haven't hurt you, + have I? + </p> + <p> + BOB (hopelessly). Oh, Jerry, I believe I'm in the devil of a hole. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You haven't called me "Jerry" since we were at school. + </p> + <p> + BOB. You got me out of holes then—damn you! and you were my + younger brother. Oh, Jerry, get me out of this one. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But, of course. (Firmly, as if a little nervous of a scene from + BOB) My dear Bob, you're as right as anything. You've got nothing on + earth to worry about. At the worst it's only a question of money, and we + can always put that right somehow. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I'm not sure that it is only a question of money. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (frightened). What do you mean? (Turning away with a laugh) + You're talking nonsense. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Gerald, Marcus is a wrong un. (Fiercely) An out-and-out wrong un. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The only time I saw him he looked like it. + </p> + <p> + BOB. God knows what he's let me in for. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You mean money? + </p> + <p> + BOB. More than that, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You mean you're just going bankrupt? + </p> + <p> + BOB. No. (After a pause) Prosecution. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, let them prosecute. That ends Marcus. You're well rid of + him. + </p> + <p> + BOB (miserably). Perhaps it isn't only Marcus. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (sharply, after this has sunk in). What can they prosecute you + for? + </p> + <p> + BOB (speaking rapidly). What the devil did they ever send me to the City + for? I didn't want to go. I was never any good at figures. I loathe the + whole thing. What the devil did they want to send me there for—and + shove me on to a wrong un like Marcus? That's his life, messing about + with money in the City. How can I stand out against a man like that? I + never wanted to go into it at all. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (holding out his cigarette-case). Have another cigarette? (They + each light one, and GERALD sits down in the chair opposite to him.) + Let's look at it calmly. You've done nothing dishonourable, I know that. + That's obvious. + </p> + <p> + BOB. You see, Jerry, I'm so hopeless at that sort of business. Naturally + I got in the way of leaving things to Marcus. But that's all. + (Resentfully) Of course, that's all. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Good. Well, then, you're making much too much fuss about it. My + dear boy, innocent people don't get put into prison nowadays. You've + been reading detective stories. "The Stain on the Bath Mat," or "The + Crimson Sponge." Good Lord! I shall be coming to <i>you</i> next and + saying that <i>I'm</i> going to be put in prison for selling secret + documents to a foreign country. These things don't happen; they don't + really, old boy. + </p> + <p> + BOB (cheered, but not convinced). I don't know; it looks devilish bad, + what I can make of it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, let's see what I can make of it. + </p> + <p> + BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). I was wondering if you would. + Come up on Monday and we'll have a go at it together. Marcus has gone, + of course. Probably halfway to South America by now. (Bitterly) Or + wherever you go to. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Right-o! At least, I can't come on Monday, of course, but we'll + have a go at it on Thursday. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Why can't you come on Monday? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, the Surrey match. + </p> + <p> + BOB (bitterly). I suppose as long as you beat Surrey, it doesn't matter + if I go to prison. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (annoyed). Oh, shut up about going to prison! There's not the + slightest chance of your going to prison. You know perfectly well, if + there were, that I'd walk on my hands and knees to London to-night to + try and stop it. As it is, I have promised to play for the county; it's + a particularly important match, and I don't think it's fair to let them + down. Anyway, if I did, the whole family would want to know why, and I + don't suppose you want to tell them that yet. + </p> + <p> + BOB (mumbling). You could say the Foreign Office had rung you up. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (earnestly). Really, Bob old boy, I'm sure you're making too much + of it. Dammit! you've done nothing wrong; what is there to worry about? + And if it's only a question of money, we'll manage it on our heads, + somehow. I'll come up directly the match is over. It may be Tuesday + night, with luck. + </p> + <p> + BOB (grumbling). If the weather's like this, it's bound to last three + days. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Then at the worst, I'll come first train Thursday morning. That + I promise. Anyway, why don't you consult Wentworth? He's a good chap and + he knows all about the law. He could probably help you much more than I + could. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I suppose you think I <i>like</i> talking about it to everybody. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (getting up and touching BOB gently on the shoulder as he goes + past him). Poor old Bob! But you're as right as anything. I'll come up + by the first train on Thursday and we'll—good Lord! + </p> + <p> + BOB. What's the matter now? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I am a damned fool! Why, of course, we arranged— + </p> + <p> + BOB (sneeringly). And now you can't come on Thursday, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why, you see, I arranged— + </p> + <p> + BOB. You <i>must</i> keep your promise to the county, but you needn't + keep your promise to me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, but the trouble is I promised Pamela—oh, well, that + will have to go; she'll understand. All right, Bob, that holds. Directly + the match is over I come. And for the Lord's sake, keep smiling till + then. + </p> + <p> + BOB. It's all very well for <i>you</i>.... I wish you could have—well, + anyhow, I suppose Thursday's better than nothing. You'll see just how it + is then. (Getting up) You won't say anything about it to the others? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course not. What about Pamela? Does she know anything? + </p> + <p> + BOB. She knows that I'm worried about something, but of course she + doesn't know what I've told you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All right, then I won't tell her anything. At least, I'll just + say that bananas remain firm at 127, and that I've got to go and see my + broker about it. (Smiling) Something like that. + </p> + <p> + (BOB goes towards the garden, while GERALD stops to wait for PAMELA. At + the door he turns round.) + </p> + <p> + BOB (awkwardly). Er—thanks. [Exit.] + </p> + <p> + (GERALD throws him a nod, as much as to say, "That's all right." He + stands looking after him, gives a little sigh, laughs and says to + himself, "Poor old Bob!" He is half-sitting on, half-leaning against the + table, thinking it all over, when PAMELA comes in again.) + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I waited for him to go; I knew he wanted to talk to you about + something. Gerald, he is all right, isn't he? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (taking her hands). Who? Bob? Oh yes, he's all right. So is + Pamela. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Sure? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh yes, he's all right. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I take rather a motherly interest in Bob, you know. What was + worrying him? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (smiling). His arithmetic again; compound interest. His masters + are very pleased with his progress in English. And he wants more + pocket-money. He says that fourpence a week doesn't give him enough + scope. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (smiling). But he really is all right? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, I've got to go up on Thursday to see his House Master—I + mean I've got to go up to town on Thursday. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (drawing back). Thursday? That was <i>our</i> day, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I know; it's a confounded nuisance. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (slowly). Yes, it is rather a—nuisance. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm awfully sorry, darling. I hate it just as much as you do. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I wonder if you do. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (shaking his head at her). Oh, woman, woman! And you asked me to + be kind to Bob. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. It is for Bob? He really does want you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. He thinks I can help him if I go up on Thursday. (Smiling) We + aren't going to quarrel about that. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (holding out her hand to him). Come along. Of course we aren't + going to quarrel—I don't think I could quarrel with you for more + than five minutes. Only—you make me wonder sometimes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (getting up and taking her arm). What do you wonder about? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh—things. + </p> + <p> + [They go out into the garden together.] + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> + <p> + [It is a quiet old-fashioned hotel which SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON + patronize in Dover Street on their occasional visits to London. Their + private sitting-room is furnished in heavy early Victorian style. A + couple of gloomy palms help to decorate the room, on whose walls are + engravings of Landseer's masterpieces.] + </p> + <p> + [MASON, a faithful kindly body, once nurse, now familiar servant, is at + the table arranging flowers, in a gallant attempt to make the room more + cheerful. As she fills each vase she takes it to its place, steps back + to consider the effect, and returns to fill the next one. GERALD, in + London clothes as attractive as ever, but looking none rather serious, + discovers her at work.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Hullo, Nanny, when did you come? + </p> + <p> + MASON. This morning, sir. Her ladyship telegraphed for me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (smiling affectionately at her). Whenever there's any trouble + about, we send for Nanny. I wonder she ever came to London without you. + </p> + <p> + MASON. I told her I'd better come, but she wouldn't listen to me. Dear, + dear! there <i>is</i> trouble about now Master Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MASON. I thought a few flowers would cheer us up. I said to Mr. + Underhill before I started, "Give me some flowers to take with me," I + said, "so that I can make the place look more homey and comfortable for + her ladyship." + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And you have. No one like Nanny for that. + </p> + <p> + MASON (timidly). Is there any news of Master Bob this morning? Of + course, we've all been reading about it in the papers. They're not going + to send him to prison? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm afraid they are. + </p> + <p> + MASON. Dear, dear! (She goes on arranging the flowers.) He's not in + prison now? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No; he's on bail for the moment. Perhaps he'll be round here for + lunch. But I'm afraid that to-night— + </p> + <p> + MASON. Even as a baby he was never quite like you, Master Gerald. Never + was there such a little lamb as you. How long will they send him to + prison for? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We don't know yet; I expect we shall know this evening. But + there's no doubt which way the case is going. + </p> + <p> + MASON. Two of the men were making their bets about it over the + supper-table last night. I didn't wait long before giving them a piece + of my mind, I can promise you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (turning round sharply). Who were they? Out they go to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + MASON. That wouldn't be quite fair, would it, sir? They're young and + thoughtless like. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (to himself rather than to her). After all, it's only what + everybody else has been doing. + </p> + <p> + MASON. It wouldn't be anything very bad that Master Bob has done? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (emphatically). No, Nanny. No. Nothing bad; only—stupid. + </p> + <p> + MASON. I didn't know they put you in prison for being stupid. Some of us + have been lucky. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. They can put you in prison for everything Nanny—being + stupid or being wise, being bad or being good, being poor or—yes, + or being rich. + </p> + <p> + MASON (putting her last touches to the flowers). There! Now it looks + much more like what her ladyship's used to. If you aren't sent to prison + for being bad, it doesn't seem to matter so much. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well—it isn't nice, you know. + </p> + <p> + MASON. There's lots of things that aren't nice in the world. They + haven't come <i>your</i> way yet, and I only hope they never will. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I wish they hadn't come Bob's way. + </p> + <p> + MASON. Ah, Master Bob was born to meet them. Well, I'll go up to her + ladyship now. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, are they back? + </p> + <p> + MASON. Sir James and her ladyship came back from the police-station— + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The Old Bailey, Nanny. + </p> + <p> + MASON. They came back about ten minutes ago, Master Gerald. And went up + to their rooms. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Tell mother I'm here, will you? + </p> + <p> + MASON. Yes, Sir. + </p> + <p> + (She goes out and comes back almost at once with PAMELA.) + </p> + <p> + MASON. Here's Miss Pamela. (To PAMELA) I was just saying that her + ladyship will be down directly. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (smiling). Not too directly now, Nanny. + </p> + <p> + MASON. No, Master Gerald. [Exit.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Pamela! Have you just come up? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Mother and I are staying with Aunt Judith. Oh, Gerald! Poor, + poor Bob! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Have you seen him? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. He came down to us last week, and he has been writing the most + heart-rending letters. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You're a dear to be so good to him. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. How can one help it? Oh, Gerald, he <i>has</i> been stupid! How + he could have gone on as he did, hating it all, understanding nothing, + but feeling all the time that things were wrong, and yet too proud or + too obstinate to ask for help—hadn't you any idea, <i>any</i> of + you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (awkwardly). You never could get him to talk about the City at + all. If you asked him, he changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (reproachfully). Ah! but how did you ask him? Lightly? Jokingly? + "Hullo, Rothschild, how's the City getting on?" That sort of way. You + didn't really mind. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (smiling). Well, if it comes to that, he didn't much mind how I + was getting on at the Foreign Office. He never even said, "Hullo, Grey, + how are Balkans?" + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. You had plenty of people to say that; Bob was different. I think + I was the first person he really talked to about himself. That was + before I met you. I begged him then to get out of it—little + knowing. I wonder if it would have made any difference if you had gone + up with him on—Oh, well, it doesn't matter now. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (defensively). What were you going to say? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Nothing. (Looking at him thoughtfully) Poor Gerald! it's been + bad for you too. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You're not making it better by suggesting that I've let Bob down + in some way—I don't quite know how. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, don't be angry with me—I don't + want to hurt you. But I can only think of Bob now. You're so—you + want so little; Bob wants so much. Why doesn't he come? I sent a note + round to his rooms to say that I'd be here. Doesn't he have lunch here? + Oh, Gerald, suppose the case is over, and they've taken him to prison, + and I've never said good-bye to him. He said it wouldn't be over till + this evening, but how would he know? Oh, I can't bear it if they've + taken him away, and his only friend never said good-bye to him. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Pamela, Pamela, don't be so silly. It's all right, dear; of + course I'm not angry with you. And of course Bob will be here. I rang up + Wentworth an hour ago, and he said the case can't end till this evening. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (recovering). Sorry, Gerald, I'm being rather a fool. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (taking her hands). You're being—(There is a knock at the + door, and he turns round impatiently) Oh, what is it? + </p> + <p> + [Enter MASON.] + </p> + <p> + MASON (handing note). There's a telephone message been waiting for you, + sir. And her ladyship will be down directly. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Thank you, Nanny. [Exit MASON.] (To PAMELA) May I? (He reads it) + Oh, I say, this is rather—this is from Wentworth. He's taken Bob + round to lunch with him. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (going towards the door). I must go, Gerald. Mr. Wentworth won't + mind. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (stopping her). Look here, dear, it's going to be quite all + right. Wentworth rang up from his rooms; they're probably halfway + through lunch by now, and they'll be round in ten minutes. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Supposing he doesn't come? Supposing he didn't get my note? It + may be waiting for him in his rooms now. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All right, then, darling, I'll ring him up. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (determined). No. I'll do it. Yes, Gerald, I know how to manage + him. It isn't only that I must see him myself, but if—(bravely) if + the case is to be over this evening, and if what we fear is going to + happen, he must—oh, he must say good-bye to his mother too. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, if that's all, I'll tell him. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. He mightn't come for you. He will for me; No, Gerald; I mean it. + None of you understand him. I do. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But supposing he's already started and you miss him? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I'll telephone to him at his rooms. Oh, <i>don't</i> stand there + talking— + </p> + <p> + GERALD (opening the door for her). Oh, well! But I think you're—[She + has gone.] + </p> + <p> + (He walks up and down the room absently, picking up papers and putting + them down. MASON comes in and arranges the sofa R.) + </p> + <p> + MASON. Miss Pamela gone, Master Gerald? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. She's coming back. + </p> + <p> + [Enter LADY FARRINGDON.] + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, I hoped you'd be here. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (kissing her). I've only just got away. I couldn't get round to + the court. (Seeing her to the sofa) You're all right, dear? [Exit + MASON.] + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Now you're here, Gerald. I telegraphed for Mason. She's + such a comfort. How nicely she's done the flowers! (She sits down on the + sofa.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm so glad you sent for her. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I don't think your father— + </p> + <p> + [Enter SIR JAMES.] + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah, Gerald, I had to take your mother out. She was—ah—overcome. + They have adjourned, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. The judge is summing up directly after lunch. Bob will be + round here when he's had something to eat. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (looking at his watch). Well, I suppose we ought to try and + eat something. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't touch anything. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (going over to her). Poor mother! + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, couldn't <i>you</i> do anything? I'm sure + if you'd gone into the witness-box, or told the judge—Oh, why + didn't you go to the Bar, and then you could have defended him. You + would have been so much better than that stupid man. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. I must say I didn't at all like his tone. He's practically + making out my son to be an idiot. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, it's really the only line he could take. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. What do you mean? Bob is far from being an idiot. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. We always knew he wasn't as clever as Gerald, dear. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You see, Bob either understood what was going on or he didn't. + If he did, then he's in it as much as Marcus. If he didn't—well, + of course we know that he didn't. But no doubt the jury will think that + he ought to have known. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. The old story, a knave or a fool, eh? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The folly was in sending him there. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (angrily). That was Parkinson's fault. It was he who + recommended Marcus to me. I shall never speak to that man again. (To his + wife) Mary, if the Parkinsons call, you are out; remember that. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. He never ought to have gone into business at all. Why couldn't + you have had him taught farming or estate agency or something? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. We've got to move with the times, my boy. Land is played out + as a living for gentlemen; they go into business nowadays. If he can't + get on there, it's his own fault. He went to Eton and Oxford; what more + does he want? + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). You must remember he isn't clever like you, + Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, well, it's no good talking about it now. Poor old Bob! + Wentworth thinks— + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah, now why couldn't Wentworth have defended him? That other + man—why, to begin with, I don't even call him a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Wentworth recommended him. But I wish he had gone to Wentworth + before, as soon as he knew what was coming. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Why didn't he come to <i>me</i>? Why didn't he come to <i>any</i> + of us? Then we might have done something. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. Didn't he even tell <i>you</i>, Gerald? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (awkwardly). Only just at the last. It was—it was too late + to do anything then. It was the Saturday before he was—arrested. + (To himself) "The Saturday before Bob was arrested"—what a way to + remember anything by! + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). Bob is coming round, dear? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. Wentworth's looking after him. Pamela will be here too. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. We haven't seen much of Pamela lately. What does <i>she</i> + think about it? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (sharply). What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. The disgrace of it. I hope it's not going to affect your + engagement. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Disgrace? what disgrace? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Well, of course, he hasn't been found guilty yet. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What's that got to do with it? What does it matter what a lot of + rotten jurymen think of him? <i>We</i> know that he has done nothing + disgraceful. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I'm sure Pamela wouldn't think anything like that of + your brother, dear. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course she wouldn't. She's been a perfect angel to Bob these + last few weeks. What does it matter if he does go to prison? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. I suppose you think I shall enjoy telling my neighbours, when + they ask me what my elder boy is doing, that he's—ah—in + prison. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course you won't enjoy it, and I don't suppose Bob will enjoy + it either, but that's no reason why we should make it worse for him by + pretending that he's a disgrace to the family. (Half to himself) If + anything we've done has helped to send him to prison then it's we who + should be ashamed. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. I don't profess to know anything about business, but I + flatter myself that I understand my fellow men. If I had been in Bob's + place, I should have pretty soon seen what that fellow Marcus was up to. + I don't want to be unfair to Bob; I don't think that any son of mine + would do a dishonourable action; but the Law is the Law, and if the Law + sends Bob to prison I can't help feeling the disgrace of it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, it's rough on you and mother. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I don't mind about myself, dear. It's you I feel so + sorry for—and Bob, of course. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't see how it's going to affect <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. In the Foreign Office one has to be like Caesar's wife—above + suspicion. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, but in this case it's Caesar's brother-in-law's partner + who's the wrong un. I don't suppose Caesar was so particular about <i>him</i>. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I don't see how Caesar comes into it at all. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (kindly). I spoke in metaphors, dear. + </p> + <p> + [The door opens and WENTWORTH appears.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Come in, Wentworth. Where's Bob? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I dropped him at his rooms—a letter or something he + wanted to get. But he'll be here directly. (Nervously) How do you do, + Lady Farringdon? How do you do, Sir James? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah, Wentworth. + </p> + <p> + (There is an awkward silence and nobody seems to know what to say.) + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Very hot this morning. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Very hot. Very. + </p> + <p> + (There is another awkward silence.) + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. This is quite a good hotel. My mother always stays here when + she's in London. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. We use it a good deal ourselves. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. How is Mrs. Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. She's been keeping very well this summer, thank you. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I'm so glad. + </p> + <p> + (There is another awkward silence.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (impatiently). Oh, what's the good of pretending this is a formal + call, Wentworth? Tell us about Bob; how's he taking it? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. He doesn't say much. He had lunch in my rooms—you got + my message. He couldn't bear the thought of being recognized by anyone, + so I had something sent up. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (realizing what it must feel like). Poor old Bob! + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Lady Farringdon, I can't possibly tell you what I feel about + this, but I should like to say that all of us who know Bob know that he + couldn't do anything dishonourable. Whatever the result of the trial, we + shall feel just the same towards him. + </p> + <p> + (LADY FARRINGDON is hardly able to acknowledge this, and SIR JAMES goes + across to comfort her.) + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (helplessly). There, there, Mary. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (seizing his opportunity, to WENTWORTH). What'll he get? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (quietly). Three months—six months. One can't be + certain. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (cheering up). Thank the Lord! I imagined awful things. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (his ministrations over). After all, he hasn't been found + guilty yet; eh, Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Certainly, Sir James. With a jury there's always hope. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. What do you think yourself? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I think he has been very foolish; whether the Law will call + it criminally foolish I should hardly like to say. I only wish I had + known about it before. He must have suspected something—didn't he + say anything to anybody? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. He told Gerald, apparently. For some reason he preferred to + keep his father in the dark. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (eagerly). That was the day you came down to us, Wentworth; five + days before he was arrested. I asked him to tell you, but he wouldn't. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Oh, it was too late then. Marcus had absconded by that time. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (earnestly). Nobody could have helped him then, could they? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Oh no. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (to himself). Thank God. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (to LADY FARRINGDON as he looks at his watch). Well, dear, I + really think you ought to try to eat something. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't, James. (Getting up) But you must have <i>your</i> + lunch. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Well, one oughtn't to neglect one's health, of course. But I + insist on your having a glass of claret anyhow, Mary. What about you, + Gerald? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm all right. I'll wait for Bob. I've had something. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. You won't let Bob go without seeing us? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course not, dear. + </p> + <p> + (He goes with them to the door and sees them out.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (coming back to WENTWORTH). Three months. By Jove! that's + nothing. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. It's long enough for a man with a grievance. It gives him + plenty of time to brood about it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (anxiously). Who has Bob got a grievance against particularly? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. The world. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (relieved). Ah! Still, three months, Wentworth. I could do it on + my head. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. You're not Bob. Bob will do it on his heart. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We must buck him up, Wentworth. If he takes it the right way, + it's nothing. I had awful thoughts of five years. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I'm not the judge, you know. It may be six months. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course. How does he decide? Tosses up for it? Three months or + six months or six years, it's all the same to him, and there's the poor + devil in the dock praying his soul out that he'll hit on the shortest + one. Good Lord! I'm glad I'm not a judge. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (drily). Yes; that isn't quite the way the Law works. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, I'm not blaming the Law. (Smiling) Stick to it, Wentworth, + by all means. But I should make a bad judge. I should believe everything + the prisoner said, and just tell him not to do it again. + </p> + <p> + [BOB comes in awkwardly and stops at the door.] + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (getting up). Come along, Bob. (Taking out his case) Have a + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + BOB (gruffly). No, thanks. (He takes out his pipe.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (brightly but awkwardly). Hullo, Bob, old boy. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Where's Pamela? She said she'd be here. (He sits down in the large + armchair.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. If she said she'd be here, she will be here. + </p> + <p> + BOB (with a grunt). 'M! (There is an awkward silence.) + </p> + <p> + BOB (angrily to GERALD). Why don't you say something? You came here to + say good-bye to me, I suppose—why don't you say it? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Steady, Bob. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (eagerly). Look here, Bob, old son, you mustn't take it too + hardly. Wentworth thinks it will only be three months—don't you, + Wentworth? You know, we none of us think any the worse of you for it. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Thanks. That will console me a lot in prison. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, Bob, don't be an old fool. You know what I mean. You have + done nothing to be ashamed of, so what's the good of brooding in prison, + and grousing about your bad luck, and all that sort of thing? If you had + three months in bed with a broken leg, you'd try and get some sort of + satisfaction out of it—well, so you can now if you try. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (after waiting for BOB to say something). There's a good deal + in that, Bob, you know. Prison is largely what you make it. + </p> + <p> + BOB. What do either of you know about it? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Everything. The man with imagination knows the best and the + worst of everything. + </p> + <p> + BOB (fiercely). Imagination? You think <i>I</i> haven't imagined it? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Wentworth's right. You can make what you like of it. You can be + miserable anywhere, if you let yourself be. You can be happy anywhere, + if you try to be. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (to lead him on). I can't quite see myself being actually + happy in prison, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I could, Wentworth, I swear I could. + </p> + <p> + BOB. He'd get popular with the warders; he'd love that. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (smiling). Silly old ass! But there are lots of things one can do + in prison, only no one ever seems to think of them. (He gets interested + and begins to walk up and down the room.) Now take this solitary + confinement there's so much fuss about. If you look at it the right way, + there's nothing in it at all. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. A bit boring, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Boring? Nonsense. You're allowed one book a week from the prison + library, aren't you? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. You know, you mustn't think that, because I'm a barrister, I + know all about the inside of a prison. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, suppose you are allowed one, and you choose a French + dictionary, and try to learn it off by heart before you come out. Why, + it's the chance of a lifetime to learn French. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. Well, of course, if you <i>could</i> get a French dictionary— + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, there'd be <i>some</i> book there anyway. If it's a Bible, + read it. When you've read it, count the letters in it; have little bets + with yourself as to which man's name is mentioned most times in it; put + your money on Moses and see if you win. Anything like that. If it's a + hymn-book, count how many of the rhymes rhyme and how many don't; try + and make them <i>all</i> rhyme. Learn 'em by heart; I don't say that + that would be particularly useful to you in the business world + afterwards, but it would be amusing to see how quickly you could do it, + how many you could keep in your head at the same time. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. This is too intellectual for me; my brain would go in no + time. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You aren't doing it all day, of course; there are other things. + Physical training. Swedish exercises. Tell yourself that you'll be able + to push up fifty times from the ground before you come out. Learn to + walk on your hands. Practise cart-wheels, if you like. Gad! you could + come out a Hercules. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH. I can't help feeling that the strain of improving myself so + enormously would tell on me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, you'd have your games and so on to keep you bright and + jolly. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (sarcastically). Golf and cricket, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Golf, of course; I'm doubtful about cricket. You must have + another one for cricket, and I'm afraid the warder wouldn't play. But + golf, and squash rackets, and bowls, and billiards—and croquet— + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (in despair). Oh, <i>go</i> on! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Really, you're hopeless. What the Swiss Family Wentworth would + have done if they'd ever been shipwrecked, I can't think. Don't you <i>ever</i> + invent <i>any</i>thing for yourself? (Excitedly) Man alive! you've got a + hymn-book and a piece of soap, what more do you want? You can play + anything with that. (Thoughtfully) Oh, I forgot the Olympic games. + Standing long jump. And they talk about the boredom of it! + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (thoughtfully). You've got your ideas, Gerald. I wonder if + you'd act up to them. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. One never knows, but honestly I think so. (There is silence for + a little.) + </p> + <p> + BOB. Is that all? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, Bob, I know it's easy for me to talk— + </p> + <p> + BOB. I wonder you didn't say at once: "Try not to think about it." + You're always helpful. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You're a little difficult to help, you know Bob. (Awkwardly) I + thought I might just give you an idea. If I only could help you, you + know how— + </p> + <p> + BOB (doggedly). I asked you to help me once. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (distressed). Oh, I didn't realize then—besides, Wentworth + says it would have been much too late—didn't you, Wentworth? + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (taking up his hat). I think I must be getting along now. + (Holding out his hand) Good-bye, Bob. I can only say, "The best of + luck," and—er—whatever happens, you know what I feel about + it. + </p> + <p> + BOB (shaking his hand). Good-bye, Wentworth, and thanks very much for + all you've done for me. + </p> + <p> + WENTWORTH (hurriedly). That's all right. (TO GERALD, quietly, as he + passes him on the way to the door) You must bear with him, Gerald. + Naturally he's—(Nodding) Good-bye. [He goes out.] + </p> + <p> + GERALD (going back to BOB). Bob— + </p> + <p> + BOB. Why doesn't Pamela come? I want Pamela. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (speaking quickly). Look here, think what you like of me for the + moment. But you must listen to what I've got to say. You can imagine + it's somebody else speaking Pamela, if you like—Pamela would say + just the same. You <i>must not</i> go to prison and spend your time + there brooding over the wrongs people have done to you, and the way the + world has treated you, and all that sort of thing. You simply must make + an effort—and—and—well, come out as good a man as you + went in. I know it's easy for me to talk, but that doesn't make it any + the less true. Oh, Bob, be a—be a Sportsman about it! You can take + it out of me afterwards, if you like, but don't take it out of me now by—by + not bucking up just because I suggest it. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I want Pamela. Why doesn't she come? + </p> + <p> + (PAMELA has come in while he is saying this.) + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Here I am, Bob. + </p> + <p> + BOB (getting up). At last! I began to be afraid you were never coming. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. You couldn't think that. I told you I was coming. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Look here, Pamela, we've got to cheer old Bob up. + </p> + <p> + BOB (almost shouting). Good Lord! can't you see that I don't want <i>you</i>? + I want Pamela alone. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (putting her hand on GERALD'S shoulder). Gerald, dear, you + mustn't be angry with Bob now. Let me be alone with him. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (with a shrug). All right. Poor old Bob! (He goes over to his + brother and holds out his hand.) Good-bye, old boy, and—good luck. + </p> + <p> + BOB (coldly). Good-bye. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Shake hands, Bob. + </p> + <p> + BOB. No. I've been nothing to you all your life. You could have saved me + from this, and you wouldn't help me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (angrily). Don't talk such rot! + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (coming between them). Gerald, dear, you'd better go. Bob won't + always feel like this towards you, but just now— + </p> + <p> + GERALD (indignantly). Pamela, you don't believe this about me? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I can't think of you, dear, now; I can only think of Bob. + [GERALD gives a shrug and goes out.] + </p> + <p> + BOB. Pamela. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (coming to him). Yes, dear? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Come and sit near me. You're the only friend I've got in the world. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. You know that isn't true. + </p> + <p> + (She sits down in the armchair and he sits on the floor at her feet.) + </p> + <p> + BOB. If it hadn't been for you, I should have shot myself long ago. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. That would have been rather cowardly, wouldn't it? + </p> + <p> + BOB. I am a coward. There's something about the Law that makes people + cowards. It's so—what's the word? It goes on. You can't stop it, + you can't explain to it, you can't even speak to it. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. But you can stand up to it. You needn't run away from it. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I think I would have broken my bail and run, if it hadn't been for + you. But you would have thought less of me if I had. Besides, I + shouldn't have seen you again. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Bob, you mustn't just do, or not do, things for <i>me</i>; you + must do them because of yourself. You must be brave because it's you, + and honourable because it's you, and cheerful because it's you. You + mustn't just say, "I won't let Pamela down." You must say, "I won't let + myself down." You must be proud of yourself. + </p> + <p> + BOB (bitterly). I've been taught to be proud of myself, haven't I? Proud + of myself! What's the family creed? "I believe in Gerald. I believe in + Gerald the Brother. I believe in Gerald the Son. I believe in Gerald the + Nephew. I believe in Gerald the Friend, the Lover, Gerald the Holy + Marvel." There may be brothers who don't mind that sort of thing, but + not when you're born jealous as I was. Do you think father or mother + cares a damn what happens to me? They're upset, of course, and they feel + the disgrace for themselves, but the belovèd Gerald is all right, and + that's all that really matters. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Bob, dear, forget about Gerald now. Don't think about him; think + about yourself. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I shan't think about myself or about Gerald when I'm in prison. I + shall only think of you. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Will it help you to think of me? + </p> + <p> + BOB. You're the only person in the world I've got to think of. I found + you first—and then Gerald took you from me. Just as he's always + taken everything from me. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. No, no. Not about Gerald again. Let's get away from Gerald. + </p> + <p> + BOB. You can't. He's a devil to get away from. (There is silence for a + little.) When I was a small boy, I used to pray very hard on the last + day of the holidays for a telegram to come saying that the school had + been burnt down.... It never had. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh, Bob! + </p> + <p> + BOB. I suppose I've got about ten minutes more. But nothing will happen. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (in a hopeless effort to be hopeful). Perhaps after all you might— + </p> + <p> + BOB. Why can't the world end suddenly now? It wouldn't matter to + anybody. They wouldn't know; they wouldn't have time to understand. (He + looks up and sees her face of distress and says) All right, Pamela, you + needn't worry. I'm going through with it all right. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. You must keep thinking of the afterwards. Only of the + afterwards. The day when you come back to us. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Will that be such a very great day? (PAMELA is silent.) Triumphant + procession through the village. All the neighbours hurrying out to + welcome the young squire home. Great rush in the City to offer him + partnerships. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (quietly). Do you want to go back to the City? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Good God, no! + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Then why are you being sarcastic about it? Be honest with + yourself, Bob. You made a mess of the City. Oh, I know you weren't + suited to it, but men have had to do work they didn't like before now, + and they haven't <i>all</i> made a mess of it. You're getting your + punishment now—much more than you deserve, and we're all sorry for + you—but men have been punished unfairly before now and they have + stood it. You'll have your chance when you come back; I'll stand by you + for one, and you've plenty of other friends; but we can't help a man who + won't help himself, you know. + </p> + <p> + Bon (sulkily). Thank you, Pamela. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (shaking him). Bob, Bob, don't be such a baby. Oh, I want to + laugh at you, and yet my heart just aches for you. You're just a little + boy, Bob (with a sigh), on the last day of his holidays. + </p> + <p> + BOB (after a pause). Are you allowed to have letters in prison? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I expect so. Every now and then. + </p> + <p> + BOB. You will write to me? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Of course, dear; whenever I may. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I suppose some beast will read it. But you won't mind that, will + you? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. No, dear. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I'll write to you whenever they let me. That will be something to + look forward to. Will you meet me when I come out? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (happily). Yes, Bob. So very gladly. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I'll let you know when it is. I expect I'll be owed to. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. You must just think of that day all the time. Whenever you are + unhappy or depressed or angry, you must look forward to that day. + </p> + <p> + BOB. You'll let it be a fine day, won't you? What shall we do? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (rather startled). What? + </p> + <p> + BOB. What shall we do directly after I come out? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Well, I suppose we—I mean you—well, we'll come up to + London together, I suppose, and you'll go to your old rooms. At least, + if you still have them. + </p> + <p> + BOB (instantly depressed again). My old rooms. That'll be lively. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Well, unless you'd rather— + </p> + <p> + BOB. I'm not going home, if that's what you mean. The prodigal son, and + Gerald falling on my neck. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (stroking his head). Never mind Gerald, Baby. (He turns round + suddenly and seizes her hands.) + </p> + <p> + BOB (in a rush). Whatever happens, you mustn't desert me when I come + out. I want you. I've got to know you're there, waiting for me. I'm not + making love to you, you're engaged to somebody else, but you were my + friend before you were his, and you've got to go on being my friend. I + want you—I want you more than he does. I'm not making love to you; + you can marry him if you like, but you've got to stand by me. I want + you. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Haven't I stood by you? + </p> + <p> + BOB (in a low voice). You've been an angel. (He kisses her hands and + then gets up and walks away from her; with his back to her, looking out + of the window, he says) When are you marrying him? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (taken by surprise). I—I don't know, Bob. We <i>had</i> + thought about—but, of course, things are different now. We haven't + talked about it lately. + </p> + <p> + BOB (casually). I wonder if you'd mind promising me something. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. What is it? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Not to get married till after I come out. (After waiting for PAMELA + to speak) You will have about forty years together afterwards. It isn't + much to ask. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Why should it make a difference to you? + </p> + <p> + BOB. It would. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. It isn't a thing I like making promises about. But I don't + suppose for a moment—Would it help you very much, Bob? + </p> + <p> + BOB (from the bottom of his heart). I don't want Gerald's wife to be + waiting for me when I come out; I want my friend. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (standing up and facing him as he turns round towards her). All + right, Bob, she shall be there. + </p> + <p> + (They stand looking at each other intently for a moment. Voices are + heard outside, and SIR JAMES, LADY FARRINGDON, and GERALD come into the + room.) + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + [SCENE.—In the hall at SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. It is autumn + nom and there is a fire burning.] + </p> + <p> + [LETTY and TOMMY are on the sofa side by side, holding hands, and + looking the picture of peaceful happiness. Indeed, TOMMY has his mouth + open slightly.] + </p> + <p> + LETTY. It's your turn to say something, Tommy. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Oh, I say. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Now I suppose it's my turn. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I say, you know, I feel too idiotically happy to say anything. I + feel I want to talk poetry, or rot like that, only—only I don't + quite know how to put it. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (sympathetically). Never mind, darling. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I say, you do understand how frightfully—I say, what about + another kiss? (They have one.) + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Tommy, I just adore you. Only I think you might have been a + little more romantic about your proposal. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (anxious). I say, do you— + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Yes. Strictly speaking, I don't think anybody ought to propose + with a niblick in his hand. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. It just sort of came then. Of course I ought to have put it down. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. You dear!... "Letting his niblick go for a moment, Mr. T. Todd + went on as follows: 'Letitia, my beloved, many moons have waxed and + waned since first I cast eyes of love upon thee. An absence of ducats, + coupled with the necessity of getting my handicap down to ten, has + prevented my speaking ere this. Now at last I am free. My agèd uncle—'" + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (lovingly). I say, you do pull my leg. Go on doing it always, + won't you? + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Always, Tommy. We're going to have fun, always. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I'm awfully glad we got engaged down here. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. We've had lovely times here, haven't we? + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I wonder what Gerald will say. A bit of a surprise for him. I + say, it would be rather fun if we had a double wedding. You and I, and + Gerald and Pamela. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (getting up in pretended indignation). Certainly not! + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (following her). I say, what's the matter? + </p> + <p> + LETTY (waving him back). Go away. Unhand me villain. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I say, what's up? + </p> + <p> + LETTY. I want a wedding of my own. I've never been married before, and + perhaps I shall never be married again, and I'm going to have a wedding + all to myself. I don't mind your being there, but I'm not going to have + crowds of other brides and bridegrooms taking up the whole aisle—said + she, seizing her engagement-ring and—Oh, bother! I haven't got one + yet. + </p> + <p> + (TOMMY rushes up and takes her in his arms. At this moment GERALD comes + in by the garden door. He stops on seeing them, and then goes quickly on + to the door in front of the staircase.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (as he passes them). Came in and went tactfully out again. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (as LETTY frees herself). I say, Gerald, old man. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (stopping at the door, turning round and coming back in the same + business-like way). Returned hopefully. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (in confusion). I say, we're engaged. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (looking at them happily). Oh, hoo-ray! + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Do say you're surprised. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Awfully, awfully pleased, Letty. Of course, when I saw you—er—thinking + together in a corner—By Jove, I <i>am</i> bucked. I did hope so + much. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. You dear! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I feel very fatherly. Bless you, my children. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. We shall have about tuppence a year, but Letty doesn't mind that. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (to LETTY). You'll have to make him work. (Thoughtfully) He's too + old for a caddy. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Couldn't you find him something in the Foreign Office? He knows + the French for pen and ink. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. What's ink? + </p> + <p> + LETTY. At least, he knows the French for pen. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, we'll find something. Only I warn you, Tommy, if you dare to + get married before Pamela and me, there'll be trouble. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Why don't we ever see Pamela now? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (gaily). She is coming, my children—<i>mes enfants</i>, as + Tommy will say when he gets his job as ribbon starcher to the French + ambassador. To-morrow, no less. I've just had a letter. Lord, I haven't + seen her for months. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. She's come back? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. Egypt knows her no more. The Sphinx is inconsolable. + To-morrow at 3.30 she comes; I shall go and meet her. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I say, won't she be surprised about Letty and me! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. She'll be as bucked as I am. (Looking from one to the other) Has + anything else frightfully exciting happened to you since lunch? Because, + if not, I've got some more news. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. What is it? I love news. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All ready? Then one, two, three: Bob is coming this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + LETTY and TOMMY together. No! Rot! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (Singing to the tune of "Here we go gathering nuts and may"). Oh, + Bob is coming this afternoon, this afternoon, this afternoon! Oh, Bob is + coming this afternoon, all on an autumn morning! Now then, all together. + </p> + <p> + (They join hands and march up the hall and back again, singing + together.) + </p> + <p> + ALL TOGETHER (waving imaginary hats). Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. It doesn't make sense, you know, coming back in the afternoon on + an autumn morning. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Who cares for sense? + </p> + <p> + LETTY (squeezing his arm). Oh, Gerald, I <i>am</i> glad. But I thought + he had another week or so. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. They always let you out early, you know, if you're good. We knew + he was coming soon, but we didn't quite know when. I've just had a + telegram. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Poor Bob! he must have had a time. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What does it matter? It's over now. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (struck by an idea). I say, this puts a bit of a stopper on our + news. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (pulled up suddenly by this). Oh! + </p> + <p> + LETTY (going over and taking TOMMY'S arm). We'll go to a house where + they <i>do</i> make a fuss of us, Tommy. (Very politely) Good-bye, Mr. + Farringdon, and thank you for a very pleasant Friday. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Poor darlings! it's rather bad luck for you. Did I announce my + news too soon? I'm awfully sorry. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. It wasn't your fault; you were a dear. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. As a matter of fact, it will be rather lucky, you know. It will + give us something to talk about when Bob comes. (Smiling) Thanks very + much for arranging it. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Poor old Bob! I wonder what it feels like coming out of prison. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Rotten. Now, for the Lord's sake, Tommy, be tactful. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (to GERALD). I think he'd be safer if he wasn't. Tommy's rather + dangerous when he's tactful. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (thoughtfully). Yes, there <i>is</i> that. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. It's all the same to me. Only just let me know which you want. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, as long as you don't overdo it. Don't rub it in that he's + just left prison, and—don't rub it out. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I suppose it would be quite safe to ask him to pass the mustard? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (laughing). Good old Tommy! + </p> + <p> + LETTY. You'd better talk to me all the time, and then you'll be all + right. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We'll make it go between us. And, of course, Pamela will help + to-morrow. Hooray for Pamela! It makes me quite envious seeing you young + people together. By the way, I interrupted you just now. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. You did rather. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, I absolutely refuse to go away now. But, of course, if + you're longing to show each other the stables or anything—(with a + wave of the hand) pray show. Or try anywhere else. Save for Aunt + Tabitha's room upstairs and the hall down here, the whole house is at + your disposal. + </p> + <p> + LETTY (sitting down firmly). Then I shall stay here. Isn't Aunt Mary + back yet? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. They are probably still eating. It's the very latest millionaire + from London, so they're having the lunch of their lives, I expect. + Afterwards father will put him at his ease by talking about crops. + (Picking up a book and settling himself comfortably in front of the + fire) Tommy, if you can't find a book, sing or something. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Oh, come on, Tommy. + </p> + <p> + [She jumps up and goes out of the door in front of the staircase. TOMMY + following her.] + </p> + <p> + (Left alone, GERALD closes his book with a slam. He stands up and takes + the telegram out of his pocket and reads it again. He suddenly catches + sight of MISS FARRINGDON in the gallery shove, calls out "Hullo!" and + goes up the stairs to meet her.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (as he goes). You're just the person I wanted, Aunt Tabitha. I'm + full of news. (He kisses her at the top of the stairs.) How are you, + dear? (He offers her his arm.) + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. If I had wanted help, down the stairs, Gerald, my maid + could have given it me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, but your maid wouldn't have enjoyed giving it you; I do. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Charming Gerald. (She comes down the stairs on his + arm.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, happy Gerald. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Is that part of the news? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It's all because of the news. + </p> + <p> + (He arranges her in her chair by the fire and sits on the coffin-stool + near her.) + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I heard Mr. Todd and Letty just now, so I suppose I + shan't be the first to hear it. What a pity! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Ah, but they don't count. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Why not? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, that's part of the news. They've just got engaged. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. In my young days they'd have been engaged a long time + ago. When are we going to see Pamela again? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. That's more of the news. She's coming down to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. That will save you a lot in stamps. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (laughing). Aunt Tabitha, you're a witch. How did you know? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Know what? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. That Pamela and I haven't been writing to each other. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (very innocently). Haven't you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No. You see—oh, I hate discussing Pamela with anyone, but + you're different. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I always like that sort of compliment best, Gerald. The + unintended sort. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I think, you know, Pamela felt that Bob's doing to prison might + make a difference. I don't mean that she didn't like the disgrace for + herself, but that she was afraid that I mightn't like it for her; and so + she went away, and beyond a letter or two at the start there hasn't been + a Pamela. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. But Gerald went on being successful? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, Aunt Tabitha, if ever I were going to be + conceited—and I don't think I am really—you'd soon stop it, + wouldn't you? I wonder if you <i>do</i> know me as well as you think. + You think I'm all outside, don't you, and inside there's nothing? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Oh, you've got brains, I'll grant you that. You're the + first Farringdon that's had any. Of the men, of course. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, brains—I don't mean brains. But you think that + everything only touches me on the surface, and that nothing ever goes + deep inside. You don't believe I ever loved Pamela; you don't believe I + love her now. You don't believe I've got a heart at all. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Well, you've never shown it. You've shown a lot of + delightful things which silly people mistake for it—but that's + all. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (curtly). No, I've never shown my heart to anybody. Some people + can't. (Gently) Perhaps I'll show it to Pamela on my wedding-day. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Dear me, have I been wrong all these years? I shouldn't + like to think that. (After a pause) Any more news? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (taking his thoughts off PAMELA). Yes. Now <i>this</i> time, Aunt + Tabitha, you'll really be as pleased as I am. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. I wonder. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh yes, you will, because it's about your favourite—Bob. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. So Bob's my favourite? I'm learning a good many things + to-day. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. He's coming back this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Bob! I'm glad he's finished with that part of it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You think he's got the worst part coming? (Smiling at her) Aunt + Tabitha, have you got any influence with your nephew? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. You or Bob? (GERALD smiles and shakes his head.) Oh, + you mean James? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It seems hard to realize that one's father is anybody else's + nephew, but you <i>are</i> his aunt, and—Oh, don't let him do + anything stupid about Bob. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Bob's his own master; he's old enough to look after + himself. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, but he's got in the way of being looked after by other + people. I wish <i>you</i> would look after him and tell him what to do. + It's going to be difficult for him. I expect he'll want to get away from + all of us for a bit. Where's he going, and what's he going to do? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (after a pause). When did you say Pamela was coming + here? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. To-morrow. <i>She'll</i> help, of course. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Gerald, you've been very nice to me always; I don't + know why I've been rather unkind to you sometimes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What an idea! You know I've loved our little skirmishes. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. That's because you've been happy, and haven't minded + one way or another. But if ever you were in trouble, Gerald, I don't + think I should be unsympathetic. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You dear, of course you wouldn't. But why do you say that now, + just when I <i>am</i> so happy? + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON (getting up slowly). I'm feeling rather an old woman + to-day. I think I'll go and lie down. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (jumping up). I'll ring for your maid. + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. No, no; I'm not going upstairs, and I don't want a maid + when I've got a great big nephew. Come and tuck me up on the sofa in the + drawing-room; I shall be quite happy there. + </p> + <p> + (She puts her hand on his arm, and they go together towards the door in + front of the staircase.) + </p> + <p> + MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Gerald! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (laughing). Why poor? [They go out together.] + </p> + <p> + [The door on the right at the back opens quietly and BOB comes in. He + stands there for a moment looking at the hall, and then speaks over his + shoulder to somebody behind him.] + </p> + <p> + BOB. It's all right, there's nobody here. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I wonder where Gerald is. + </p> + <p> + BOB. You're sure he's down here? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Yes, I had a letter from him; he told me he was going to be. + </p> + <p> + BOB (going up to her). Pamela, you can't see him alone. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I must. You can see him afterwards, but I must see him alone + first. Poor Gerald! + </p> + <p> + BOB. He never really loved you. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I don't think he did really, but it will hurt him. + </p> + <p> + BOB (eagerly). Say you're not sorry for what you're doing. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Aren't I doing it? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Say you love <i>me</i> and not Gerald. Say you really love me, and + it's not just because you are sorry for me. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh, I have so much in my heart for you, Bob. I'm glad I'm + marrying you. But you must always love me, and want me as you want me + now. + </p> + <p> + BOB (seizing her is his arms). By God! you'll get that. (He kisses her + fiercely.) + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (satisfied). Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob! I'm glad I found you at last. (She + goes away from him and stands looking into the fire, one hand on the + mantelpiece.) + </p> + <p> + BOB. Shall I go and look for Gerald? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (looking into the fire). Yes. No. He'll come. + </p> + <p> + BOB. You won't let him talk you round? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (looking up at him in surprise). Oh no; I'm quite safe now. + </p> + <p> + BOB. I can never thank you for all you've done, for all you've been to + me. When we are out of this cursèd country, and I have you to myself, I + will try to show you. (She says nothing, and he walks restlessly about + the room. He picks up a hat and says) Hullo, Tommy's here. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (quickly). I don't want to see him, I don't want to see anybody. + We must just tell Gerald and then go. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Anybody might come at any moment. You should have let me write as I + wanted to. Or waited till he came back to London. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. We've given up being cowards. Perhaps you'd better try and find + him. We'll only tell Gerald. If we see the others, we'll just have to + make the best of it. + </p> + <p> + BOB (moving off towards the door in front of the staircase). All right. + If I find him I'll send him in here. [He goes out.] + </p> + <p> + (PAMELA drops into a chair and remains looking at the fire. GERALD, + coming down from the gallery above, suddenly catches sight of her.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (rushing down the stairs). Pamela! Why, Pamela! (Excitedly) Why + are you—You said tomorrow. Pamela, you said—Never mind, + you're here. Oh, bless you! (PAMELA has got up to meet him, and he is + now standing holding her hands, and looking at her happily.) Pamela's + here; all's right with the world. (He leans forward to kiss her, but she + stops him.) + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (nervously). No, no; I've something to tell you, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I've got a thousand things to tell <i>you</i>. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Bob's here. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (excited). Bob? Did you come down with him? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I had a telegram, but it didn't say—Did you meet him? Why + didn't he tell us? Where is he? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. He just went to look for you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'll soon find him. + </p> + <p> + (He turns away to go after BOB, but PAMELA stops him.) + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Gerald! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (turning round). Yes. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Never mind Bob for the moment. I wanted to see you alone. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (coming back quickly). Of course. Hang Bob! Come on the sofa and + tell me everything. Jove! it's wonderful to see you again; you've been + away for years. + </p> + <p> + (He takes her hand and tries to lead her towards the sofa, but she + stops.) + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Gerald, you're making it very hard for me; I've got something to + tell you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (afraid suddenly and speaking sharply). What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh, don't look at me like that—I know it will hurt you, + but it won't be more than that. I want you to release me from my + promise. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What promise? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (in a low voice). My promise to marry you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't understand. Why? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (bravely). I want to marry Bob. + </p> + <p> + (Keeping his eyes on her all the time, GERALD moves slowly away from + her.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (to himself). Bob! Bob! But you knew Bob first. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And then you promised to marry me. You couldn't have been in + love with him. I don't understand. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (sadly). I don't understand either, but that's how it's happened. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And to think how I've been throwing you in Bob's way, and + wanting you and him to be fond of each other. (Fiercely) <i>That</i> + didn't make you think that I didn't love you? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (faltering). I—I don't—you didn't— + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I was so confident of you. That was your fault. You made me. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I think you could have made me love you if you hadn't been so + confident. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I trusted you. You had told me. <i>I</i> knew I should never + change, and I thought I knew <i>you</i> wouldn't. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I was wrong. I never did love you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Then why did you say— + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (looking at him rather wistfully). You're rather charming, + Gerald, you know, and you— + </p> + <p> + GERALD (turning away from her furiously). <i>Damn</i> charming! That's + what you all say. I'm sick of it! You think that if a man's charming, + that's the end of him, and that all he's good for is to amuse a few old + ladies at a tea party. I'm sick of it! The rude rough man with the heart + of gold—that's the only sort that can have a heart at all, + according to some of you. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (utterly surprised by this). Gerald! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm sorry, Pamela. Of course you wouldn't understand. But we + were just talking. (With a sudden disarming smile) I don't know whether + an apology is overdoing the charm? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, you couldn't really have loved me; you + don't really now. Of course, it will hurt you, but you'll soon get over + it. Oh, what's the good of my talking like this? I've never really known + you; I don't know you now. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (quietly). It's no good now, anyway. (He walks away from her and + looks out through the windows at the back.) Just tell me one or two + things. Were you in love with him when he went to prison? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I don't know—really I don't know. I was so dreadfully + sorry for him all that time before, and I felt so very friendly towards + him, so very—oh, Gerald, so motherly. And I wanted to be wanted so + badly, and you didn't seem to want me in that way. That was why, when he + had gone, I went right away from you, and asked you not to write to me; + I wanted to think it all out—alone. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But you wrote to Bob? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh, Gerald, he wanted it so badly. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm sorry. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I wrote to him and he wrote to me. I met him when he came out—he + told me when to come. I suppose I had decided by then; we came down here + to tell you. I had to come at once. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You do love him, Pamela? It isn't just pity? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I do, Gerald; I think I found that out this afternoon. (Timidly) + Say you don't hate me very much. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I wish to God I could.... What are you and Bob going to do? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Canada, as soon as we can. I've got friends there. We've a + little money between us. Bob ought to have done it a long time ago. + (Coming up to him) Just do one more nice thing for me before we go. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (moving away from her on pretence of getting a cigarette). What + is it? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Bob will want to see you before he goes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't want to see him. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Ah, but you must. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What have we got to say to each other? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. I don't know, but I feel you must see him. Otherwise he'll think + that he ran away from you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (with a shrug). All right. You'll go back to London at once, I + suppose? + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Yes. We hired a car. We left it outside at the gates. We didn't + want to see anybody but you, if possible. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Father and mother are out. Aunt Harriet knows—oh, and + Tommy and Letty—that Bob was coming to-day; nobody else. But I can + make up something. We'll keep Tommy and Letty out of it for the moment. + Of course, they'll all have to know in the end. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. We'll write, of course. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. Tommy and Letty are engaged, by the way. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh! (Understanding how he must feel about it) Oh, Gerald! (She + makes a movement towards him, but he takes no notice.) I'll send Bob to + you; he's waiting outside, I expect. (Timidly) Good-bye, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (still with his back to her). Good-bye, Pamela. + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Won't you— + </p> + <p> + GERALD (from the bottom of his heart). Go away, go away! I can't bear + the sound of your voice; I can't bear to look at you. Go away! + </p> + <p> + PAMELA. Oh, Gerald! [She goes out.] + </p> + <p> + (GERALD looks up as she goes out, and then looks quickly down again. + When BOB comes in he is still resting with his arm on the mantelpiece + looking into the fire.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (looking up). Hullo. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Hullo. (After a pause) Is that all you've got to say? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I've just seen Pamela. + </p> + <p> + BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). Well? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well—isn't that enough? + </p> + <p> + BOB. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (bitterly). Do you want me to fall on, your neck, and say take + her and be happy? + </p> + <p> + BOB. You never loved her. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. That's a lie, and anyhow we won't discuss it. She's going to + marry you, and that's an end of it. + </p> + <p> + BOB (very eagerly). She <i>is</i> going to? + </p> + <p> + GERALD (sharply). Don't you know it? + </p> + <p> + BOB (mumbling). Yes, but she might—Ah, you couldn't charm her away + from me this time. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (with an effort). I don't know what you mean by "<i>this</i> + time." I think we'd better leave Pamela out of it altogether. She's + waiting for you outside. Last time I offered to shake hands with you, + you had some fancied grievance against me, and you wouldn't; now if + there's any grievance between us, it's on <i>my</i> side. (Holding out + his hand) Good-bye, Bob, and—quite honestly—good luck. + </p> + <p> + BOB (ignoring the hand). Magnanimous Gerald! + </p> + <p> + (GERALD looks at him in surprise for a moment. Then he shrugs his + shoulders, turns round, and goes back to the mantelpiece, and takes a + cigarette from the box there.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm tired of you, Bob. If you don't want me, I don't want you. + (He sits down in a chair and lights his cigarette.) + </p> + <p> + BOB. And now I suppose you're thoroughly pleased with yourself, and + quite happy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (looking at him in absolute wonder). Happy? You fool! (Something + in BOB'S face surprises him, and he gets up and says) Why do you + suddenly hate me like this? + </p> + <p> + BOB (with a bitter laugh). Suddenly! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (almost frightened). Bob! + </p> + <p> + BOB (letting the jealousy that has been pent up for years come out at + last). You're surprised! Surprised! You would be. You've never stopped + to think what other people are thinking; you take it for granted that + they all love you, and that's all you care about. Do you think I liked + playing second fiddle to you all my life? Do you think I've never had + any ambitions of my own? I suppose you thought I was quite happy being + one of the crowd of admirers round you, all saying, "Oh, look at Gerald, + isn't he wonderful?" + </p> + <p> + GERALD (astounded). Bob, I had no idea—I never dreamt— + </p> + <p> + BOB. They thought something of me when I was young. When I first went to + school they thought something of me. I daresay even <i>you</i> thought + something of me then; I could come back in the holidays and tell you + what school was like, and what a lot they thought of me. They didn't + think much of me when <i>you</i> came; you soon put a stop to that. I + was just young Farringdon's brother then, and when we came home + together, all the talk was of the wonderful things <i>Gerald</i> had + done. It was like that at Eton; it was like that at Oxford. It's always + been like that. I managed to get away from you a bit after Oxford, but + it went on just the same. "How do you do, Mr. Farringdon? Are you any + relation to Gerald Farringdon?" (With the utmost contempt) And you + actually thought I liked that; you thought I enjoyed it. You thought I + smiled modestly and said, "Oh yes, he's my brother, my young brother; + isn't he wonderful?" + </p> + <p> + GERALD (hardly able to realise it). And you've felt like this for years? + (To himself) For years! + </p> + <p> + BOB (not noticing him). And that wasn't enough for you. They got you + into the Foreign Office—they could have got me there. They could + have put me into the Army (Almost shouting) Aren't I the eldest son? But + no, it didn't matter about the eldest son—never mind about him; + put him in the City, anywhere as long as he's out of the way. If we have + any influence, we must use it for Gerald—the wonderful Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. If this is an indictment, it's drawn against the wrong person. + </p> + <p> + BOB (more quietly). Then at last I found a friend; somebody who took me + for my own sake. (Bitterly) And like a damned fool I brought her down + here, and she saw <i>you</i>. I might have known what would happen. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Pamela! + </p> + <p> + BOB. Yes, and you took her. After taking everything you could all your + life, you took <i>her</i>. She was Bob's friend—that was quite + enough. She must be one more in the crowd of admirers round you. So you + took her. (Triumphantly) Ah, but I got her back in the end. I've got her + now—and I think I'm square, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I think you're square now. + </p> + <p> + BOB (rather jauntily, as he leans back against the end of the sofa and + feels for his cigarette-case). I seem to have surprised you rather. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've never + said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've never said + anything? + </p> + <p> + BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months—in + prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison. Oh, I + know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in the air—something + like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I had a better idea—I + <i>thought</i>. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must have + had! + </p> + <p> + BOB (furiously). Damn you! I <i>won't</i> be pitied by you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about + yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm going to + talk about <i>my</i>self. + </p> + <p> + BOB. And it won't be the first time either. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to <i>you</i>. You say I've + never tried to understand your feelings—have you ever tried to + understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about you + than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you? When a + boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever bore <i>you</i> + with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I knew how <i>I'd</i> + feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for you. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Very noble of you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good of + talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only + convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if I + talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't talk + about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact, whatever + I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it condemns yourself. + (Wearily) What's the good of talking? + </p> + <p> + BOB. Go on; I like to hear it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart from + the general charge of being successful—whatever that amounts to—you + accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now, but it was + more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was that I neglected + to help you when you were in trouble, and that through me you went to + prison. + </p> + <p> + BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I + didn't forget it in prison. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You had a sense of humour once, Bob. I don't know what's + happened to it lately. Don't you think it's rather funny to hate a + person steadily for fifteen years, judge all his acts as you'd hardly + judge those of your bitterest enemy, and yet, the first time you are in + trouble, to expect him to throw everything on one side and rush to your + help—and then to feel bitterly ill-used if he doesn't? + </p> + <p> + BOB (rather taken aback). I—you didn't—I didn't— + </p> + <p> + GERALD (quietly). That's been rather like you all through, Bob. You were + always the one who had to be helped; you were always the one who was + allowed to have the grievance. Still, that doesn't make it any better + for me if I could have helped you and didn't. However, I'm quite certain + that I <i>couldn't</i> have helped you then. We'll take the other + accusation, that I stole Pamela from you. I've only got two things to + say to that. First, that Pamela was not engaged to you, and was + perfectly free to choose between us. Secondly, that you never told me, + and I hadn't the slightest idea, that you were the least bit fond of + her. Indeed, I don't believe you realized it yourself at that time. + </p> + <p> + BOB (rather shamefaced). I've realized it since. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, and you've taken Pamela back since. I think if I were you I + would keep her out of it. (BOB looks away and GERALD goes on) Now we + come to the general charge, which seems to be (very deliberately) that + I'm better than you at games, that I've got better manners than you, + that I'm cleverer than you—in fact, that I'm superior to you in + every outward way, and am only inferior to you in—well, in the + moral qualities. (Quietly) Bob, what are these moral qualities in which + I am so deficient and you so endowed? You judge me by the qualities I am + supposed to have shown to you; now what have you shown to <i>me</i>? + Have <i>you</i> been generous, have <i>you</i> been friendly, have <i>you</i> + been sympathetic? No; you've just told me that for fifteen years you've + hated me and been jealous of me. Things have been rotten for you, I + admit; have you ever tried to make the best of them? You've had + disadvantages to fight against; have you ever fought against them? + Never! You've turned every trouble into a grievance, and hoarded it up. + I said just now I was sick of you. I am—utterly. You said just now + you didn't want my pity. You haven't got it; you've only got my + contempt.... (He turns away, and then suddenly turns back, and, holding + out his hand to BOB, says utterly unexpectedly) And now, damn you! will + you shake hands? + </p> + <p> + BOB (incoherent with surprise). What do you—I—you didn't—(GERALD'S + hand is still held out, and he is smiling.) Oh, Jerry! (He takes the + hand.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. That's all right. Good-bye, Bob, and good luck. + </p> + <p> + BOB (bewildered). Good-bye. (He tuns round and goes towards the door. + Half-way there, he looks over his shoulder and says awkwardly) Had + rather a rotten time in prison. (GERALD nods. At the door BOB says) + Pamela and I— + </p> + <p> + [With rather a forced smile, GERALD nods again, and BOB goes out.] + </p> + <p> + (Left alone, GERALD stands looking into the fire and thinking. He tries + sitting down to see if that will make thinking any pleasanter; then he + tries standing up again. He goes to the door in front of the staircase + and opens it to see if there is anybody there; then he goes to the + windows at the back and looks through them. Evidently he sees somebody, + for he beckons and then returns to his old place by the fire. In a few + moments LETTY and TOMMY come in.) + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (excitedly). I say, has Bob come? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why? + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. I could have sworn we saw him just now as we were coming in. At + least, Letty swore she did— + </p> + <p> + LETTY. I <i>know</i> I did. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. So I gave him a shout, but he fairly trekked off. Was it Bob? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. Now look here, I want you to be two nice people. Don't say + anything to anybody. He came, but he didn't want to see the whole crowd + of us. He's going to Canada. I'll do all the explaining, if you two just + say nothing. Do you see? + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Of course, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Rather, old boy. Besides, it will make it much better for Letty + and me. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. No rival attraction, Tommy means. + </p> + <p> + [Enter SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON from the outer hull, having just + returned from their lunch.] + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Ah! here you all are. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Had a good lunch? + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Lunch was all right, but the people were dull, very dull. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. There were one or two nice ones, I thought, dear. They + all knew about <i>you</i>, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + TOMMY (proudly). Of course they would. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Oh, one or two were all right, but <i>he</i> was—well, + I was discussing shorthorns with him after lunch, and he hardly seemed + interested at all. Dull, very dull. I've got no use for that sort of + man. + </p> + <p> + (During this speech the Butler has come in with a telegram for GERALD.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD (taking it). Just a moment. (He reads it quickly.) No answer. + [Exit Butler.] + </p> + <p> + (GERALD reads his telegram again more thoughtfully.) + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. From Pamela, dear? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. From the office. I shall have to go up at once. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (very disappointed). Oh, Gerald! + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Something on? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Rather an important thing really. I never thought I should get + it, but there was just a chance. (Looking at his watch) Oh, I can do it + comfortably. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES (obviously proud that GERALD is in the thick of things). What + is it? I suppose you mustn't tell us. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Something abroad. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Diplomatic mission, eh? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + LETTY. That does sound so frightfully exciting. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON (proudly). Oh, Gerald! (Thoughtfully). I wish we had + known about it this morning, we could have mentioned it at lunch. + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. That ought to lead to something. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. I think it will. It's rather an opportunity: + </p> + <p> + (They are all round him now, just as they have always been. The buzz + begins.) + </p> + <p> + SIR JAMES. Aha! you'll be an ambassador yet. What do you think of that, + Letty? + </p> + <p> + LETTY. Well done, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + LADY FARRINGDON. How like you, Gerald! + </p> + <p> + TOMMY. Good old Gerald! I never knew such a chap. You really <i>are</i>! + </p> + <p> + GERALD (softly). I wish I weren't, Tommy! Oh, I wish I weren't! + </p> + <p> + (They don't hear him; they are still buzzing.) + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOY COMES HOME + </h2> + <h3> + A COMEDY IN ONE ACT + </h3> + CHARACTERS. +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + UNCLE JAMES. + AUNT EMILY. + PHILIP. + MARY. + MRS. HIGGINS. +</pre> + <p> + This play was first produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria Palace + Theatre on September 9,1918, with the following cast: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Philip—OWEN NARES. + Uncle James—TOM REYNOLDS. + Aunt Emily—DOROTHY RADFORD. + Mary—ADAH DICK. + Mrs. Higgins—RACHEL DE SOLLA. +</pre> + <p> + [SCENE.—A room in UNCLE JAMES'S house in the Cromwell Road.] + </p> + <p> + [TIME.—The day after the War.] + </p> + <p> + [Any room in UNCLE JAMES'S house is furnished in heavy mid-Victorian + style; this particular morning-room is perhaps solider and more + respectable even than the others, from the heavy table in the middle of + it to the heavy engravings on the walls. There are two doors to it. The + one at the back opens into the hall, the one at the side into the + dining-room.] + </p> + <p> + [PHILIP comes from the hall and goes into the dining-room. Apparently he + finds nothing there, for he returns to the morning-room, looks about him + for a moment and then rings the bell. It is ten o'clock, and he wants + his breakfast. He picks up the paper, and sits in a heavy armchair in + front of the fire—a pleasant-looking well-built person of + twenty-three, with an air of decisiveness about him. MARY, the + parlour-maid, comes in.] + </p> + <p> + MARY. Did you ring, Master Philip? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (absently). Yes; I want some breakfast, please, Mary. + </p> + <p> + MARY (coldly). Breakfast has been cleared away an hour ago. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Exactly. That's why I rang. You can boil me a couple of eggs or + something. And coffee, not tea. + </p> + <p> + MARY. I'm sure I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (getting up). Who is Mrs. Higgins? + </p> + <p> + MARY. The cook. And she's not used to being put about like this. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Do you think she'll say something? + </p> + <p> + MARY. I don't know <i>what</i> she'll say. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. You needn't tell me, you know, if you don't want to. Anyway, I + don't suppose it will shock me. One gets used to it in the Army. (He + smiles pleasantly at her.) + </p> + <p> + MARY. Well, I'll do what I can, sir. But breakfast at eight sharp is the + master's rule, just as it used to be before you went away to the war. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Before I went away to the war I did a lot of silly things. Don't + drag them up now. (More curtly) Two eggs, and if there's a ham bring + that along too. (He turns away.) + </p> + <p> + MARY (doubtfully, as she prepares to go). Well, I'm sure I don't know + what Mrs. Higgins will say. [Exit MARY.] + </p> + <p> + (As she goes out she makes way for AUNT EMILY to come in, a kind-hearted + mid-Victorian lady who has never had any desire for the vote.) + </p> + <p> + EMILY. There you are, Philip! Good-morning, dear. Did you sleep well? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Rather; splendidly, thanks, Aunt Emily. How are you? (He kisses + her.) + </p> + <p> + EMILY. And did you have a good breakfast? Naughty boy to be late for it. + I always thought they had to get up so early in the Army. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. They do. That's why they're so late when they get out of the + Army. + </p> + <p> + EMILY: Dear me! I should have thought a habit of four years would have + stayed with you. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Every morning for four years, as I've shot out of bed, I've said + to myself, "Wait! A time will come." (Smiling) That doesn't really give + a habit a chance. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Well, I daresay you wanted your sleep out. I was so afraid that a + really cosy bed would keep you awake after all those years in the + trenches. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, one isn't in the trenches all the time. And one gets leave—if + one's an officer. + </p> + <p> + EMILY.(reproachfully). You didn't spend much of it with <i>us</i>, + Philip. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (taking her hands). I know; but you did understand, didn't you, + dear? + </p> + <p> + EMILY. We're not very gay, and I know you must have wanted gaiety for + the little time you had. But I think your Uncle James felt it. After + all, dear, you've lived with us for some years, and he <i>is</i> your + guardian. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I know. <i>You've</i> been a darling to me always, Aunt Emily. + But (awkwardly) Uncle James and I— + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Of course, he is a <i>little</i> difficult to get on with. I'm + more used to him. But I'm sure he really is very fond of you, Philip. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. H'm! I always used to be frightened of him.... I suppose he's + just the same. He seemed just the same last night—and he still has + breakfast at eight o'clock. Been making pots of money, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + EMILY. He never tells me exactly, but he did speak once about the + absurdity of the excess-profits tax. You see, jam is a thing the Army + wants. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. It certainly gets it. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. It was so nice for him, because it made him feel he was doing his + bit, helping the poor men in the trenches. + </p> + <p> + [Enter MARY.] + </p> + <p> + MARY. Mrs. Higgins wishes to speak to you, ma'am. (She looks at PHILIP + as much as to say, "There you are!") + </p> + <p> + EMILY (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To PHILIP) I think I'd better just + see what she wants, Philip. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (firmly to MARY). Tell Mrs. Higgins to come here. (MARY hesitates + and looks at her mistress.) At once, please. [Exit MARY.] + </p> + <p> + EMILY (upset). Philip, dear, I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. No; nobody seems to. I thought we might really find out for + once. + </p> + <p> + EMILY (going towards the door). Perhaps I'd better go— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (putting his arm round her waist). Oh no, you mustn't. You see, + she really wants to see <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. <i>You</i>? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Yes; I ordered breakfast five minutes ago. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Philip! My poor boy! Why didn't you tell me? and I daresay I + could have got it for you. Though I don't know what Mrs. Higgins— + </p> + <p> + (An extremely angry voice is heard outside, and MRS. HIGGINS, stout and + aggressive, comes in.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS (truculently). You sent for me, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + EMILY (nervously). Yes—er—I think if you—perhaps— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (calmly). <i>I</i> sent for you, Mrs. Higgins. I want some + breakfast. Didn't Mary tell you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS. Breakfast is at eight o'clock. It always has been as long + as I've been in this house, and always will be until I get further + orders. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, you've just got further orders. Two eggs, and if there's a + ham— + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS. Orders. We're talking about orders. From whom in this + house do I take orders, may I ask? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. In this case from me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS (playing her trump-card). In that case, ma'am, I wish to + give a month's notice from to-day. <i>In</i>clusive. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (quickly, before his aunt can say anything). Certainly. In fact, + you'd probably prefer it if my aunt gave <i>you</i> notice, and then you + could go at once. We can easily arrange that. (TO AUNT EMILY as he takes + out a fountain pen and cheque-book) What do you pay her? + </p> + <p> + EMILY (faintly). Forty-five pounds. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (writing on his knee). Twelves into forty-five.... (Pleasantly to + MRS. HIGGINS, but without looking up) I hope you don't mind a Cox's + cheque. Some people do; but this is quite a good one. (Tearing it out) + Here you are. + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS (taken aback). What's this? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Your wages instead of notice. Now you can go at once. + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS. Who said anything about going? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (surprised). I'm sorry; I thought <i>you</i> did. + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS. If it's only a bit of breakfast, I don't say but what I + mightn't get it, if I'm asked decent. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (putting back the cheque). Then let me say again, "Two eggs, ham + and coffee." And Mary can bring the ham up at once, and I'll get going + on that. (Turning away) Thanks very much. + </p> + <p> + MRS. HIGGINS. Well, I—well—well! [Exit speechless.] + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (surprised). Is that all she ever says? It isn't much to worry + about. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Philip, how could you! I should have been terrified. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, you see, I've done your job for two years out there. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. What job? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Mess President.... I think I'll go and see about that ham. + </p> + <p> + (He smiles at her and goes out into the dining-room. AUNT EMILY wanders + round the room, putting a few things tidy as is her habit, when she is + interrupted by the entrance of UNCLE JAMES. JAMES is not a big man, nor + an impressive one in his black morning-coat; and his thin straggly + beard, now going grey, does not hide a chin of any great power; but he + has a severity which passes for strength with the weak.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Philip down yet? + </p> + <p> + EMILY. He's just having his breakfast. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (looking at his watch). Ten o'clock. (Snapping it shut and putting + it back) Ten o'clock. I say ten o'clock, Emily. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Yes, dear, I heard you. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. You don't say anything? + </p> + <p> + EMILY (vaguely). I expect he's tired after that long war. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. That's no excuse for not being punctual. I suppose he learnt + punctuality in the Army? + </p> + <p> + EMILY. I expect he learnt it, James, but I understood him to say that + he'd forgotten it. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Then the sooner he learns it again the better. I particularly + stayed away from the office to-day in order to talk things over with + him, and (looking at his watch) here's ten o'clock—past ten—and + no sign of him. I'm practically throwing away a day. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. What are you going to talk to him about? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. His future, naturally. I have decided that the best thing he can + do is to come into the business at once. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Are you really going to talk it over with him, James, or are you + just going to tell him that he <i>must</i> come? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (surprised). What do you mean? What's the difference? Naturally we + shall talk it over first, and—er—naturally he'll fall in + with my wishes. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. I suppose he can hardly help himself, poor boy. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Not until he's twenty-five, anyhow. When he's twenty-five he can + have his own money and do what he likes with it. + </p> + <p> + EMILY (timidly). But I think you ought to consult him at little, dear. + After all, he <i>has</i> been fighting for us. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (with his back to the fire). Now that's the sort of silly + sentiment that there's been much too much of. I object to it strongly. I + don't want to boast, but I think I may claim to have done my share. I + gave up my nephew to my country, and I—er—suffered from the + shortage of potatoes to an extent that you probably didn't realize. + Indeed, if it hadn't been for your fortunate discovery about that time + that you didn't really like potatoes, I don't know how we should have + carried on. And, as I think I've told you before, the excess-profits tax + seemed to me a singularly stupid piece of legislation—but I paid + it. And I don't go boasting about how much I paid. + </p> + <p> + EMILY (unconvinced). Well, I think that Philip's four years out there + have made him more of a man; he doesn't seem somehow like a boy who can + be told what to do. I'm sure they've taught him something. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I've no doubt that they've taught him something about—er—bombs + and—er—which end a revolver goes off, and how to form fours. + But I don't see that that sort of thing helps him to decide upon the + most suitable career for a young man in after-war conditions. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Well, I can only say you'll find him different. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I didn't notice any particular difference last night. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. I think you'll find him rather more—I can't quite think of + the word, but Mrs. Higgins could tell you what I mean. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Of course, if he likes to earn his living any other way, he may; + but I don t see how he proposes to do it so long as I hold the + purse-strings. (Looking at his watch) Perhaps you'd better tell him that + I cannot wait any longer. + </p> + <p> + (EMILY opens the door leading into the dining-room and talks through it + to PHILIP.) + </p> + <p> + EMILY. Philip, your uncle is waiting to see you before he goes to the + office. Will you be long, dear? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (from the dining-room). Is he in a hurry? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (shortly). Yes. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. He says he is rather, dear. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Couldn't he come and talk in here? It wouldn't interfere with my + breakfast. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. No. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. He says he'd rather you came to <i>him</i>, darling. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (resigned). Oh, well. + </p> + <p> + EMILY (to JAMES). He'll be here directly, dear. Just sit down in front + of the fire and make yourself comfortable with the paper. He won't keep + you long. (She arranges him.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES (taking the paper). The morning is not the time to make oneself + comfortable. It's a most dangerous habit. I nearly found myself dropping + off in front of the fire just now. I don't like this hanging about, + wasting the day. (He opens the paper.) + </p> + <p> + EMILY. You should have had a nice sleep, dear, while you could. We were + up so late last night listening to Philip's stories. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Yes, yes. (He begins a yawn and stifles it hurriedly.) You + mustn't neglect your duties, Emily. I've no doubt you have plenty to do. + </p> + <p> + EMILY. All right, James, then I'll leave you. But don't be hard on the + boy. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (sleepily). I shall be just, Emily; you can rely upon that. + </p> + <p> + EMILY (going to the door). I don't think that's quite what I meant. [She + goes out.] + </p> + <p> + (JAMES, who is now quite comfortable, begins to nod. He wakes up with a + start, turns over the paper, and nods again. Soon he is breathing deeply + with closed eyes.) + </p> + *** + <p> + PHILIP (coming in). Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was a bit late + for breakfast. (He takes out his pipe.) Are we going to talk business or + what? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (taking out his match). A <i>bit</i> late! I make it just two + hours. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (pleasantly). All right, Uncle James. Call it two hours late. Or + twenty-two hours early for tomorrow's breakfast, if you like. (He sits + down in a chair on the opposite side of the table from his uncle, and + lights his pipe.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES. You smoke now? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (staggered). I what? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (nodding at his pipe). You smoke? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Good heavens! what did you think we did in France? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Before you start smoking all over the house, I should have + thought you would have asked your aunt's permission. + </p> + <p> + (PHILIP looks at him in amazement, and then goes to the door.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (calling). Aunt Emily!... Aunt Emily!... Do you mind my smoking + in here? + </p> + <p> + AUNT EMILY (from upstairs). Of course not, darling. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (to JAMES, as he returns to his chair). Of course not, darling. + (He puts back his pipe in his mouth.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Now, understand once and for all, Philip, while you remain in my + house I expect not only punctuality, but also civility and respect. I + will <i>not</i> have impertinence. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (unimpressed). Well, that's what I want to talk to you about, + Uncle James. About staying in your house, I mean. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I don't know what you do mean. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, we don't get on too well together, and I thought perhaps + I'd better take rooms somewhere. You could give me an allowance until I + came into my money. Or I suppose you could give me the money now if you + really liked. I don't quite know how father left it to me. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (coldly). You come into your money when you are twenty-five. Your + father very wisely felt that to trust a large sum to a mere boy of + twenty-one was simply putting temptation in his way. Whether I have the + power or not to alter his dispositions, I certainly don't propose to do + so. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. If it comes to that, I am twenty-five. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Indeed? I had an impression that that event took place in about + two years' time. When did you become twenty-five, may I ask? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (quietly). It was on the Somme. We were attacking the next day + and my company was in support. We were in a so-called trench on the edge + of a wood—a damned rotten place to be, and we got hell. The + company commander sent back to ask if we could move. The C.O. said, + "Certainly not; hang on." We hung on; doing nothing, you know—just + hanging on and waiting for the next day. Of course, the Boche knew all + about that. He had it on us nicely.... (Sadly) Dear old Billy! he was + one of the best—our company commander, you know. They got him, + poor devil! That left <i>me</i> in command of the company. I sent a + runner back to ask if I could move. Well, I'd had a bit of a scout on my + own and found a sort of trench five hundred yards to the right. Not what + you'd call a trench, of course, but compared to that wood—well, it + was absolutely Hyde Park. I described the position and asked if I could + go there. My man never came back. I waited an hour and sent another man. + He went west too. Well, I wasn't going to send a third. It was murder. + So I had to decide. We'd lost about half the company by this time, you + see. Well, there were three things I could do—hang on, move to + this other trench, against orders, or go back myself and explain the + situation.... I moved.... And then I went back to the C.O. and told him + I'd moved.... And then I went back to the company again.... (Quietly) + That was when I became twenty-five.... or thirty-five.... or forty-five. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (recovering himself with an effort). Ah yes, yes. (He coughs + awkwardly.) No doubt points like that frequently crop up in the + trenches. I am glad that you did well out there, and I'm sure your + Colonel would speak kindly of you; but when it comes to choosing a + career for you now that you have left the Army, my advice is not + altogether to be despised. Your father evidently thought so, or he would + not have entrusted you to my care. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. My father didn't foresee this war. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Yes, yes, but you make too much of this war. All you young boys + seem to think you've come back from France to teach us our business. + You'll find that it is you who'll have to learn, not we. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I'm quite prepared to learn; in fact, I want to. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Excellent. Then we can consider that settled. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, we haven't settled yet what business I'm going to learn. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I don't think that's very difficult. I propose to take you into + my business. You'll start at the bottom of course, but it will be a + splendid opening for you. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (thoughtfully). I see. So you've decided it for me? The jam + business. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (sharply). Is there anything to be ashamed of in that? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Oh no, nothing at all. Only it doesn't happen to appeal to me. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. If you knew which side your bread was buttered, it would appeal + to you very considerably. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I'm afraid I can't see the butter for the jam. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I don't want any silly jokes of that sort. You were glad enough + to get it out there, I've no doubt. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Oh yes. Perhaps that's why I'm so sick of it now.... No, it's no + good, Uncle James; you must think of something else. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (with a sneer). Perhaps <i>you've</i> thought of something else? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, I had some idea of being an architect— + </p> + <p> + JAMES. You propose to start learning to be an architect at twenty-three? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (smiling). Well, I couldn't start before, could I? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Exactly. And now you'll find it's too late. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Is it? Aren't there going to be any more architects, or doctors, + or solicitors, or barristers? Because we've all lost four years of our + lives, are all the professions going to die out? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. And how old do you suppose you'll be before you're earning money + as an architect? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. The usual time, whatever that may be. If I'm four years behind, + so is everybody else. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Well, I think it's high time you began to earn a living at once. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Look here, Uncle James, do you really think that you can treat + me like a boy who's just left school? Do you think four years at the + front have made no difference at all? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. If there had been any difference, I should have expected it to + take the form of an increased readiness in obey orders and recognize + authority. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (regretfully). You are evidently determined to have a row. + Perhaps I had better tell you once and for all that I refuse to go into + the turnip and vegetable marrow business. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (thumping the table angrily). And perhaps I'd better tell <i>you</i>, + sir, once and for all, that I don't propose to allow rude rudeness from + an impertinent young puppy. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (reminiscently). I remember annoying our Brigadier once. He was + covered with red, had a very red face, about twenty medals, and a cold + blue eye. He told me how angry he was for about five minutes while I + stood to attention. I'm afraid you aren't nearly impressive, Uncle + James. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (rather upset). Oh! (Recovering himself) Fortunately I have other + means of impressing you. The power of the purse goes a long way in this + world. I propose to use it. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I see.... Yes... that's rather awkward, isn't it? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (pleasantly). I think you'll find it very awkward. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (thoughtfully). Yes. + </p> + <p> + (With an amused laugh JAMES settles down to his paper as if the + interview were over.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (to himself). I suppose I shall have to think of another + argument. (He takes out a revolver from him pocket and fondles it + affectionately.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES (looking up suddenly as he is doing this—amazed). What on + earth are you doing? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Souvenir from France. Do you know, Uncle. James, that this + revolver has killed about twenty Germans? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (shortly). Oh! Well, don't go playing about with it here, or + you'll be killing Englishmen before you know where you are. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, you never know. (He raises it leisurely and points it at + his uncle.) It's a nice little weapon. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (angrily). Put it down, sir. You ought to have grown out of monkey + tricks like that in the Army. You ought to know better than to point an + unloaded revolver at anybody. That's the way accidents always happen. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Not when you've been on a revolver course and know all about it. + Besides, it <i>is</i> loaded. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (very angry because he is frightened suddenly). Put it down at + once, sir. (PHILIP turns it away from him and examines it carelessly.) + What's the matter with you? Have you gone mad suddenly? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (mildly). I thought you'd be interested in it. It's shot such a + lot of Germans. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Well, it won't want to shoot any more, and the sooner you get rid + of it the better. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I wonder. Does it ever occur to you, Uncle James, that there are + about a hundred thousand people in England who own revolvers, who are + quite accustomed to them and—who have nobody to practise on now? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. No, sir, it certainly doesn't. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (thoughtfully). I wonder if it will make any difference. You + know, one gets so used to potting at people. It's rather difficult to + realize suddenly that one oughtn't to. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (getting up). I don't know what the object of this tomfoolery is, + if it has one. But you understand that I expect you to come to the + office with me to-morrow at nine o'clock. Kindly see that you're + punctual. (He turns to go away.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (softly). Uncle James. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (over his shoulder). I have no more— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (in his parade voice). Damn it, sir! stand to attention when you + talk to an officer! (JAMES instinctively turns round and stiffens + himself.) That's better; you can sit down if you like. (He motions JAMES + to his chair with the revolver.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES (going nervously to his chair). What does this bluff mean? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. It isn't bluff, it's quite serious. (Pointing the revolver at + his uncle) Do sit down. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (sitting donor). Threats, eh? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Persuasion. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. At the point of the revolver? You settle your arguments by force? + Good heavens, sir! this is just the very thing that we were fighting to + put down. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. <i>We</i> were fighting! <i>We</i>! <i>We</i>! Uncle, you're + a humorist. + </p> + <p> + JAMES, Well, "you," if you prefer it. Although those of us who stayed at + home— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Yes, never mind about the excess profits now. I can tell you + quite well what we fought for. We used force to put down force. That's + what I'm doing now. You were going to use force—the force of money—to + make me do what you wanted. Now I'm using force to stop it. (He levels + the revolver again.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES. You're—you're going to shoot your old uncle? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Why not? I've shot lots of old uncles—Landsturmers. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. But those were Germans! It's different shooting Germans. You're + in England now. You couldn't have a crime on your conscience like that. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Ah, but you mustn't think that after four years of war one has + quite the same ideas about the sanctity of human life. How could one? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. You'll find that juries have kept pretty much the same ideas, I + fancy. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Yes, but revolvers often go off accidentally. You said so + yourself. This is going to be the purest accident. Can't you see it in + the papers? "The deceased's nephew, who was obviously upset—" + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I suppose you think it's brave to come back from the front and + threaten a defenceless man with a revolver? Is that the sort of fair + play they teach you in the Army? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Good heavens! of course it is. You don't think that you wait + until the other side has got just as many guns as you before you attack? + You're really rather lucky. Strictly speaking, I ought to have thrown + half a dozen bombs at you first. (Taking one out of his pocket) As it + happens, I've only got one. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (thoroughly alarmed). Put that back at once. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (putting down the revolver and taking it in his hands). You hold + it in the right hand—so—taking care to keep the lever down. + Then you take the pin in the finger—so, and—but perhaps this + doesn't interest you? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (edging his chair away). Put it down at once, sir. Good heavens! + anything might happen. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (putting it down and taking up the revolver again). Does it ever + occur to you, Uncle James, that there are about three million people in + England who know all about bombs, and how to throw them, and— + </p> + <p> + JAMES. It certainly does not occur to me. I should never dream of + letting these things occur to me. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (looking at the bomb regretfully). It's rather against my + principles as a soldier, but just to make things a bit more fair—(generously) + you shall have it. (He holds it out to him suddenly.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES (shrinking back again). Certainly not, sir. It might go off at any + moment. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (putting it back in his pocket). Oh no; it's quite useless; + there's no detonator.... (Sternly) Now, then, let's talk business. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. What do you want me to do? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Strictly speaking, you should be holding your hands over your + head and saying "Kamerad!" However, I'll let you off that. All I ask + from you is that you should be reasonable. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. And if I refuse, you'll shoot me? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, I don't quite know, Uncle James. I expect we should go + through this little scene again to-morrow. You haven't enjoyed it, have + you? Well, there's lots more of it to come. We'll rehearse it every day. + One day, if you go on being unreasonable, the thing will go off. Of + course, you think that I shouldn't have the pluck to fire. But you can't + be quite certain. It's a hundred to one that I shan't—only I + might. Fear—it's a horrible thing. Elderly men die of it + sometimes. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Pooh! I'm not to be bluffed like that. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (suddenly). You're quite right; you're not that sort. I made a + mistake. (Aiming carefully) I shall have to do it straight off, after + all. One—two— + </p> + <p> + JAMES (on his knees, with uplifted hands, in an agony of terror). + Philip! Mercy! What are your terms? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (picking him up by the scruff, and helping him into the chair). + Good man, that's the way to talk. I'll get them for you. Make yourself + comfortable in front of the fire till I come back. Here's the paper. (He + gives his uncle the paper, and goes out into the hall.) + </p> + *** + <p> + (JAMES opens his eyes with a start and looks round him in a bewildered + way. He rubs his heart, takes out his match and looks at it, and then + stares round the room again. The door from the dining-room opens, and + PHILIP comes in with a piece of toast in his hand.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (his mouth full). You wanted to see me, Uncle James? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (still bewildered). That's all right, my boy, that's all right. + What have you been doing? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (surprised). Breakfast. (Putting the last piece in his mouth) + Rather late, I'm afraid. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. That's all right. (He laughs awkwardly.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Anything the matter? You don't look your usual bright self. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I—er—seem to have dropped asleep in front of the + fire. Most unusual thing for me to have done. Most unusual. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Let that be a lesson to you not to get up so early. Of course, + if you're in the Army you can't help yourself. Thank Heaven I'm out of + it, and my own master again. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Ah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sit down, Philip. + (He indicates the chair by the fire.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (taking a chair by the table). You have that, uncle; I shall be + all right here. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (hastily). No, no; you come here. (He gives PHILIP the armchair + and sits by the table himself.) I should be dropping off again. (He + laughs awkwardly.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Righto. (He puts his hand to his pocket. UNCLE JAMES shivers and + looks at him to horror. PHILIP brings out his pipe, and a sickly grin of + relief comes into JAMES'S face.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES. I suppose you smoked a lot in France? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Rather! Nothing else to do. It's allowed in here? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (hastily). Yes, yes, of course. (PHILIP lights his pipe.) Well + now, Philip, what are you going to do, now you've left the Army? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (promptly). Burn my uniform and sell my revolver. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (starting at the word "revolver"). Sell your revolver, eh? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (surprised). Well, I don't want it now, do I? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. No.... Oh no.... Oh, most certainly not, I should say. Oh, I + can't see why you should want it at all. (With an uneasy laugh) You're + in England now. No need for revolvers here—eh? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (staring at him). Well, no, I hope not. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (hastily). Quite so. Well now, Philip, what next? We must find a + profession for you. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (yawning). I suppose so. I haven't really thought about it much. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. You never wanted to be an architect? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (surprised). Architect? (JAMES rubs his head and wonders what + made him think of architect.) + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Or anything like that. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. It's a bit late, isn't it? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Well, if you're four years behind, so is everybody else. (He + feels vaguely that he has heard this argument before.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (smiling): To tell the truth, I don't feel I mind much anyway. + Anything you like—except a commissionaire. I absolutely refuse to + wear uniform again. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. How would you like to come into the business? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. The jam business? Well, I don't know. You wouldn't want me to + salute you in the mornings? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. My dear boy, no! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. All right, I'll try it if you like. I don't know if I shall be + any good—what do you do? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. It's your experience in managing and—er—handling men + which I hope will be of value. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Oh, I can do that all right. (Stretching himself luxuriously) + Uncle James, do you realize that I'm never going to salute again, or + wear a uniform, or get wet—really wet, I mean—or examine + men's feet, or stand to attention when I'm spoken to, or—oh, lots + more things. And best of all, I'm never going to be frightened again. + Have you ever known what it is to be afraid—really afraid? + </p> + <p> + JAMES (embarrassed). I—er—well—(He coughs.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. No, you couldn't—not really afraid of death, I mean. Well, + that's over now. Good lord! I could spend the rest of my life in the + British Museum and be happy.... + </p> + <p> + JAMES (getting up). All right, we'll try you in the office. I expect you + want a holiday first, though. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (getting up). My dear uncle, this is holiday. Being in London is + holiday. Buying an evening paper—wearing a waistcoat again—running + after a bus—anything—it's all holiday. + </p> + <p> + JAMES. All right, then, come along with me now, and I'll introduce you + to Mr. Bamford. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Right. Who's he? + </p> + <p> + JAMES. Our manager. A little stiff, but a very good fellow. He'll be + delighted to hear that you are coming into the firm. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (smiling). Perhaps I'd better bring my revolver, in case he + isn't. + </p> + <p> + JAMES (laughing with forced heartiness as they go together to the door). + Ha, ha! A good joke that! Ha, ha, ha! A good joke—but only a joke, + of course. Ha, ha! He, he, he! + </p> + <p> + [PHILIP goes out. JAMES, following him, turns at the door, and looks + round the room in a bewildered way. Was it a dream, or wasn't it? He + will never be quite certain.] + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BELINDA + </h2> + <h3> + An April Folly in Three Acts + </h3> + CHARACTERS +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BELINDA TREMAYNE. + DELIA (her daughter). + HAROLD BAXTER. + CLAUDE DEVENISH. + JOHN TREMAYNE. + BETTY. +</pre> + <p> + The action takes place in Belinda's country-house in Devonshire at the + end of April. + </p> + <p> + This play was first produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre, + London, on April 8, 1918, with the following cast: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Belinda Tremayne—IRENE VANBRUGH. + Delia—ISOBEL ELSOM. + Harold Baxter—DION BOUCICAULT. + Claude Devenish—DENNIS NEILSON-TERRY. + John Tremayne—BEN WEBSTER. + Betty—ANNE WALDEN. +</pre> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + <p> + [It is a lovely April afternoon—a foretaste of summer—in + BELINDA'S garden.] + </p> + <p> + [BETTY, a middle-aged servant, is fastening a hammock—its first + appearance this year—between two trees at the back. In front of + these there is a solid oak garden-table, with a comfortable chair on the + right of it and a straight-backed one on the left. There are books, + papers, and magazines on the table. BELINDA, of whom we shall know more + presently, is on the other side of the open windows which look on to the + garden, talking to BETTY.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (from inside the house). Are you sure you're tying it up tightly + enough, Betty? + </p> + <p> + BETTY (coming to front of hammock). Yes, ma'am; I think it's firm. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Because I'm not the fairy I used to be. + </p> + <p> + BETTY (trying the knots at the other end of the hammock). Yes, ma'am; + it's quite firm this end too. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. It's not the ends I'm frightened of; it's the middle where the + weight's coming. (She comes into the garden.) It looks very nice. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (trying the middle of it with her hand). I asked them at the + Stores if they were quite <i>sure</i> it would bear me, and they said it + would take anything up to—I forget how many tons. I know I thought + it was rather rude of them. (Looking at it anxiously) How does one get + in? So trying to be a sailor! + </p> + <p> + BETTY. I think you sit in it, ma'am, and then (explaining with her + hands) throw your legs over. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I see. (She sits gingerly in the hammock, and then, with a + sudden flutter of white, does what BETTY suggests.) Yes. (Regretfully.) + I'm afraid that was rather wasted on you, Betty. We must have some + spectators next time. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Cushions. (She arranges them at her back with BETTY'S help. + With a sigh of comfort) There! Now then, Betty, about callers. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. If Mr. Baxter calls—he is the rather prim gentleman— + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am; the one who's been here several times before. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (giving BETTY a quick look). Yes. Well, if he calls, you'll say, + "Not at home." + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. He will say, "Oh—er—oh—er—really." Then + you'll smile very sweetly and say, "I beg your pardon, was it Mr. <i>Baxter</i>?" + And he'll say, "Yes!" and you'll say, "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; <i>this</i> + way, please." + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. That's right, Betty. Well now, if Mr. Devenish calls—he + is the rather poetical gentleman— + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am; the one who's always coming here. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with a pleased smile). Yes. Well, if he calls you'll say, "Not + at home." + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. He'll immediately throw down his bunch of flowers and dive + despairingly into the moat. You'll stop him, just as he is going in, and + say, "I beg your pardon, sir, was it Mr. <i>Devenish</i>?" And he will + say, "Yes!" and you will say, "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; <i>this</i> + way, please." + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. And suppose they both call together? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. We won't suppose anything so exciting, Betty. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. No, ma'am. And suppose any other gentleman calls? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with a sigh). There aren't any other gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. It might be a clergyman, come to ask for a subscription like. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. If it's a clergyman, Betty, I shall—I shall want your + assistance out of the hammock first. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. That's all. To anybody else I'm not at home. (Trying to secure + book on table and nearly falling out of the hammock.) Oh, just give me + that little green book. (Pointing to books on the table.) The one at the + bottom there—that's the one. (BETTY gives it to her.) Thank you. + (Reading the title.) "The Lute of Love," by Claude Devenish. (To herself + as she turns the pages.) It doesn't seem much for half-a-crown when you + think of the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>. ... Lute... Lute.... I should have + quite a pretty mouth if I kept on saying that. (With a great deal of + expression.) Lute! (She pats her mouth back.) + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Is that all, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. That's all. (BETTY prepares to go.) Oh, what am I thinking of! + (Waving to the table.) I want that review; I think it's the blue one. + (As BETTY begins to look.) It has an article by Mr. Baxter on the "Rise + of Lunacy in the Eastern Counties"—yes, that's the one. I'd better + have that too; I'm just at the most exciting place. You shall have it + after <i>me, </i>Betty. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Is that all, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, that really is all. + </p> + <p> + [BETTY goes into the house.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (reading to herself). "It is a matter of grave concern to all + serious students of social problems—" (Putting the review down in + hammock and shaking her head gently.) But not in April. (Lazily opening + the book and reading.) "Tell me where is love"—well, that's the + question, isn't it? (She puts the book down, gives a sigh of happiness, + and lazily closes her eyes. DELIA comes into the garden, from Paris. She + is decidedly a modern girl, pretty and self-possessed. Her hair is + half-way up; waiting for her birthday, perhaps. She sees her mother + suddenly, stops, and then goes on tiptoe to the head of the hammock. She + smiles and kisses her mother on the forehead. BELINDA, looking supremely + unconscious, goes on sleeping. DELIA kisses her lightly again. BELINDA + wakes up with an extraordinarily natural start, and is just about to + say, "Oh, Mr. Devenish—you mustn't!"—when she sees DELIA.) + Delia! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Well, mummy, aren't you glad to see me? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. My darling child! (They kiss each other frantically.) + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Say you're glad. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (sitting up). My darling, I'm absolutely—Hold the hammock + while I get out, dear; we don't want an accident. (Getting out with + DELIA'S help) They're all right when you're there, and they'll bear two + tons, but they're horrid getting in and out of. (Kissing her again) + Darling, it really <i>is</i> you? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, it is jolly seeing you again. I believe you were asleep. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with dignity). Certainly not, child. I was reading "The + Nineteenth Century"—(with an air)—and after. (Earnestly) + Darling, wasn't it next Thursday you were coming back? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. No, this Thursday, silly. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (penitently). Oh, my darling, and I was going over to Paris to + bring you home. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I half expected you. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. So confusing their both being called Thursday. And you were + leaving school for the very last time. If you don't forgive me, Delia, I + shall cry. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (stroking her hand fondly). Silly mother! + </p> + <p> + (BELINDA sits down in a basket chair and DELIA sits on a table next to + her.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Isn't it a lovely day for April, darling! I've wanted to say + that to somebody all day, and you're the first person who's given me the + chance. Oh, I said it to Betty, but she only said, "Yes, ma'am." + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Poor mother! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (jumping up suddenly and kissing DELIA again). I simply must + have another one. And to think that you're never going back to school + any more. (Looking at her fondly) Darling, you <i>are</i> looking + pretty. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Am I? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Lovely. (Going back to her seat) And now you're going to stay + with me for just as long as you want a mother. (Anxiously) Darling, you + didn't mind being sent away to school, did you? It <i>is</i> the usual + thing, you know. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Silly mother! of course it is. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (relieved). I'm so glad you think so too. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Have you been very lonely without me? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Very. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (holding up a finger). The truth, mummy! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I've missed you horribly, Delia. (Primly.) The absence of + female companionship of the requisite— + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Are you really all alone? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (smiling mysteriously). Well, not always, of course. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (excitedly, at she slips off the table). Mummy, I believe you're + being bad again. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Really, darling, you forget that I'm old enough to be—in + fact, am—your mother. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (nodding her head). You are being bad. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (rising with dignity and drawing herself up to her full height). + My child, that is not the way to—Oh, I say, what a lot taller I am + than you! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. And prettier. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (fluttering her eyelids). Oh, do you think so? (Firmly) Don't be + silly, child. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (holding up a finger). Now tell me all that's been happening here + at once. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with a sigh). And I was just going to ask you how you were + getting on with your French. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Bother French! You've been having a much more interesting time + than I have, so you've got to tell. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with a happy sigh). O-oh! (She sinks back into her chair.) + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Is it like the Count at Scarborough? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (surprised and pained). My darling, what <i>do</i> you mean? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Don't you remember the Count who kept proposing to you at + Scarborough? I do. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (reproachfully). Dear one, you were the merest child, paddling + about on the beach and digging castles. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (smiling to herself). I was old enough to notice the Count. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (sadly). And I'd bought her a perfectly new spade! How one + deceives oneself! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. And then there was the M.P. who proposed at Windermere. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, dear, but it wasn't seconded—I mean he never got + very far with it. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. And the artist in Wales. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Darling child, what a memory you have. No wonder your teachers + are pleased with you. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (settling herself comfortably). Now tell me all about this one. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (meekly). Which one? + </p> + <p> + DELIA (excitedly). Oh, are there lots? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (severely). Only two. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Two! You abandoned woman! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. It's something in the air, darling. I've never been in + Devonshire in April before. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Is it really serious this time? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (pained). I wish you wouldn't say <i>this</i> time, Delia. It + sounds so unromantic. If you'd only put it into French—<i>cette + fois</i>—it sounds so much better. <i>Cette fois</i>. + (Parentally.) When one's daughter has just returned from an expensive + schooling in Paris, one likes to feel— + </p> + <p> + DELIA. What I meant, dear, was, am I to have a stepfather at last? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Now you're being <i>too</i> French, darling. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Why, do you still think father may be alive? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Why not? It's only eighteen years since he left us, and he was + quite a young man then. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Yes, but surely you'd have heard from him in all those years, if + he'd been alive? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, he hasn't heard from <i>me, </i>and I'm still alive. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (looking earnestly at her mother). I shall never understand it. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Understand what? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Were you as heavenly when you were young as you are now? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (rapturously). Oh, I was sweet! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. And yet he left you after only six months. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (rather crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep on saying he left me. + I left him too. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Why? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (smiling to herself). Well, you see, he was quite certain he + knew how to manage women, and I was quite certain I knew how to manage + men. (Thoughtfully.) If only one of us had been certain, it would have + been all right. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (seriously). What really happened, mummy? I'm grown up now, so I + think you ought to tell me. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (thoughtfully). That was about all, you know... except for his + beard. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Had he a beard? How funny! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, dear, it was; but he never would see it. He took it quite + seriously. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. And did you say dramatically, "If you really loved me, you'd take + it off"? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (apologetically). I'm afraid I did, darling. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. And what did <i>he</i> say? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. He said—<i>very</i> rudely—that, if I loved <i>him</i>, + I'd do my hair in a different way. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. How ridiculous! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (touching her hair). Of course, I didn't do it like this then. + (With a sigh.) I suppose we never ought to have married, really. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Why did you? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Mother rather wanted it. (Solemnly.) Delia, never get married + because your mother—Oh, I forgot; <i>I'm</i> your mother. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. And I don't want a better one.... And so you left each other? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. But, darling, didn't you tell him there was going to be a Me? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh no! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I wonder why not? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, you see, if I had, he might have wanted to stay. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. But— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (hurt). If he didn't want to stay for <i>me</i>, I didn't want + him to stay for <i>you</i>. (Penitently.) Forgive me, darling, but I + didn't know you very well then. (DELIA jumps off the table and hugs her + mother impetuously.) We've been very happy together, haven't we? + </p> + <p> + DELIA (going back to her seat). I should think we have. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I don't want to deny you anything, and, of course, if you'd + like a stepfather (looking down modestly) or two— + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, you <i>have</i> been enjoying yourself. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Only you see how awkward it would be if Jack turned up in the + middle of the wedding, like—like Eugene Aram. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Enoch Arden, darling. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. It's very confusing their having the same initials. Perhaps I'd + better call them both E. A. in future and then I shall be safe. Well, + anyhow it would be awkward, darling, wouldn't it? Not that I should know + him from Adam after all these years—except for a mole on his left + arm. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Perhaps Adam had a mole. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. No, darling; you're thinking of Noah. He had two. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (thoughtfully). I wonder what would happen if you met somebody + whom you really did fall in love with? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (reproachfully). Now you're being serious, and it's April. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Aren't these two—the present two—serious? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh no! They think they are, but they aren't a bit, really. + Besides, I'm doing them such a lot of good. I'm sure they'd hate to + marry me, but they love to think they're in love with me, and—<i>I</i> + love it, and—and <i>they</i> love it, and—and we <i>all</i> + love it. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. You really are the biggest, darlingest baby who ever lived. + (Kisses her.) Do say I shan't spoil your lovely times. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (surprised). Spoil them? Why, you'll make them more lovely than + ever. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Well, but do they know you have a grown-up daughter? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (suddenly realizing). Oh! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. It doesn't really matter, because you don't look a day more than + thirty. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (absently). No. (Hurriedly.) I mean, how sweet of you—only— + </p> + <p> + DELIA. What! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (playing with her rings). Well, one of them, Mr. Baxter—Harold—(she + looks quickly up at DELIA and down again in pretty affectation, but she + is really laughing at herself all the time) he writes statistical + articles for the Reviews—percentages and all those things. He's + just the sort of man, if he knew that I was your mother, to work it out + that I was more than thirty. The other one, Mr. Devenish—Claude—(she + looks up and down as before) he's rather, rather poetical. He thinks I + came straight from heaven—last week. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (jumping up). I think <i>I'd</i> better go straight back to Paris. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (jumping up and catching her firmly by the arms). You will do + nothing of the sort. You will take off that hat—(she lets go of + the arm and begins to take out the pin) which is a perfect duck, and I + don't know why I didn't say so before—(she puts the hat down on + the table) and let me take a good look at you (she does so), and kiss + you (she does so), and then we'll go to your room and unpack and have a + lovely talk about clothes. And then we'll have tea. + </p> + <p> + [BETTY comes in.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And now here's Betty coming in to upset all our delightful + plans, just when we've made them. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. How are you, Betty? I've left school. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Very nicely, thank you, miss. You've grown. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (patting the top of DELIA'S head). I'm much taller than she + is.... Well, Betty, what is it? + </p> + <p> + BETTY. The two gentlemen, Mr. Baxter and Mr. Devenish, have both called + together, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (excited). Oh! How—how very simultaneous of them! + </p> + <p> + DELIA (eagerly). Oh, do let me see them! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Darling, you'll see plenty of them before you've finished. (To + BETTY) What have you done with them? + </p> + <p> + BETTY. They're waiting in the hall, ma'am, while I said I would see if + you were at home. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. All right, Betty. Give me two minutes and then show them out + here. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, ma'am. [Exit.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. They can't do much harm to each other in two minutes. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (taking her hat). Well, I'll go and unpack. You really won't mind + my coming down afterwards? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Of course not. (A little awkwardly) Darling one, I wonder if + you'd mind—just at first—being introduced as my niece. You + see, I expect they're in a bad temper already, having come here + together, and we don't want to spoil their day entirely. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (smiling). I'll be your mother if you like. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh no, that wouldn't do, because then Mr. Baxter would feel + that he ought to ask your permission before paying his attentions to me. + He's just that sort of man. A niece is so safe—however good you + are at statistics, you can't really prove anything. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. All right, mummy. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (enjoying herself). You'd like to be called by a different name, + wouldn't you? There's something so thrilling about taking a false name. + Such a lot of adventures begin like that. How would you like to be Miss + Robinson, darling? It's a nice easy one to remember. (Persuasively.) And + you shall put your hair up so as to feel more disguised. What fun we're + going to have! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. You baby! All right, then, I'm Miss Robinson, your favourite + niece. (She moves towards the house.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How sweet of you! Oh, I'm coming with you to do your hair. You + don't think you're going to be allowed to do it yourself, when so much + depends on it, and husbands leave you because of it, and—[They do + in together.] + </p> + <p> + [BETTY comes from the other side of the house into the garden, followed + by MR. BAXTER and MR. DEVENISH. MR. BAXTER is forty-five, prim and + erect, with close-trimmed moustache and side-whiskers. His clothes are + dark and he wears a bowler-hat. MR. DEVENISH is a long-haired, + good-looking boy in a négligé costume; perhaps twenty-two years old, and + very scornful of the world.] + </p> + <p> + BETTY (looking about her surprised). The mistress was here a moment ago. + I expect she'll be back directly, if you'll just wait. [She goes back + into the house.] + </p> + <p> + (MR. BAXTER puts his bowler-hat firmly on his head and sits down very + stiffly and upright in a chair on the left-hand side of the table. + DEVENISH throws his felt hat on to the table and walks about + inquisitively. He sees the review in the hammock and picks it up.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Good heavens, Baxter, she's been reading your article! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I dare say she's not the only one. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. That's only guesswork (going to back of table); you don't know + of anyone else. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. How many people, may I ask, have bought your poems? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (loftily). I don't write for the mob. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I think I may say that of my own work. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Baxter, I don't want to disappoint you, but I have reluctantly + come to the conclusion that you <i>are</i> one of the mob. (Annoyed.) + Dash it! what are you doing in the country at all in a bowler-hat? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. If I wanted to be personal, I could say, "Why don't you get your + hair cut?" Only that form of schoolboy humour doesn't appeal to me. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. This is not a personal matter; I am protesting on behalf of + nature. What do the birds and the flowers and the beautiful trees think + of your hat? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. If one began to ask oneself what the birds thought of things—(He + pauses.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Well, and why shouldn't one ask oneself? It is better than + asking oneself what the Stock Exchange thinks of things. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Well (looking up at DEVENISH'S extravagant hair), it's the + nesting season. Your hair! (Suddenly.) Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (hastily smoothing it down). Really, Baxter, you're vulgar. (He + turns away and resumes his promenading. Suddenly he sees his book on the + grass beneath the hammock and makes a dash for it.) Ha, my book! + (Gloating over it) Baxter, she reads my book. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I suppose you gave her a copy. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (exultingly). Yes, I gave her a copy. My next book will be hers + and hers alone. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Then let me say that, in my opinion, you took a very great + liberty. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Liberty! And this from a man who is continually forcing his + unwelcome statistics upon her. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. At any rate, I flatter myself that there is no suggestion of + impropriety in anything that <i>I</i> write. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I'm not so sure about that, Baxter. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. What do you mean, sir? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Did you read <i>The Times</i> this month on the new reviews! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Well! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Oh, nothing. It just said, "Mr. Baxter's statistics are + extremely suggestive." I haven't read them, so of course I don't know + what you've been up to. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (turning away in disgust). Pah! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Poor old Baxter! (He wanders about the garden again, and, + having picked a flower, comes to rest against one of the trees from + which the hammock is swung. He leans against this and regards the flower + thoughtfully.) Baxter— + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep calling me "Baxter." + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Harold. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. It is only by accident—an accident which we both deplore—that + we have met at all, and in any case I am a considerably older man than + yourself. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Mr. Baxter—father—I have a proposal to make. We + will leave it to this beautiful flower to decide which of us the lady + loves. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (turning round). Eh? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (pulling off the petals). She loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter, + she loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter—Heaven help her!—she + loves me— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (at the garden door.). What <i>are</i> you doing, Mr. Devenish! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (throwing away the flower and bowing very low). My lady. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (removing his bowler-hat stiffly). Good afternoon, Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + (She gives her left hand to DEVENISH, who kisses it, and her right to + BAXTER, who shakes it.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How nice of you both to come! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Mr. Devenish and I are inseparable—apparently. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. You haven't told me what you were doing, Mr. Devenish. Was it + "This year, next year?" or "Silk, satin—" + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. My lady, it was even more romantic than that. I have the + honour to announce to your ladyship that Mr. Baxter is to be a sailor. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (to BAXTER). Doesn't he talk nonsense? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. He'll grow out of it. I did. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, I hope not. I love talking nonsense, and I'm ever so old. + (As they both start forward to protest) Now which one of you will say it + first? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. You are as old as the stars and as young as the dawn. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. You are ten years younger than I am. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. What sweet things to say! I don't know which I like best. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Where will my lady sit? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I will recline in the hammock, an it please thee, my lord—only + it's rather awkward getting in, Mr. Baxter. Perhaps you'd both better + look at the tulips for a moment. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Oh—ah—yes. (He puts his hat on and turns his back to + the hammock.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (leaning over her). If only— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. You'd better not say anything, Mr. Devenish. Keep it for your + next volume. (He turns away.) One, two, three—that was better than + last time. (They turn round to see her safely in the hammock. DEVENISH + leans against the tree at her feet, and BAXTER draws the chair from the + right side of the table and turns it round towards her. He presses his + hat more firmly on and sits down.) I wonder if either of you can guess + what I've been reading this afternoon! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (looking at her lovingly). I know. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (giving him a fleeting look). How did you know? (to BAXTER). + Yes, Mr. Baxter, it was your article I was reading. If you'd come five + minutes earlier you'd have found me wrestling—I mean revelling in + it. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I am very greatly honoured, Mrs. Tremayne. Ah—it seemed to + me a very interesting curve showing the rise and fall of— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I hadn't got up to the curves. They <i>are</i> interesting, + aren't they? They are really more in Mr. Devenish's line. (To DEVENISH.) + Mr. Devenish, it was a great disappointment to me that all the poems in + your book seemed to be written to somebody else. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. It was before I met you, lady. They were addressed to the + goddess of my imagination. It is only in these last few weeks that I + have discovered her. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And discovered she was dark and not fair. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. She will be dark in my next volume. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, how nice of her! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (kindly). You should write a real poem to Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (excitedly). Oh do! "To Belinda." I don't know what rhymes, + except cinder. You could say your heart was like a cinder—all + burnt up. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (pained). Oh, my lady, I'm afraid that is a cockney rhyme. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How thrilling! I've never been to Hampstead Heath. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. "Belinda." It is far too beautiful to rhyme with anything but + itself. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Fancy! But what about Tremayne? (Singing.) Oh, I am Mrs. + Tremayne, and I don't want to marry again. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (protesting). My lady! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (protesting). Belinda! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (pointing excitedly to BAXTER). There, that's the first time + he's called me Belinda! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Are you serious? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Not as a rule. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. You're not going to marry again? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, who could I marry? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH and BAXTER (together). Me! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (dropping her eyes modestly). But this is England. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the right of age—of my greater + years—to speak first. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Mrs. Tremayne, I— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (kindly to DEVENISH). You can speak afterwards, Mr. Devenish. + It's so awkward when you both speak together. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am a man of substantial position, and perhaps I + may say of some repute in serious circles. All that I have, whether of + material or mental endowment, I lay at your feet, together with an + admiration which I cannot readily put into words. As my wife I think you + would be happy, and I feel that with you by my side I could achieve even + greater things. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How sweet of you! But I ought to tell you that I'm no good at + figures. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (protesting). My lady— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I don't mean what you mean, Mr. Devenish. You wait till it's + your turn. (To BAXTER.) Yes? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I ask you to marry me, Belinda. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (settling herself happily and closing her eyes). O-oh!... Now + it's <i>your</i> turn, Mr. Devenish. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (excitedly). Money—thank Heaven, I have no money. + Reputation—thank Heaven, I have no reputation. What can I offer + you? Dreams—nothing but dreams. Come with me and I will show you + the world through my dreams. What can I give you? Youth, freedom, beauty— + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Debts. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). You mustn't interrupt, Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Belinda, marry me and I will open your eyes to the beauty of + the world. Come to me! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (happily). O-oh! You've got such different ways of putting + things. How can I choose between you? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Then you will marry one of us? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. You know I really <i>oughtn't</i> to. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I don't see why not. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, there's just a little difficulty in the way. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. What is it? I will remove it. For you I could remove anything—yes, + even Baxter. (He looks at BAXTER, who is sitting more solidly than ever + in his chair.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And anyhow I should have to choose between you. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (in a whisper). Choose me. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (stiffly). Mrs. Tremayne does not require any prompting. A fair + field and let the best man win. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (going across to and slapping the astonished BAXTER on the + back). Aye, let the best man win! Well spoken, Baxter. (To BELINDA) Send + us out into the world upon some knightly quest, lady, and let the victor + be rewarded. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I—er—ought to say that I should be unable to go very + far. I have an engagement to speak at Newcastle on the 21st. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Baxter, I will take no unfair advantage of you. Let the beard + of the Lord Mayor of Newcastle be the talisman that my lady demands; I + am satisfied. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. This sort of thing is entirely contrary to my usual mode of + life, but I will not be outfaced by a mere boy. (Slapping his bowler-hat + on the table) I am prepared. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Speak, lady. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (speaking in a deep, mysterious voice). Gentlemen, ye put wild + thoughts into my head. In sooth, I am minded to send ye forth upon a + quest that is passing strange. Know ye that there is a maid journeyed + hither, hight Robinson—whose—(in her natural voice) what's + the old for aunt? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (hopefully). Mother's sister. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. You know, I think I shall have to explain this in ordinary + language. You won't mind very much, will you, Mr. Devenish? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. It is the spirit of this which matters, not the language which + clothes it. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad you think so. Well, now about Miss Robinson. + She's my niece and she's just come to stay with me, and—poor girl—she's + lost her father. Absolutely lost him. He disappeared ever such a long + time ago, and poor Miss Robinson—Delia—naturally wants to + find him. Poor girl! she can't think where he is. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (nobly). I will find him. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, thank you, Mr. Devenish; Miss Robinson would be so much + obliged. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes—er—but what have we to go upon? Beyond the fact + that his name is Robinson— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I shouldn't go on that too much. You see, he may easily have + changed it by now. He was never very much of a Robinson. Nothing to do + with Peter or any of those. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I will find him. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Well, can you tell us what he's like? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, it's such a long time since I saw him. (Looking down + modestly.) Of course, I was quite a girl then. The only thing I know for + certain is that he has a mole on his left arm about here. (She indicates + a spot just below the elbow.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (folding his arms and looking nobly upwards). I will find him. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I am bound to inform you, Mrs. Tremayne, that even a trained + detective could not give you very much hope in such a case. However, I + will keep a look-out for him, and, of course, if— + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Fear not, lady, I will find him. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (annoyed). Yes, you keep on saying that, but what have you got to + go on? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (grandly). Faith! The faith which moves mountains. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, and this is only just one small mole-hill, Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes, but still— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. S'sh! here is Miss Robinson. If Mr. Devenish will hold the + hammock while I alight—we don't want an accident—I can + introduce you. (He helps her to get out.) Thank you. Delia darling, this + is Mr. Baxter,—and Mr. Devenish. My niece, Miss Robinson— + </p> + <p> + DELIA. How do you do? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Miss Robinson has just come over from France. <i>Mon Dieu, quel + pays!</i> + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I hope you had a good crossing, Miss Robinson. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, I never mind about the crossing. Aunt Belinda—(She + stops and smiles.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, dear? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I believe tea is almost ready. I want mine, and I'm sure Mr. + Baxter's hungry. Mr. Devenish scorns food, I expect. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (hurt). Why do you say that? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Aren't you a poet? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, darling, but that doesn't prevent him eating. He'll be + absolutely lyrical over Betty's sandwiches. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. You won't deny me that inspiration, I hope, Miss Robinson. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, let's go and see what they're like. (DELIA and DEVENISH + begin to move towards the house.) Mr. Baxter, just a moment. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must be a + surprise for her. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Quite so, I understand. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. That's right. (Raising her voice.) Oh, Mr. Devenish. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Yes, Mrs. Tremayne? (He comes back.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must be a + surprise for her. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Of course! I shouldn't dream—(Indignantly.) Robinson! <i>What</i> + an unsuitable name! + </p> + <p> + [BAXTER <i>and</i> DELIA <i>are</i> just going into the house.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (dismissing DEVENISH). All right, I'll catch you up. + </p> + <p> + [DEVENISH goes after the other two.] + </p> + <p> + (Left alone, BELINDA <i>laughs happily</i> to herself, and then begins + to look rather aimlessly about her. She picks up her sunshade and opens + it. She comes to the hammock, picks out her handkerchief, says, "Ah, + there you are!" and puts it away. She goes slowly towards the house, + turns her head just as she comes to the door, and comes slowly back + again. She stops at the table looking down the garden.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (to herself). Have you lost yourself, or something? No; the + latch is this side.... Yes, that's right. + </p> + <p> + [TREMAYNE comes in. He has been knocking about the world for eighteen + years, and is very much a man, though he has kept his manners. His hair + is greying a little at the sides, and he looks the forty-odd that he is. + Without his moustache and beard he is very different from the boy + BELINDA married.] + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (with his hat in his hand). I'm afraid I'm trespassing. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (winningly). But it's such a pretty garden (turns away, dosing + her parasol), isn't it? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (rather confused). I-I beg your pardon, I-er—(He is + wondering if it can possibly be she. BELINDA thinks his confusion is due + to the fact that he is trespassing, and hastens to put him at his ease.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I should have done the same myself, you know. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (pulling himself together). Oh, but you mustn't think I just + came in because I liked the garden— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (clapping her hands). No; but say you do like it, quick. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. It's lovely and—(He hesitates.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (hopefully). Yes? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (with conviction). Yes, it's lovely. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with that happy sigh of hers). O-oh!... Now tell me what really + did happen? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I was on my way to Marytown— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. To where? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Marytown. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, you mean Mariton. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Do I? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes; we always call it Mariton down here. (Earnestly.) You + don't mind, do you? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (smiling). Not a bit. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Just say it—to see if you've got it right. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Mariton. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (shaking her head). Oh no, that's quite wrong. Try it again + (With a rustic accent.) Mariton. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Mariton. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, that's much better.... (As if it were he who had + interrupted.) Well, do go on. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I'm afraid it isn't much of an apology really. I saw what + looked like a private road, but what I rather hoped wasn't, and—well, + I thought I'd risk it. I do hope you'll forgive me. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, but I love people seeing my garden. Are you staying in + Mariton? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I think so. Oh yes, decidedly. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, perhaps the next time the road won't feel so private. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. How charming of you! (He feels he must know.) Are you Mrs. + Tremayne by any chance? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (nodding to himself). Yes. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How did you know? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (hastily inventing). They use you as a sign-post in the + village. Past Mrs. Tremayne's house and then bear to the left— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And you couldn't go past it? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I'm afraid I couldn't. Thank you so much for not minding. + Well, I must be getting on, I have trespassed quite enough. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (regretfully). And you haven't really seen the garden yet. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. If you won't mind my going on this way, I shall see some more + on my way out. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Please do. It likes being looked at. (With the faintest + suggestion of demureness) All pretty things do. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Thank you very much. Er—(He hesitates.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (helpfully). Yes? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I wonder if you'd mind very much if I called one day to thank + you formally for the lesson you gave me in pronunciation? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (gravely). Yes. I almost think you ought to. I think it's the + correct thing to do. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (contentedly). Thank you very much, Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. You'll come in quite formally by the front-door next time, + won't you, because—because that seems the only chance of my + getting to know your name. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Oh, I beg your pardon. My name is—er—er—Robinson. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (laughing). How very odd! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (startled). Odd? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes; we have someone called Robinson staying in the house. I + wonder if she is any relation? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (hastily). Oh no, no. No, she couldn't be. I have no relations + called Robinson—not to speak of. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (holding out her hand). You must tell me all about your + relations when you come and call, Mr. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I think we can find something better worth talking about than + that. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Do you think so? (He says "Yes" with his eyes, bows, and goes + off down the garden. BELINDA stays looking after him, then gives that + happy sigh of hers, only even more so) O-oh! + </p> + <p> + [Enter BETTY.] + </p> + <p> + BETTY. If you please, ma'am, Miss Delia says, are you coming in to tea? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (looking straight in front of her, and taking no notice of + BETTY, in a happy, dreamy voice). Betty,... about callers.... If Mr. + Robinson calls—he's the handsome gentleman who hasn't been here + before—you will say, "Not at home." And he will say, "Oh!" And you + will say, "I beg your pardon, sir, was it Mr. <i>Robinson</i>?" And he + will say, "Yes!" And you will say, "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir—" + (Almost as if she were BETTY, she begins to move towards the house.) + "This way—" (she would be smiling an invitation over her shoulder + to MR. ROBINSON, if he were there, and she were BETTY)—"please!" + (And the abandoned woman goes in to tea.) + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> + <p> + [It is morning in BELINDA'S hall, a low-roofed, oak-beamed place, + comfortably furnished as a sitting-room. There is an inner and an outer + front-door, both of which are open.] + </p> + <p> + [DEVENISH, who has just rung the bell, is waiting with a bouquet of + violets between the two. Midway on the right is a door leading to a + small room where hats and coats are kept. A door on the left leads + towards the living-rooms.] + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Good morning, sir. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Good morning. I am afraid this is an unceremonious hour for a + call, but my sense of beauty urged me hither in defiance of convention. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (holding up his bouquet to BETTY). See, the dew is yet + lingering upon them; how could I let them wait until this afternoon? + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Yes, sir; but I think the mistress is out. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. They are not for your mistress; they are for Miss Delia. + </p> + <p> + BETTY. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. If you will come in, I'll see if I + can find her. (She brings him in and goes away to find DELIA.) + </p> + <p> + (DEVENISH tries a number of poses about the room for himself and his + bouquet, and finally selects one against the right side of the door by + which he has just come in.) + </p> + <p> + [Enter DELIA from the door on the left.] + </p> + <p> + DELIA (shutting the door and going <i>to</i> DEVENISH). Oh, good + morning, Mr. Devenish. I'm afraid my—er—aunt is out. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I know, Miss Delia, I know. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. She'll be so sorry to have missed you. It is her day for you, + isn't it? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Her day for me? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Yes; Mr. Baxter generally comes to-morrow, doesn't he? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Miss Delia, if our friendship is to progress at all, it can + only be on the distinct understanding that I take no interest whatever + in Mr. Baxter's movements. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, I'm so sorry; I thought you knew. What lovely flowers! Are + they for my aunt? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. To whom does one bring violets? To modest, shrinking, tender + youth. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I don't think we have anybody here like that. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (with a bow). Miss Delia, they are for you. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, how nice of you! But I'm afraid I oughtn't to take them from + you under false pretences; I don't shrink. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. A fanciful way of putting it, perhaps. They are none the less + for you. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Well, it's awfully kind of you. I'm afraid I'm not a very + romantic person. Aunt Belinda does all the romancing in our family. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Your aunt is a very remarkable woman. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. She is. Don't you dare to say a word against her. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. My dear Miss Delia, nothing could be further from my thoughts. + Why, am I not indebted to her for that great happiness which has come to + me in these last few days? + </p> + <p> + DELIA (surprised). Good gracious! and I didn't know anything about it. + But what about poor Mr. Baxter? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (stiffly). I must beg that Mr. Baxter's name be kept out of our + conversation. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. But I thought Mr. Baxter and you—do tell me what's + happened. I seem to have lost myself. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. What has happened, Miss Delia, is that I have learnt at last + the secret that my heart has been striving to tell me for weeks past. As + soon as I saw that gracious lady, your aunt, I knew that I was in love. + Foolishly I took it for granted that it was she for whom my heart was + thrilling. How mistaken I was! Directly you came, you opened my eyes, + and now— + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Mr. Devenish, you don't say you're proposing to me? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I am. I feel sure I am. Delia, I love you. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. How exciting of you! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (with a modest shrug). It's nothing; I am a poet. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. You really want to marry me? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Such is my earnest wish. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. But what about my aunt? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (simply). She will be my aunt-in-law. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. She'll be rather surprised. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Delia, I will be frank with you. I admit that I made Mrs. + Tremayne an offer of marriage. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (excitedly). You really did? Was it that first afternoon I came? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, I wish I'd been there! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (with dignity). It is not my custom to propose in the presence + of a third party. It is true that on the occasion you mention a man + called Baxter was on the lawn, but I regarded him no more than the old + apple-tree or the flower-beds, or any other of the fixtures. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. What did she say? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. She accepted me conditionally. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, do tell me! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. It is rather an unhappy story. This man called Baxter in his + vulgar way also made a proposal of marriage. Mrs. Tremayne was gracious + enough to imply that she would marry whichever one of us fulfilled a + certain condition. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. How sweet of her! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. It is my earnest hope, Miss Delia, that the man called Baxter + will be the victor. As far as is consistent with honour, I shall + endeavour to let Mr. Baxter (banging the table with his hand) win. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. What was the condition? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. That I am not at liberty to tell. It is, I understand, to be a + surprise for you. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. How exciting!... Mr. Devenish, you have been very frank. May I be + equally so? (DEVENISH bows.) Why do you wear your hair so long? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (pleased). You have noticed it? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Well, yes, I have. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I wear it so to express my contempt for the conventions of + so-called society. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I always thought that people wore it very very short if they + despised the conventions of society. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I think that the mere fact that my hair annoys Mr. Baxter is + sufficient justification for its length. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. But if it annoys me too? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (heroically). It shall go. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (apologetically). I told you I wasn't a very romantic person, + didn't I? (Kindly.) You can always grow it again if you fall in love + with somebody else. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. That is cruel of you, Delia. I shall never fall in love again. + </p> + <p> + [Enter BELINDA in a hat.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Why, it's Mr. Devenish! How nice of you to come so early in the + morning! How is Mr. Baxter? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I do not know, Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (to DELIA). I got most of the things, Delia. (To DEVENISH.) "The + things," Mr. Devenish, is my rather stuffy way of referring to all the + delightful poems that you are going to eat to-night. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I am looking forward to it immensely, Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I do hope I've got all your and Mr. Baxter's favourite dishes. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I'm afraid Mr. Baxter and I are not likely to appreciate the + same things. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (coyly). Oh, Mr. Devenish! And you were so unanimous a few days + ago. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I think Mr. Devenish was referring entirely to things to eat. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I felt quite sad when I was buying the lamb cutlets. To think + that, only a few days before, they had been frisking about with their + mammas, and having poems written about them by Mr. Devenish. There! I'm + giving away the whole dinner. Delia, take him away before I tell him any + more. We must keep some surprises for him. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (to DEVENISH as she picks up the flowers). Come along, Mr. + Devenish. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (wickedly). Are those my flowers, Mr. Devenish? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (after a little hesitation, with a bow which might refer to + either of them). They are for the most beautiful lady in the land. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, how nice of you! + </p> + <p> + [DEVENISH follows DELIA out through the door on the left.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (unpinning her hat before a mirror). I suppose he means Delia—bless + them! (She gives a few pats to her hair and then walks about the room + singing softly to herself. She does to the front-door and looks happily + out into the garden. Suddenly she sees MR. BAXTER approaching. She + hurries back into a chair and pretends to be very busy reading.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (rather nervously). Er—may I come in, Mrs. Tremayne? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (dropping her book and turning round with a violent start). Oh, + Mr. Baxter, how you surprised me! (She puts her hand to her heart.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I must apologize for intruding upon you at this hour, Mrs. + Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (holding up her hand). Stop! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (startled). What? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I cannot let you come in like that. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (looking down at himself). Like what? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (dropping her eyes). You called me Belinda once. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (coming down to her). May I explain my position, Mrs. Tremayne? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Before you begin—have you been seeing my niece lately? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (surprised). No. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh! (Sweetly.) Please go on. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Why, is <i>she</i> lost too? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh no; I just—Do sit down. Let me put your hat down + somewhere for you. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (keeping it firmly in his hand, and sitting down on the sofa). It + will be all right here, thank you. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (returning to her chair). I'm dying to hear what you are going + to say. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. First as regards the use of your Christian name. I felt that, as + a man of honour, I could not permit myself to use it until I had + established my right over that of Mr. Devenish. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. All my friends call me Belinda. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. As between myself and Mr. Devenish the case is somewhat + different. Until one of us is successful over the other in the quest + upon which you have sent us, I feel that as far as possible we should + hold aloof from you. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (pleadingly). Just say "Belinda" once more, in case you're a + long time. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (very formally). Belinda. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How nicely you say it—Harold. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (half getting out of his seat). Mrs. Tremayne, I must not listen + to this. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (meekly). I won't offend again, Mr. Baxter. Please go on. Tell + me about the quest; are you winning? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I am progressing, Mrs. Tremayne. Indeed, I came here this + morning to acquaint you with the results of my investigations. Yesterday + I located a man called Robinson working upon a farm close by. I ventured + to ask him if he had any marks upon him by which he could be recognized. + He adopted a threatening attitude, and replied that if I wanted any he + could give me some. With the aid of half-a-crown I managed to placate + him. Putting my inquiry in another form, I asked if he had any moles. A + regrettable misunderstanding, which led to a fruitless journey to + another part of the village, was eventually cleared up, and on my return + I satisfied myself that this man was in no way related to your niece. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (admiringly). How splendid of you! Well, now, we know <i>he's</i> + not. (She holds up one finger.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes. In the afternoon I located another Mr. Robinson following + the profession of a carrier. My first inquiries led to a similar result, + with the exception that in this case Mr. Robinson carried his + threatening attitude so far as to take off his coat and roll up his + sleeves. Perceiving at once that he was not the man, I withdrew. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How brave you are! That makes two. (She holds up another + finger). It still leaves a good many. (Pleadingly.) Just call me Belinda + again. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (nervously). You mustn't tempt me, Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (penitently). I won't! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. To resume, then, my narrative. This morning I have heard of a + third Mr. Robinson. Whether there is actually any particular fortune + attached to the number three I cannot say for certain. It is doubtful + whether statistics would be found to support the popular belief. But one + likes to flatter oneself that in one's own case it may be true; and so— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And so the third Mr. Robinson—? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Something for which I cannot altogether account inspires me with + hope. He is, I have discovered, staying at Mariton. This afternoon I go + to look for him. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (to herself). Mariton! How funny! I wonder if it's the same one. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. What one? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, just one of the ones. (Gratefully.) Mr. Baxter, you are + doing all this for <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Pray do not mention it. I don't know if it's Devonshire, or the + time of the year, or the sort of atmosphere you create, Mrs. Tremayne, + but I feel an entirely different man. There is something in the air + which—yes, I shall certainly go over to Mariton this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (gravely). I have had the same feeling sometimes, Mr. Baxter. I + am not always the staid respectable matron which I appear to you to be. + Sometimes I—(She looks absently at the watch on her wrist.) Good + gracious! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (alarmed). What is it! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (looking anxiously from the door to him). Mr. Baxter, I'm going + to throw myself on your mercy. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. My dear Mrs. Tremayne— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (looking at her watch again). A strange man will be here + directly. He must not find you with me. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (rising, jealously). A man? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (excitedly). Yes, yes, a man! He is pursuing me with his + attentions. If he found you here, there would be a terrible scene. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I will defend you from him. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. No, no. He is a big man. He will—he will overpower you. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. But you—? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I can defend myself. I will send him away. But he must not find + you here. You must hide before he overpowers you. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (with dignity). I will withdraw if you wish it. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. No, not withdraw, hide. He might see you withdrawing. (Leading + the way to a door on the right) Quick, in here. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (embarrassed at the thought that this sort of thing really only + happens in a bedroom farce). I don't think I quite— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (reassuring him). It's perfectly respectable; it's where we keep + the umbrellas. (She takes him by the hand.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (still resisting). I'm not at all sure that I— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (earnestly). Oh, but don't you see what <i>trust</i> I'm putting + in you? Some people are so nervous about their umbrellas. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Well, of course, if you—but I don't see why I shouldn't + just slip out of the door before he comes. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (reproachfully). Of course, if you grudge me every little + pleasure—Quick! Here he is. + </p> + <p> + (She bundles him through the door, and with a sigh of happiness comes + back and looks at herself in the mirror. She goes to the front-door, + moves her hand to somebody in the distance, and comes into the hall + again. Seeing MR. BAXTER'S bowler hat on the sofa, she carries across to + his door, knocks, hands it to him, saying, "Your hat. S'sh!" and returns + to her chair. TREMAYNE comes in.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (at the door). It's no good your pretending to be surprised, + because you said I could come. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (welcoming him). But I can still be surprised that you wanted to + come. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE Oh no, you aren't. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (marking it off on her fingers). Just a little bit—that + much. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. It would be much more surprising if I hadn't come. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (sitting down on the sofa). It is a pretty garden, isn't it? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (sitting down next to her). You forget that I saw the garden + yesterday. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, but the things have grown so much since then. Let me see, + this is the third day you've been and we only met three days ago. And + then you're coming to dinner again to-night. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (eagerly). Am I? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes. Haven't you been asked? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. No, not a word. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, that's quite right; I remember now, I only thought of it + this morning, so I couldn't ask you before, could I? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (earnestly). What made you think of it then? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (romantically). It was at the butcher's. There was one little + lamb cutlet left over and sitting out all by itself, and there was + nobody to love it. And I said to myself, suddenly, "I know, that will do + for Mr. Robinson." (Prosaically.) I do hope you like lamb? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I adore it. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad! When I saw it sitting there I thought you'd + love it. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more about the rest of the + dinner, because I wouldn't tell Mr. Devenish, and I want to be fair. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Who's Mr. Devenish? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE Is he in love with you too? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Too? Oh, you mean Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Confound it, that's three! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (innocently). Three? (She looks up at him and down again.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, he's a sort of statistician. Isn't that a horrid word to + say? So stishany. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. What does he make statistics about? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, umbrellas and things. Don't let's talk about him. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. All right, then; who is Mr. Devenish? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, he's a poet. (She throws up her eyes and sighs deeply.) Ah + me! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. What does he write poetry about? (BELINDA looks at him, and + down again, and then at him again, and then down, and gives a little + sigh—all of which means, "Can't you guess?") What does he write + poetry about? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (obediently). He wrote "The Lute of Love and other Poems, by + Claude Devenish." The Lute of Love—(To herself.) I haven't been + saying that lately. (With great expression.) The Lute of Love—the + Lute. (She pats her mouth back.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. And what is Mr. Devenish— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (putting her hand on his sleeve). You'll let me know when it's + my turn, won't you? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Your turn? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, to ask questions. I love this game—it's like clumps. + (She crosses her hands on her lap and waits for the next question.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I beg your pardon. I—er—of course have no right to + cross-examine you like this. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, do go on, I love it. (With childish excitement.) I've got + my question ready. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (smiling). I think perhaps it <i>is</i> your turn. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (eagerly). Is it really? (He nods.) Well then—<i>who</i> + is Mr. Robinson? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (alarmed). What? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I think it's a fair question. I met you three days ago and you + told me you were staying at Mariton. Mariton. You can say it all right + now, can't you? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I think so. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (coaxingly). Just say it. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Mariton. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (clapping her hands). Lovely! I don't think any of the villagers + do it as well as that. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Well? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, that was three days ago. You came the next day to see the + garden, and you came the day after to see the garden, and you've come + this morning—to see the garden; and you're coming to dinner + to-night, and it's so lovely, we shall simply have to go into the garden + afterwards. And all I know about you is that you <i>haven't</i> any + relations called Robinson. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. What do I know about Mrs. Tremayne but that she <i>has</i> a + relation called Robinson? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And two dear friends called Devenish and Baxter. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (annoyed). I was forgetting them. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (to herself). I mustn't forget Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (getting up). But what does it matter? What would it matter if + I knew nothing about you? I know everything about you—everything + that matters. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (closing her eyes contentedly). Tell me some of them. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (bending over her earnestly). Belinda— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). He's going to propose to me. I can + feel it coming. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Confound it! how many men <i>have</i> proposed to you? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (surprised). Since when? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Since your first husband proposed to you. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, I thought you meant this year. (Sitting up.) Well now, let + me see. (Slowly and thoughtfully.) One. (She pushes up her first + finger.) Two. (She pushes up the second.) Three. (She pushes up the + third finger, holds it there for a moment and then pushes it gently down + again.) No, I don't think that one ought to count really. (She pushes up + two more fingers and the thumb.) Three, four, five—do you want the + names or just the total? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. This is horrible. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (innocently). But anybody can propose. Now if you'd asked how + many I'd accepted—Let me see, where was I up to? I shan't count + yours, because I haven't really had it yet. Six, seven—Yes, Betty, + what is it? + </p> + <p> + [BETTY has just come in from the door on the left.] + </p> + <p> + BETTY. If you please, ma'am, cook would like to speak to you for a + minute. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To TREMAYNE.) You'll forgive me, + won't you? You'll find some cigarettes there. (She starts to go, but + comes back and adds confidentially) It's probably about the lamb + cutlets; I expect your little one refuses to be cooked. + </p> + <p> + [She goes out after BETTY.] + </p> + <p> + (Left alone, TREMAYNE stalks moodily about the room, occasionally + kicking things which come in his way. He takes up his hat suddenly and + goes towards the door; stops irresolutely and comes back. He is standing + in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets when DEVENISH + comes in from the door on the left.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (surprised). Hullo! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE Hullo!... Are you Mr. Devenish? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Devenish the poet? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (coming up and shaking him warmly by the hand). My dear fellow, + you know my work? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (grimly). My dear Mr. Devenish, your name is most familiar to + me. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I congratulate you. I thought your great-grandchildren would + be the first to hear of me. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. My name's Robinson, by the way. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Then let me return the compliment, Robinson. Your name is + familiar to <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (hastily). I don't think I'm related to any Robinsons you know. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Well, no, I suppose not. When I was very much younger I began + a collection of Robinsons. Actually it was only three days ago, but it + seems much longer. Many things have happened since then. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (uninterested). Really! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. There is a man called Baxter who is still collecting, I + believe. For myself, I am only interested in one of the great family—Delia. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (eagerly). You are interested in <i>her</i>? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Devotedly. In fact, I am at this moment waiting for her to put + on her hat. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (warmly). My dear Devenish, I am delighted to make your + acquaintance. (He seizes his hand and grips it heartily.) How are you? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (feeling his fingers). Fairly well, thanks. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. That's right. (They sit on the sofa together.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (still nursing his hand). You are a very lucky fellow, + Robinson. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. In what way? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. People you meet must be so very reluctant to say good-bye to + you. Have you ever tried strangling lions or anything like that? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (with a laugh). Well, as a matter of fact, I have. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I suppose you won all right? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. In the end, with the help of my beater. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Personally I should have backed you alone against any two + ordinary lions. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. One was quite enough. As it was, he gave me something to + remember him by. (Putting up his left sleeve, he displays a deep scar.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (looking at it casually). By Jove, that's a nasty one! (He + suddenly catches sight of the mole and stares at it fascinated.) Good + heavens! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. What's the matter? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (clasping his head). Wait. Let me think. (After a pause.) Have + you ever met a man called Baxter? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. No. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Would you like to? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (grimly). Very much indeed. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. He's the man I told you about who's interested in Robinsons. + He'll be delighted to meet you. (With a nervous laugh.) Funny thing, + he's rather an authority on lions. You must show him that scar of yours; + it will intrigue him immensely. (Earnestly.) <i>Don't</i> shake hands + with him too heartily just at first; it might put him off the whole + thing. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. This Mr. Baxter seems to be a curious man. + </p> + <p> + DIVENISH (absently). Yes, he is rather odd. (Looking at his watch.) I + wonder if I—(To TREMAYNE.) I suppose you won't be—(He stops + suddenly. A slight tapping noise comes from the room where they keep + umbrellas.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. What's that! + </p> + <p> + (The tapping noise is repeated, a little more loudly this time.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Come in. + </p> + <p> + (The door opens and BAXTER comes in nervously, holding his bowler hat in + his hand.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Oh, I just—(TREMAYNE <i>stands up</i>)—I just—(He + goes back again.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (springing across the room). Baxter! (The door opens nervously + again and BAXTER'S head appears round it.) Come in, Baxter, old man; + you're just the very person I wanted. (BAXTER comes in carefully.) Good + man. (To TREMAYNE) This is Mr. Baxter that I was telling you about. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (much relieved at the appearance of his rival). Oh, is this Mr. + Baxter? (Holding out his hand with great friendliness) How are you, Mr. + Baxter? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (warningly). Steady! (TREMAYNE shakes BAXTER quite gently by + the hand.) Baxter, this is Mr. Robinson. (Casually.) R-o-b-i-n-s-o-n. + (He looks sideways at BAXTER to see how he takes it. BAXTER is + noticeably impressed.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Really? I am very glad to meet you, sir. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Very good of you to say so. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (to BAXTER). Robinson is a great big-game hunter. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Indeed? I have never done anything in that way myself, but I'm + sure it must be an absorbing pursuit. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Oh, well, it's something to do. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (to BAXTER). You must get him to tell you about a wrestle he + had with a lion once. Extraordinary story! (Looking at his watch + suddenly.) Jove! I must be off. See you again, Baxter. Good-bye, + Robinson. No, don't shake hands. I'm in a hurry. [He looks at his watch + again and goes out hurriedly by the door on the left.] + </p> + <p> + (TREMAYNE sit down together on the sofa.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Unusual man, your friend Devenish. I suppose it comes of being + a poet. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I have no great liking for Mr. Devenish— + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Oh, he's all right. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. But I am sure that if he is impressed by anything outside + himself or his own works, it must be something rather remarkable. Pray + tell me of your adventure with the lion. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (laughing). Really, you mustn't think that I go about telling + everybody my adventures. It just happened to come up. I'm afraid I shook + his hand rather more warmly than I meant, and he asked me if I'd ever + tried strangling lions. That was all. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. And had you? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Well, it just happened that I had. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Indeed! You came off scathless, I trust? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (carelessly indicating his arm). Well, he got me one across + there. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (obviously excited). Really, really. One across there. Not bad, I + hope? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (laughing). Well, it doesn't show unless I do that. (He pulls + up his sleeve carelessly and BAXTER bends eagerly over his arm.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Good heavens! I've found it! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Found what? (He pulls down his sleeve.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I must see Mrs. Tremayne. Where's Mrs. Tremayne? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. She went out just now. What's the matter? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Out! I must find her. This is a matter of life and death. [He + seizes his hat and hurries out by the front door.] + </p> + <p> + (TREMAYNE stares after him in amazement. Then he pulls up his sleeve, + looks at his scar again and shakes his head. While he is still puzzling + over it, BELINDA comes back.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Such a to-do in the kitchen! The cook's given notice—at + least she will directly—and your lamb cutlet slipped back to the + shop when nobody was looking, and I've got to go into the village again, + and oh dear, oh dear, I have such a lot of things to do! (Looking across + at MR. BAXTER'S door.) Oh yes, that's another one. Mr. Robinson, you + will have to leave me. Farewell. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Belinda— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. No, not even Belinda. Wait till this evening. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I have a thousand things to say to you; I shall say them this + evening. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (giving him her hand). Begin about eight o'clock. Good-bye till + then. + </p> + <p> + [He takes her hand, looks at her for a moment, then suddenly bends and + kisses it, and out.] + </p> + <p> + (BELINDA stands looking from her hand to him, gives a little wondering + exclamation and then presses the back of her hand against her cheek, and + goes to the swing doors. She turns back, and remembers MR. BAXTER again. + With a smile she goes to the door and taps gently.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Mr. Baxter, Mr. Baxter, you may come in now; he has withdrawn. + I have unhanded him. (She opens the door and finds the room empty.) Oh! + </p> + <p> + [BAXTER comes in at the front door.] + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Ah, there you are! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (turning with a start). Oh, how you frightened me, Mr. Baxter! I + couldn't think what had happened to you. I thought perhaps you'd been + eaten up by one of the umbrellas. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I have some wonderful news for you. I have found + Miss Robinson's father. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (hardly understanding). Miss Robinson's father? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes. <i>Mr</i>. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, you mean—Oh yes, he told me his name was Robinson—Oh, + but he's no relation. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Wait! I saw his arm. By a subterfuge I managed to see his arm. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (her eyes opening more and more widely as she begins to + realize). You saw— + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I saw the mole. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (faintly as she holds out her own arm). Show me. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (very decorously indicating). There! + </p> + <p> + (BELINDA holds the place with her other hand, and still looking at MR. + BAXTER, slowly begins to laugh—half-laughter, half-tears, + wonderingly, happily, contentedly.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And I didn't know! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am delighted to have done this service for your + niece— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (to herself). Of course, <i>he</i> knew all the time. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (to the world). Still more am I delighted to have gained the + victory over Mr. Devenish in this enterprise. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Eighteen years—but I <i>ought</i> to have known. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (at large). I shall not be accused of exaggerating when I say + that the odds against such an enterprise were enormous. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Eighteen years—And now I've eight whole <i>hours</i> to + wait! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (triumphantly). It will be announced to-night. "Mr. Devenish," I + shall say, "young fellow—" (He arranges his speech in his mind.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. So I was right, after all! (Slowly and triumphantly.) He <i>does</i> + look better without a beard! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (making his speech). "Mr. Devenish, young fellow, when you + matched yourself against a man of my repute, when you matched yourself + against a man"—(BELINDA has slipped out, to enjoy her happiness + alone)—"who has read papers at soirées of the Royal Statistical + Society; when—er—" + </p> + <p> + [He looks round the room and discovers to his amazement that he is + alone. He claps on his bowler-hat, gives another amazed look round, says + with a shrug, "Unusual!" and goes out.] + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + [It is after dinner in BELINDA'S hall. BELINDA is lying on the sofa with + a coffee-cup in her hand. DELIA, in the chair on the right, has picked + up "The Lute of Love" from a table and is reading it impatiently.] + </p> + <p> + DELIA. What rubbish he writes! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (coming back from her thoughts). Who, dear? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Claude—Mr. Devenish. Of course, he's very young. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. So was Keats, darling. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I don't think Claude has had Keats' advantages. Keats started + life as an apothecary. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. So much nicer than a chemist. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Now, Claude started with nothing to do. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope you + aren't going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Silly mother! (Seriously) I don't think he'll ever be any good + till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this evening? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (dreamily). Whose, dear? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (innocently). Bad, darling? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. You've made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (happily). Have I? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Yes; it's serious this time. He's not like the other two. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. However did you know that? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, I know. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Darling, I believe you've grown up. It's quite time I settled + down. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. With Mr. Robinson? + </p> + <p> + (BELINDA looks thoughtfully at DELIA for a little time and then sits + up.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (mysteriously). Delia, are you prepared for a great secret to be + revealed to you? + </p> + <p> + DELIA (childishly). Oh, I love secrets. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (reproachfully). Darling, you mustn't take it like that. This is + a great, deep, dark secret; you'll probably need your sal volatile. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (excitedly). Go on! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well—(Looking round the room.) Shall we have the lights + down a little? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Go <i>on</i>, mummy. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is—(impressively)—is not quite + the Robinson he appears to be. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Yes? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. In fact, child, he is—Hadn't you better come and hold + your mother's hand? + </p> + <p> + DELIA (struggling with some emotion). Go <i>on</i>. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is a—sort of relation of yours; in + fact—(playing with her rings and looking down coyly)—he is + your—father. (She looks up at DELIA to see how the news is being + received.) Dear one, this is not a matter for mirth. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (coming over and kissing her). Darling, it is lovely, isn't it? I + am laughing because I am so happy. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Aren't you surprised? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. No. You see, Claude told me this morning. He found out just + before Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well! Every one seems to have known except me. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Didn't you see how friendly father and I got at dinner? I thought + I'd better start breaking the ice—because I suppose he'll be + kissing me directly. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Say you like him. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. I think he's going to be awfully nice. Does he know you know? + (She goes back to her seat.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Not yet. Just at present I've rather got Mr. Baxter on my mind. + I suppose, darling, you wouldn't like him as well as Mr. Devenish! + (Pathetically.) You see, they're so used to going about together. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Claude is quite enough. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind if I + have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them. I'll give + you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (She jumps up and goes + over to DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be happy too? That's what + mothers always say on the stage. I think it's so sweet. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (smiling at her). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I'm not + romantic like you. I expect I'm more like father, really. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (dreamily). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me this + morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was telling + <i>him</i>. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit like a father. Of course, he doesn't + know he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take him into the + garden; only don't let him know who he is. You see, he ought to propose + to me first, oughtn't he? (As the men come in, she gets up.) Here you + all are! I do hope you haven't been throwing away your cigars, because + smoking is allowed all over the house. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Oh, we've finished, thank you. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Isn't it a wonderful night?—and so warm for April. Delia, + you must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight—it's the only + light he hasn't seen it by. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (quickly). I don't think I've ever seen it by moonlight, Miss + Delia. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that—er—perhaps— + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + (TREMAYNE <i>looks at</i> BELINDA, who gives him a nod.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is no + chance of a nightingale? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr. Devenish. + (DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles herself comfortably + on the sofa.) Now we're together again. Well, Mr. Devenish? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Er—I— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. No; I think I'll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he's + longing to. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes. H'r'm! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your hand. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (spiritedly). Yes, sir, on what grounds? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. On the grounds that, as I told you this morning, I had succeeded + in the quest. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (appearing to be greatly surprised). Succeeded? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes, Mr. Devenish, young fellow, you have lost. I have + discovered the missing Mr. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Who—where— + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (dramatically). Miss Robinson has at this moment gone out with + her father. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Good heavens! It was he! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (sympathetically). Poor Mr. Devenish! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (pointing tragically to the table). And to think that I + actually sat on that table—no, that seat—no, not that one, + it was the sofa—that I sat on the sofa with him this morning, and + never guessed! Why, ten minutes ago I was asking him for the nuts! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Aha, Devenish, you're not so clever as you thought you were. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Why, I must have given you the clue myself! He told me he had + a scar on his arm, and I never thought any more of it. And then I went + away innocently and left you two talking about it. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (alarmed). A scar on his arm? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Where a lion mauled him. + </p> + <p> + (BELINDA gives a little shudder.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. It's quite healed up now, Mrs. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (looking at him admiringly). A lion! What you two have + adventured for my sake! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. I suppose you will admit, Devenish, that I may fairly claim to + have won? + </p> + <p> + (Looking the picture of despair, DEVENISH droops his head, raises his + arms and lets them fall hopelessly to his sides.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Mr. Devenish, I have never admired you so much as I do at this + moment. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (indignantly to DEVENISH). I say, you know, that's not fair. It's + all very well to take your defeat like a man, but you mustn't overdo it. + Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter—Mr. Devenish, I have something + to tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I think + you both ought to know that—I—I made a mistake. Delia is not + my niece; she is my daughter. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping! + </p> + <p> + (BELINDA gives him an understanding look.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Your daughter! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. But—but you aren't old enough to have a daughter of that + age. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. But—but she's grown up. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Quite. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Then in that case you must be—(He hesitates, evidently + working it out.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (hastily). I'm afraid so, Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when I'm + fifty you would be— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. And when I'm sixty— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can't you stop him? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you'll never <i>get</i> + to sixty. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. And then there's Miss—er—Delia. In the event of our + marrying, Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I don't think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I have an + idea that she will be getting married before long. (She glances at + DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.) + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. None the less, the fact would be disturbing. I have never yet + considered myself seriously as a step-father. I don't think I am going + too far if I say that to some extent I have been deceived in this + matter. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (reproachfully). And so have I. I thought you loved me. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (sympathetically). Yes, yes. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (turning to him suddenly). <i>And</i> Mr. Devenish too. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Er— + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Er— + </p> + <p> + (They stand before her guiltily and have nothing to say.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with a shrug). Well, I shall have to marry somebody else, + that's all. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Who? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I suppose Mr. Robinson. After all, if I am Delia's mother, and + Mr. Baxter says that Mr. Robinson's her father, it's about time we <i>were</i> + married. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (eagerly). Mrs. Tremayne, what fools we are! He <i>is</i> your + husband all the time! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. You've had a husband all the time? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn't my fault. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don't know where I am. I + gather—I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible + as a possible wife? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. But this is very confusing—this is very disturbing to a + man of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a—a + possible benedict. I have—ah—taken steps. Only this morning, + in writing to my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at any + moment a most startling announcement. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that's all right. That might only mean that + you were getting a new bowler-hat. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you take + this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes clear to me. + You have transferred your affections to her daughter! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made me + very happy. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Very happy. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (thoughtfully). Ah! (He takes a turn round the room in, silence, + and then comes back to her.) Mrs. Tremayne, I have taken a great + resolve. (Solemnly.) I also will make you happy. (Thumping his heart.) I + also will woo Miss Delia. (Suddenly seizing DEVENISH'S arm) Come, we + will seek Miss Delia together. It may be that she will send us upon + another quest in which I shall again be victorious. (Tempestuously) + Come, I say! (He marches the resisting DEVENISH to the swing doors.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (to BELINDA). Please! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (gently). Mr. Baxter... Harold. (BAXTER stops and turns round.) + You are too impetuous. I think that as Delia's mother— + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Your pardon, Mrs. Tremayne. In the intoxication of the moment I + am forgetting. (Formally.) I have the honour to ask your permission to + pay my addresses— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. No, no, I didn't mean that. But, as Delia's mother, I ought to + warn you that she is hardly fitted to take the place of your + housekeeper. She is not very domesticated. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (indignantly). Not domesticated? Why, did I not hear her tell her + father at dinner that she had arranged all the flowers? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. There are other things than flowers. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Bed-socks, for instance, Baxter. It's a very tricky thing + airing bed-socks. I am sure your house-keeper— + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, she will learn. The daughter of such a mother... + I need say no more. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, thank you. But there is something else, Mr. Baxter. You are + not being quite fair to yourself. In starting out upon this simultaneous + wooing, you forget that Mr. Devenish has already had his turn this + morning alone. You should have yours... alone... too. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Oh, I say! + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes, yes, you are right. I must introduce myself first as a + suitor. I see that. (To DEVENISH) <i>You</i> stay here; <i>I</i> will go + alone into the garden, and— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. It is perhaps a little cold out of doors for people of... of <i>our</i> + age, Mr. Baxter. Now, in the library— + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (astonished). Library? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. You have a library? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (to DEVENISH). He doesn't believe I have a library. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. You ought to see the library, Baxter. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. But you are continually springing surprises on me this evening, + Mrs. Tremayne. First a daughter, then a husband, and then—a + library! I have been here three weeks, and I never knew you had a + library. Dear me, I wonder how it is that I never saw it? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (modestly). I thought you came to see <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. Yes, yes, to see you, certainly. But if I had known you had a + library.... + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh, I am so glad I mentioned it. Wasn't it lucky, Mr. Devenish? + </p> + <p> + BAXTER. My work has been greatly handicapped of late by lack of certain + books to which I wanted to refer. It would be a great help— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. My dear Mr. Baxter, my whole library is at your disposal. (To + DEVENISH, as she leads the way to the door, in a confidential whisper.) + I'm just going to show him the "Encyclopedia Britannica." (She smiles at + him, and he opens the door for them both. Then he goes towards the + garden door and looks outside.) + </p> + <p> + DELIA (from the garden). Hullo, we're just coming in. (He goes back and + waits for them.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Where's Mrs. Tremayne? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. She's gone to the library with Baxter. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (carelessly). Oh, the library. Where's that? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (promptly going towards the door and opening it). The end door + on the right. Right at the end. You can't mistake it. On the right. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Ah, yes. (He looks round at DELIA.) Yes. (He looks at + DEVENISH.) Yes. [He goes out.] + </p> + <p> + (DEVENISH hastily shuts the door and comes back to DELIA.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I say, your mother is a ripper. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (enthusiastically). Isn't she! (Remembering.) At least, you mean + my aunt? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that I once + had the cheek to propose to her. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. To <i>her</i>. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. But not to me? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia! + </p> + <p> + DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson—I + mean, Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much safer to + call you Delia. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answered + </p> + <p> + DELIA. If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to wait till + next April— + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the same + afternoon. You haven't really told me how you like it yet. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but, of + course, one has to think about posterity. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty to + think about if you were a statesman. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away every + day and do great things, and then come home in the evening and tell me + all about it. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Then you <i>are</i> thinking of marrying me! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here—I <i>will</i> + be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and + come back in the evening and tell you all about it. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. How nice of you! + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell, + Parnassus! + </p> + <p> + DELIA. What does that mean? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's life is + the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.—no, look here, + that was quite accidental. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I get to + know you. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that I've + had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was + three days ago. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. You <i>are</i> different. Perhaps it's your sense of humour + coming back. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (holding out her hand). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly moon. + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that word + before? + </p> + <p> + DELIA. What <i>do</i> you mean? + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I'll come with you, but I + shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his back, he + walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime Minister then + left the House. + </p> + <p> + [BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.] + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don't think it's unkind to + leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was + really thinking of Mr. Baxter. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Not of me? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's had a + disappointment lately. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was—younger than I was. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He thought I + was eighteen. Such a disappointment! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. The right age for what? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. For this sort of conversation. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or—poetically? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I meant— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the—now, I must get + this the right way round—as old as the— + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I don't want to talk about Mr. Devenish. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does—except Mr. Devenish. As + old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself cosily.) I + think that's rather a nice age to be, don't you? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. It's a pity he's thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss that + sort of thing rather. You don't say those sort of things about your + aunt-in-law—not so often. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now, + comparing her to Diana. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts for <i>him. </i>Now what about Baxter? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I was + four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the + drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the "Encyclopedia + Britannica." + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the + neighbourhood? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn't it awful? I've only had those two for + the last three weeks. + </p> + <p> + (TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.) + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Belinda. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, Henry! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. My name is John. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks they + can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what their own + names are. You were saying, John? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That's the man who always goes away so quickly. + I hope you're making more of a stay? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do nothing but + say "Belinda." + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved anybody seriously, + Belinda? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I don't ever do anything very seriously. The late Mr. Tremayne, + my first husband—Jack—Isn't it funny, <i>his</i> name was + Jack—he used to complain about it too sometimes. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (with conviction). Silly ass! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Ah, I think you are a little hard on the late Mr. Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Has he been dead long? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Dead to me. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. You quarrelled? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes. It was his fault entirely. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I'm sure it was. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. How sweet of you to say that! + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Belinda, I want you to marry me and forget about him. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (happily to herself). This is the proposal that those lamb + cutlets interrupted this morning. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Belinda, I love you—do you understand? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Suppose my first husband turns up suddenly like—like E. + A.? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Like who? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Well, like anybody. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. He won't—I know he won't. Don't you love me enough to + risk it, Belinda? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I haven't really said I love you at all yet. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Well, say it now. (BELINDA looks at him, and then down again.) + You do! Well, I'm going to have a kiss, anyway, (He comes round the sofa + and kisses her quickly.) There! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (rising). O-oh! The late Mr. Tremayne never did that. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I have already told you that he was a silly ass. (Sitting down + on the sofa) Belinda— + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, Henry—I mean, Jack? + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Do you know who I am! (He is thoroughly enjoying the surprise + he is about to give her.) + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (nodding). Yes, Jack. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Who? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Jack Tremayne. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (jumping up). Good heavens, you <i>know</i>! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (gently). Yes, Jack. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (angrily). You've known all the time that I was your husband, + and you've been playing with me and leading me on? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (mildly). Well, darling, you knew all the time that I was your + wife, and you've been making love to me and leading me on. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. That's different. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. That's <i>just</i> what the late Mr. Tremayne said, and then he + slammed the door and went straight off to the Rocky Mountains and shot + bears; and I didn't see him again for eighteen years. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (remorsefully). Darling, I was a fool then, and I'm a fool now. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I was a fool then, but I'm not such a fool now—I'm not + going to let you go. It's quite time I married and settled down. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. You darling! How did you find out who I was? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (awkwardly). Well, it was rather curious, darling. (After a + pause.) It was April, and I felt all sort of Aprily, and—and—there + was the garden all full of daffodils—and—and there was Mr. + Baxter—the one we left in the library—knowing all about + moles. He's probably got the M volume down now. Well, we were talking + about them one day, and I happened to say that the late Mr. Tremayne—that + was you, darling—had rather a peculiar one on his arm. And then he + happened to see it this morning and told me about it. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story! + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, darling; it's really much more extraordinary than that. I + think perhaps I'd better tell you the rest of it another time. + (Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you. (TREMAYNE + pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You shouldn't have left + Chelsea, darling. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn't. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn't. (After a pause.) I—I've + got another little surprise for you if—if you're ready for it. + (Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be wearing white. I shall + certainly stand up while I'm telling you. (Modestly.) Darling, we have a + daughter—our little Delia. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes one's + father's name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you—oh, never + mind about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and not + tell me? + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. You forget how you'd slammed the door. It isn't the sort of + thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to America. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don't let me ever go + away again. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. I'm not going to, Jack. I'm going to settle down into a staid + old married woman. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. Oh no, you're not. You're going on just as you did before. And + I'm going to propose to you every April, and win you, over all the other + men in love with you. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. You darling! + </p> + <p> + [DELIA and DEVENISH come in from the garden.] + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE (quietly to BELINDA). Our daughter. + </p> + <p> + DELIA (going up to TREMAYNE). You're my father. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. If you don't mind very much, Delia. + </p> + <p> + DELIA. You've been away a long time. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. I'll do my best to make up for it. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA. Delia, darling, I think you might kiss your poor old father. + </p> + <p> + (As the does to, DEVENISH suddenly and hastily kisses BELINDA on the + cheek.) + </p> + <p> + DEVENISH. Just in case you're going to be my mother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + TREMAYNE. We seem to be rather a family party. + </p> + <p> + BELINDA (suddenly). There! We've forgotten Mr. Baxter again. + </p> + <p> + BAXTER (who has come in quietly with a book in his hand). Oh, don't mind + about me, Mrs. Tremayne. I've enjoyed myself immensely. (Referring to + his book.) I have been collecting some most valuable information on + (looking round at them) lunacy in the—er—county of <i>Devonshire</i>. + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RED FEATHERS + </h2> + <h3> + AN OPERETTA IN ONE ACT + </h3> + <p> + [In the living-room of a country-house, half farm, half manor, a MOTHER + and her DAUGHTER are sitting. It is any year you please—between, + let us say, the day when the fiddle first came to England and the day + when Romance left it. As for the time of the year, let us call it May. + Oh yes, it is certainly May, and about twelve o'clock, and the DAUGHTER + is singing at the spinet, while her MOTHER is at her needlework. Through + the lattice windows the murmur of a stream can be heard, on whose banks—but + we shall come to that directly. Let us listen now to what the DAUGHTER + is singing:] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Life passes by. + I do not know its pleasure or its pain— + The Spring was here, the Spring is here again, + The Spring will die. + + Life passes by. + The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide, + The crowd streams in—and I am left outside.... + They know; not I. +</pre> + <p> + [You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.] + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a melancholy + song, dear. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Why are you that, child? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Well, so do we all. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here + all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the + next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on. + Mother, is that all there is in the world? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. It's all there is in our world. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. We have the house—and very little else. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were <i>really</i> poor— + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. You needn't wish, child. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes we + wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys, + and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next + morning, and— + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm + peculiar. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the + world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose. + Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and + sings again.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Lads and lasses, what will you sell, + What will you sell?</i> + + Four stout walls and a roof atop, + Warm fires gleaming brightly, + Well-stored cellar and garnered crop, + Money-bags packed tightly; + An ordered task in an ordered day, + And a sure bed nightly; + Years which peacefully pass away, + Until Death comes lightly. + + <i>Lads and lasses, what will you buy? + What will you buy?</i> + + Here is a cap to cover your head, + A cap with one red feather; + Here is a cloak to make your bed + Warm or winter weather; + Here is a satchel to store your ware, + Strongly lined with leather; + And here is a staff to take you there + When you go forth together. + + <i>Lads and lasses, what will you gain, + What will you gain?</i> + + Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees + New Spring houses taking; + Daffodils in an April breeze + Golden curtsies making; + Shadows of clouds across the weald + From hill to valley breaking, + The first faint stir which the woodlands yield + When the world is waking. + + <i>Lads and lasses, this is your gain, + This is your gain.</i> +</pre> + <p> + (Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear + at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and + happy smile until the song is finished.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in + astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle + Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The + Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness, + of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand upon + the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote you Rex—What + does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say? <i>Via</i>, says Rex, meaning the + road; <i>communis</i> is common; <i>omnibus</i> to all, meaning thereby—but + perchance I weary you? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is he? Is + he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he the Cham of + Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he were the Cham of + Tartary— + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you are and + what you want. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am named by + my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These things you will + have already noticed. But now I will commit to you it secret, known only + to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I am by nature (he disappears + and reappears at the middle window), I am still more so when compelled + to hold converse with two such ornaments of their sex (he disappears and + reappears at the right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I + getting any nearer the door? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see + that we must have your tale. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about + everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers; the + other has the honour to belong to that sex which—have I said it?—you + and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live to + be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My + grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what the + old man is thinking. Little will they know—But I will attend you + further within. [He bows and disappears.] + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Mother, something <i>is</i> going to happen at last. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that? + </p> + <p> + [The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the + FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the + FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with + a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.] + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the honour + to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His + Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess—a courtesy + title bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day—plays upon the fiddle + with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. + I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke—the + title was granted last Candlemas—has a voice of a rare richness. + He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers + from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame! + </p> + <p> + SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays + "cuckoo" with an air.) + </p> + <p> + SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he maligns + me. Have I not a G of surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely + encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my G. Now, + where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on the pipe.) I + have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to MOTHER and then to + DAUGHTER.) + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Marvellous! + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid? + </p> + <p> + TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel more in + need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no other talent + to match the singing and playing of your friends? + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. He talks. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I had noticed it. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good + enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit like + myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn disposition; + this—I—(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence. Have I + your gracious permission to begin again? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame— + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. If you could, sir. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I—er—go + round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which you + observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to melancholy. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for myself + I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance will be + limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be glad + to hear your friends. + </p> + <p> + (The TALKER bows and turns to his company.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will + accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I + may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note. + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, when the wind is in the North, + I take my staff and sally forth; + And when it whistles from the East + I do not mind it in the least; + The warm wind murmurs through the trees + Its messages from Southern seas; + But after all perhaps the best + Is that which whispers from the West. + + Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will, + So long as I may walk on Morland Hill! + + The staff which helps to carry me, + I cut it from the Hazel-tree; + But once I had a cudgel torn + Most circumspectly from the Thorn; + I know a fellow, far from rash, + Who swears entirely by the Ash; + And all good travellers invoke + A blessing on the mighty Oak. + + Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will, + So long as I may walk on Morland Hill! + + Some years ago I gave my heart + To Prue until we had to part; + Then, seeing Susan's pretty face, + I left it with her for a space; + And Susan had my heart until + I wanted it for Mistress Jill; + I think, although I am not clear, + That Chloe's had it this last year. + + Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will, + So long as I may walk on Morland Hill! +</pre> + <p> + (The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the + applause.) + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy fellow + by nature. But waggish—waggish withal. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us, + Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one woman + only. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses to + it. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the + FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now? + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. If you wish it. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. You would wish me to accompany her, of course. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (with a smile). It is kind of you, sir, but I think perhaps my + daughter— + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (eagerly). Yes, of course, I will if I can. (She goes to the + spinet.) + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER (playing a few notes). Do you know this? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Yes, I think so. (She plays. At the end of it the TALKER finds + himself bowing to the applause.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER. And now, Madame, you have had a sample of all our poor talents, + save and except that paltry talent of mine which in other company + concludes such a performance. I pray you tell me what you think of the + entertainment. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I have enjoyed it immensely, good Master Johannes. And if you + did wish to exercise that talent of yours, of which so far we have only + heard— + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Nay, nay, Madame, I beg you. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Then, Sir, I offer you my grateful thanks for your + entertainment. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. And I too. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Ladies, you are too kind—er—(he hesitates)—er— + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Yes? + </p> + <p> + TALKER, The fact is, Madame, that now we approach or, so to speak, draw + nigh or adjacent—in other words, Madame, we are perilously + approximate— + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. Tell her straight out. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Tell her what? + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. What we've come for. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Master Johannes, Madam, is so accustomed when he goes round with + the hat to disguise under it flow of words the fact that money is as + necessary to an artist as applause, that he has lost the habit of saying + anything in less than ten sentences. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (mournfully). And yet I am a taciturn man. + </p> + <p> + MOWER. Well, will somebody tell me, for I confess I have been wondering + what is behind it all. + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. Tell her, Johannes. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. If you will allow me, Madame. But tell me first, did you notice + anything lacking in our performance? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (surprised). No; I don't think so. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (to DAUGHTER). Perhaps you, Mademoiselle? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (shyly). It seemed to lack a woman's voice, sir. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (admiringly). What intelligence! What profundity! (To MOTHER) + Madam, I felicitate you again on your daughter. Unerringly she has laid + her finger on the weak joint in our armour. We have no woman's voice. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Well, Sir, I don't see how I can help you. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Madame, you have a nightingale. It has lived in a cage all its + life. It looks through the bars sometimes, and sees the great world + outside, and sighs and turns back to its business of singing. Madame, it + would sing better outside in the open air, with the other birds. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I don't understand you, sir. Are you referring to my daughter? + </p> + <p> + TALKER (looking towards the window). There is a stream which runs beyond + the road, with a green bank to it. We were seated on that bank, I and my + two companions, eating our bread and cheese, and washing it down with + draughts from that good stream. We were tired, for we had come from over + the hills that morning, and it was good to lie on our backs there and + watch the little clouds taking shape after shape in the blue, and so to + dream our dreams. In a little while the road would take us westward, + here through a wood banked with primroses, there across a common or + between high spring hedges with the little stream babbling ever at the + side of us. And in the evening we would come to an inn, where there + would be good company, and we would sing and play to them, and they + would reward us. (With a shrug) It is a pleasant life. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, go on! + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Yes, go on, Sir. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. We were lying on our backs thus, Madame, when we heard the + nightingale. "Duke," says I, "it is early yet for the nightingale." His + Flutiness removes his cap from his face, takes a squint at the sun, and + says "Monstrous early, good Master Johannes," and claps his cap back + again. "What says you, Fiddler," says I, "in this matter of + nightingales? Is it possible," says I; "the sun being where it is, and + nightingales being what they are—to wit, nightingales?" "It's not + a nightingale," says Fiddler dreamily, "it's a girl." "Then," says I, + jumping up, "it is a girl we want. She must put the red feather in her + cap, and come her ways with us." (With a bow) Madame, your humble + servant. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, you will let me go, won't you? I must, I must! He + is quite right. I'm caged here. Oh, you will let me see something of the + world before I grow old! + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER (suddenly). Yes, let her come. If she feels like that, she ought + to come. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (with a very winning smile). We will take great care of her, + Madame, as if she were our own sister. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (surprisingly to JOHANNES). What do you think of cider as a + drink, Master Johannes? + </p> + <p> + TALKER (who had not expected it, but is always ready). Cider—ah, + there's a drink! Oh, I can talk to you about cider, glum body as I am by + nature, having been as it were taciturn from birth. Yet of cider I could + talk you— + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Ours is considered very good cider. (To her daughter) Take them, + child, and give them such refreshment as they want. They have deserved + it for their entertainment. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Why, of course, Mother. Come this way please. + </p> + <p> + [She leads the way, and the others follow, the TALKER coming last and + murmuring "Cider" to himself.] + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Master Johannes. (He turns round.) A word with you, if you + please, sir. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. But certainly, Madame. The cider will be all the better for the + expectation. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Sit down, please. (He does so.) Master Johannes, who are you, + all of you? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. I thought I had explained, Madame. Her Royal Sweetness Princess + Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a humble + Marquis. We may be referred to collectively as the Red Feathers. For + myself I am sometimes called Silent John, being of a close disposition. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the world, + and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to you, for + however little a time, I must know something more about you. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I have + never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years of age; it + is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you something about + myself, starting from that day, forty-six years ago, when I was born—were + I to begin—well, Madame, I am only too ready to begin. It is a + subject I find vastly pleasant. But, (looking at her comically) shall I + begin? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir? + </p> + <p> + TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one who has + but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express himself, talking + is a great comfort. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now that I + think you must be a man of <i>our</i> world? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your mother's + heart to know that your daughter will be in good company, I think I can + give you that comfort. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Is that all you can give me? + </p> + <p> + (The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly he + takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and is + immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a beaming + face.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to stop + any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there was a + certain noble gentleman, a baron of estates and family. Conceiving + himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch to win or lose it + all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a fit of melancholy he + abjured society, cursed all women and took to the road. A pleasant + melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just + gone). You mean he really is— + </p> + <p> + TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right to + speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe to his + lips) Cuck-oo! + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Poor child, she is not happy here. We live so quietly; we have + no neighbours. I have wondered what to do—it seemed that I could + do so little. If only I could be sure—(Suddenly) Master Johannes, + do you like the look of this house with its little stream opposite, and + the green bank running down, on which one may lie on one's back and look + up at the sky? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Did we not single it out above all others by having our bread + and cheese outside it? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Will you all stay with me for a little? I think I can find room + for you. Before I can lend my daughter to you, I feel that I must know + something of you. I think that is the best way, is it not? (With a very + friendly smile) The cider is good, you know. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (rising and boning). Madame, we need say no more. + </p> + <p> + [The other three come in. The DAUGHTER has found from somewhere a cap + with a red feather in it. They stand in a row opposite the MOTHER, and + to the FIDDLER'S accompaniment sing a merry song.] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TOGETHER. The cuckoo comes in April, + Sings his song in May, + Changes his tune in the middle of June, + And then he flies away. + + HE. The cuckoo comes when April's here— + He is not very good, I fear. + He goes and takes another nest— + Perhaps he does it for the best. + Cuckoo! Cuckoo!... + + SHE. When April's over he begins + Repenting of his former sins; + From tree to tree he takes his way, + But this is all he finds to say: + Cuckoo! Cuckoo!... + + HE. By June he gets a trifle flat, + Which is not to be wondered at, + And critical observers note + A huskiness about the throat. + (Huskily) Cuckoo! Cuckoo!... + + SHE. Alas! he does not stay for long, + But other birds take up the song + Of summer gently following + The wild and happy days of Spring. + Cuckoo! +</pre> + <p> + (The TALKER conducts with his pipe in his hand, and hums "La, la, la!" + to himself. He pipes the chorus with them. At the conclusion they all + bow or curtsey deeply to the MOTHER.) + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (half laughing, half crying). Oh! + </p> + <p> + TALKER (suddenly and dramatically, holding up his hand). Listen! + </p> + <p> + EVERYBODY. What? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Didn't I hear somebody say "cider"? + </p> + *** + <p> + (It is eight days later when we see them again. The DAUGHTER is at the + spinet, playing an accompaniment to the song which she and the SINGER + are sharing for the moment.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE. He does not know I love him, + He does not care; + The sky is blue above him, + The road is there + For those who dare— + Alas! why should he care? + + HE. She does not know I love her, + She does not know; + The sky is blue above her, + The soft winds blow + Where violets grow— + Alas! how should she know? + + TOGETHER. Yet those who sing + About the Spring + All say it should bring + Two lovers together! + Oh where, oh where + Will you find a pair + So matched as you and I, love? + Come rain or shine, + Come wet or fine, + If you are mine + What matter the weather? + Oh take my hand + And kiss me and + Confess that you are my love. + + HE. She does not know I love her— + Ah yes, she knows; + The sky is blue above her, + The buds disclose + The first wild rose— + Ah yes, she knows, she knows! + + SHE. He cares not that I love him— + Ah yes, he cares; + The sky is blue above him, + A thrush declares + The world is theirs— + Ah yes, how much he cares! +</pre> + <p> + TOGETHER. For those who sing, etc. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (looking up at him). It is a pretty song. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. The words, I thought, were good. I liked the words. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Who thinks of the words of a song if the tune be pretty? + </p> + <p> + SINGER. But if the heart of the singer be in the words? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (suddenly, as, she gets up). Tell me about Chloe. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (surprised). Chloe? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Or whatever her name was. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (hurt). I am not sure that I understand this conversation. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. I mean the first one. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. I am not sure that I like this conversation. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. She was the first, wasn't she—the one who made you + renounce the world and take to the road? + </p> + <p> + SINGER (stiffly). Her name was not Chloe. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (coaxingly). What was it? + </p> + <p> + SINGER (annoyed). Why rake up the dead ashes of the past? I was but a + boy. It was five months ago. Besides, her name was Penelope. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. You still remember it, though it was so long ago? + </p> + <p> + SINGER. I could have pretended to have forgotten, if it would have + pleased you better. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (coldly). I? Oh, I am not interested. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Well, <i>I</i> didn't start the subject. Perhaps, as neither of + us is interested, I had better withdraw. Since we are to start this + afternoon, I have much to see about. (Bowing) With your permission. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (stopping him). Don't go. I am sorry. I have been unkind. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (smiling). Shall we practise that other song? Our voices agree, + if our—our hearts do not. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (distressed). Oh, don't say that. We must be friends. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Only friends? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (gently). Tell me about her. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. There is not much to tell, dear. I thought she loved me. Perhaps + that was why I thought I loved her. When I told her, she pretended to be + surprised. I don't think she was surprised. She was very pretty. (He + pauses.) + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. And hard? + </p> + <p> + SINGER. It is not for me to say anything against her. It is through her + that I came here. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. When you came here the other day, had you forgotten her? + </p> + <p> + SINGER (singing). "Oh, let the wench, the wench be whom she will, so + long as I can walk on Morland Hill." Didn't I say so on that first day? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Of course, I know very little of the world, but I do wonder + sometimes if people who sing about the joys of wandering are really + enjoying it all the time. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (looking round at the window). Is Johannes about? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (surprised). No. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Then I will be frank with you. Just lately <i>I</i> have been + wondering too. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh! + </p> + <p> + SINGER (rapidly). I have a house; you would like my house. I have a + park; you would like the park. Horses to ride and jewels to wear. I go + to London sometimes and see the King; you would like London. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (tragically). I have never been to London. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (letting himself go suddenly). Sweetheart, all that I have—(In + an ordinary whisper) Be careful, Fiddler just went past the window. + (Keeping his arm round her, he breaks into the last line or two of his + song. She joins in, as if they were rehearsing.) + </p> + <p> + [Enter the FIDDLER.] + </p> + <p> + SINGER (to DAUGHTER). Yes, I think we have it pretty well now. 'Tis a + good song. (Turning round suddenly and seeing the FIDDLER). Ah, Fiddler, + are you there? What do you think of it? + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. Isn't it time to start? + </p> + <p> + SINGER. To start? Ah yes, we start this afternoon. Well, we have had a + pleasant holiday and must get to work again. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (eagerly). And I am coming with you. + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. It is settled? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh yes, I think so. + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. It is the best life. (TO DAUGHTER) Play something. + </p> + <p> + [As the DAUGHTER goes to the spinet, the SINGER goes out.] + </p> + <p> + (They play. When it is over, the DAUGHTER turns round and looks at the + FIDDLER, and sighs.) + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. That is all you want? Just you and your fiddle and the open + road? + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. It is the best life. + </p> + <p> + [The TALKER appears at the window.] + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Aha! what did I hear? Did I hear our loquacious Fiddler + perorating upon Life? "Life," quoth she, with much argument and + circumstantial matter; "Life," she continued, making her points singly + and one by one, thus keeping the business in its true perspective; "Life + is—" (Lamely) Well, what is life? + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. When do we start, Johannes? + </p> + <p> + [The DAUGHTER goes out.] + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Are you so eager to be gone? + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. We have been here eight days. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Eight days! And Troy was besieged for eleven years! Eight days! + Why, I could talk for eight days without taking breath, and I am by + nature a glum, silent man. Nay, nay, say not to me "Eight days." Eight + days will not make a man grow old or a woman lose her beauty. (The + MOTHER comes into the room.) Or a woman lose her beauty—Madame, I + kiss your hands. Were I of less girth I would flit through the window + and fall upon my knees at your feet. (The FIDDLER with a shrug goes + out.) As it is, I shall enter by the door in the usual way. I have your + permission? + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (smiling). You asked my permission a week ago. You do not need to + ask it now. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (still at the window). It has been a happy week. The week has + liked me well. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. You take the road again this afternoon. Your plan still holds? + </p> + <p> + TALKER (with a sigh). They say so, lady. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. Who say so? Is not Master Johannes the master of his company? + Who say so? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. The birds. I held converse with a cuckoo-bird this morning. + "Cuckoo," he said—in this manner (he imitates it on his pipe)—meaning, + as I gathered, "O fool!" I bowed low to him, and "Pardon, bird," said I,—"but + I would have you tell me why I am a fool." He answered thus in parables—"Cuckoo." + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. And what did <i>that</i> mean? + </p> + <p> + TALKER (sighing). It meant, "There's no fool like an old fool." + </p> + <p> + (She looks away. He waits a little, then sighs again and leaves the + window, entering a moment later by the door.) + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (looking up). Well, Sir? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Madame, I am a man of good family, although—although I + quarrelled with my good family. I left them many years ago and took to + the road. I have seen something of the world since then, but I think I + must always have had at the back of my mind some dim picture of what a + home was—some ancient memory, perhaps. That memory has been very + strong within me these last days. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. You have liked my home, Master Johannes? + </p> + <p> + TALKER. I have liked it well. (He takes out his pipe and plays a + melancholy "Cuckoo.") Well, well—we start this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. You want my daughter? + </p> + <p> + TALKER (sadly). Not your daughter, Madame. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. What is it you want? Are you so backward in asking? It is not + like the Master Johannes who came to my house eight days ago. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (taking his courage in his hands). Madame, though I have wandered + about the world, I have saved some pennies in my time. A few trifling + coins—enough for middle-age. Since I have had the great honour of + knowing you—(He breaks of as the voice of the SINGER to full song + is heard approaching.) Oh, God bless that poor young fool! Madame, I + entreat you— + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (rising and moving hastily away). Another time, dear Johannes—(she + smiles very fondly at him as she goes out)—another time you must + tell me—all. + </p> + <p> + (The TALKER stares after her, hardly believing. Then, with an air of + solemn happiness, he takes out his pipe and dances carefully but + cheerfully round the room, piping to himself. The SINGER comes in + singing merrily, He joins the TALKER at the end of the room, turns round + with hint and trips up and down the room with him, one singing and the + other piping.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Friend, we are gay. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Very, very gay, Master Johannes. (They turn round and go up and + down the room as before.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Something is stirring our middle-aged blood. I feel years + younger. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. I have only just been born. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (with a wave of the hand): Shall we take another turn? + </p> + <p> + SINGER. At your pleasure. (They go up and down as before.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER (looking at the other anxiously out of the corners of his eyes). + What do you think has happened to us? + </p> + <p> + SINGER (with a similar look). I—I wonder. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (nervously). I suppose the fact that we are going off this + afternoon—the joy of returning to our old gay life is—is + affecting us? + </p> + <p> + SINGER. I—I suppose so. (Without enthusiasm) Yes, that must be it. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. This cauliflower existence, this settled life which even the + least enterprising cabbage would find monotonous, we have had more than + enough of it, my friend. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Yes. (He sighs deeply.) I sigh to think how we have wasted these + eight days. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Ah! (He sighs still more deeply.) However, Heaven be praised, we + are for the road this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + SINGER (gloomily). Heaven be praised! It is a grand life. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (carelessly). Of course, if you came to me and said, "Johannes," + you said, "I left my home in a fit of melancholy five months agone; the + melancholy is cured, I will return home again"—why, I would say, + "God bless you, Master Duke; go your way." Well, I can understand such a + thing happening to a man of your age, not born to the wandering as I am. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Bless you, Johannes, you are a true gentleman. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (airily). Say no more, say no more. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. But I cannot accept this sacrifice. I pledged myself to serve + you for a year, and I'll keep my pledge. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (considerably upset by this). Wait a moment, Master Duke; I have + myself thought of retiring these many months past. Indeed, it was only + for your sake— + </p> + <p> + SINGER. No, no, I cannot allow it. It is only for my sake that you are + saying this. We will take the road this afternoon. (Heroically) Indeed, + I would infinitely prefer it. I am enamoured of the wandering life. + </p> + <p> + TALKER. It is a great life. It means everything to me. + </p> + <p> + (They stand side by side looking gloomily in front of them. Gradually + they begin to glance towards each other; they catch each other's eyes—and + understand each other thoroughly.) + </p> + <p> + TALKER (clapping the SINGER heartily on the back). I knew it, I knew it! + You and the wandering life! + </p> + <p> + SINGER (delightedly). You, too, Johannes! You've had enough of it! + </p> + <p> + (They suddenly turn round and go up and down the room together, piping + and singing. A genteel cough is heard outside the window, and the MOTHER + is seen for a moment. The TALKER turns round with his pipe to his lips. + They go up the room together again, and at the top the TALKER, with a + wave of the hand, leaves his companion and goes out. He is seen passing + the window.) + </p> + <p> + [The DAUGHTER comes in.] + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Sweetheart! + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (going to him). Is it all right? + </p> + <p> + SINGER. Everything is all right, beloved. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. You have told him? + </p> + <p> + SINGER (nodding). It couldn't have fallen out better. He, too, was tired + of wandering and wanted to settle down. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. I told mother. She seemed glad. You know, I think she seems + younger about something. + </p> + <p> + [Enter FIDDLER.] + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. Are we starting this afternoon? + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. Oh, Fiddler dear, do you mind very much? (She holds out her + hand, and the SINGER takes it.) We aren't coming at all. We—we— + </p> + <p> + SINGER. We are getting married. + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER (nodding to herself). I thought so. + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER. But you will come and stay with us sometimes. Oh, say you + will! + </p> + <p> + SINGER (smiling at FIDDLER with great friendliness). Of course she will. + </p> + <p> + (The TALKER and the MOTHER are seen coming least the windows.) + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. There's Johannes. I expect we shall be starting this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + [The TALKER and the MOTHER come in arm-in-arm. He bows to her and takes + the floor.] + </p> + <p> + TALKER. Ladies and gentlemen, companions-in-arms, knights and ladies of + the road, comrades all,—I have the honour to make an announcement + to you. The wandering company of the Red Feathers is determined from + this date, likewise disbanded, or, as others would say, dissolved. "What + means this, Master Johannes?" I hear you say. "Who has done this thing?" + Ladies and gentles all, I answer you that young Cupid has done this + thing. With unerring aim he has loosed his arrows. With the same happy + arrow (taking the MOTHER'S hand) he has pierced the hearts of this + gracious lady and myself, while yonder gallant gentleman I name no + names, but the perspicacious will perceive whom I mean—is about to + link his life with the charming maiden who stands so modestly by his + side. There is one other noble lady present to whom I have not yet + referred— + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER (holding out her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go. + Good-bye, and thank you. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (continuing his speech)—noble lady to whom I have not yet + referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the + fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish of + (swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should take up + her abode with us. + </p> + <p> + FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think— + </p> + <p> + DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she + promised. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be much + more suitable that she should live with <i>us</i>. + </p> + <p> + SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see you + whenever she liked. + </p> + <p> + MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and come and + see <i>you</i> sometimes. + </p> + <p> + TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to this? + For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year, she shall + live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her habitation with + us; whereas for the other six months—(They have been so busy + discussing the future of the FIDDLER that they have not noticed that she + is no longer there. Suddenly the sound of the fiddle is heard.) What's + that? + </p> + <p> + [The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in it. + She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content again. + She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them a little + bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She goes out of + the door, still playing; she is still playing as she goes past the + windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she is gone they still + listen until the music dies in the distance.] + </p> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of First Plays, by A. A. 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