LEONARD. What’s in that other dish? (_She takes off the cover._)
Kidneys? What are the kidneys like?
ANNE. Well, you can see what they _look_ like.
LEONARD. Did you try one?
ANNE (_impatiently_). They’re delightful, I tried several. (_She helps
him_) There! Got the toast? Butter? Salt? What is it?
LEONARD. Pepper.
ANNE. Pepper—there. Now have you got everything?
LEONARD. Yes, thank you, my dear. (_He picks up his knife and fork._)
ANNE (_putting them down again_). Then before you actually begin, I
have something I want to say to you.
LEONARD. You’re very mysterious. What is it?
ANNE. There is nothing mysterious about it at all. It’s perfectly
plain and obvious. Only I do want you to grasp it.
LEONARD. Well? (_He blows his nose. She waits for him to finish._)
Well? (_He is still flourishing his handkerchief. She waits patiently.
He puts it back in his pocket._) Well?
ANNE. The car will be here in a quarter of an hour.
LEONARD. The car?
ANNE. The automobile.
LEONARD. But whose?
ANNE. Ours. More accurately, yours.
LEONARD. But what for?
ANNE (_patiently_). We are running away together, dear. You and I. It
had slipped your memory perhaps, but I assure you it is a fact. The
car will take us to Dover, and the boat will take us to Calais, and
the train will take us to the South of France. You and I, dear. When
you’ve finished your breakfast.
LEONARD. But what about Latimer?
ANNE. Just you and I, dear. Two of us only. The usual number. We shall
not take Mr. Latimer.
LEONARD. My dear Anne, you seem quite to have forgotten that this
confounded fellow Latimer has got us prisoners here until he chooses
to let us go. (_With dignity_) _I_ have not forgotten. I eat his
kidneys now, but he shall hear from me afterwards. Damned
interference!
ANNE. Have you been dreaming, Leonard? _Before_ all these kippers and
kidneys and things?
LEONARD. Dreaming?
ANNE. The car will be here in a quarter of an hour. Why not? It is
_your_ car. This is England; this is the twentieth century. We missed
the boat and spent the night here. We go on our way this morning. Why
not?
LEONARD. Well, you know, I said last night it was perfectly ridiculous
for Latimer to talk that way. I mean, what has it got to do with
_him_? Just a bit of leg-pulling—that’s what I felt all the time.
Stupid joke. (_Picking up his knife and fork_) Bad taste too.
ANNE. You did hear what I said, didn’t you? The car will be here in a
quarter of an hour. I don’t know how long it takes you to—(_she
glances him over_) to shave, and—and dress properly, and—and brush
your hair, but I fancy you ought to be thinking about it quite
seriously. (_Kindly_) You can have some more kidneys another time.
LEONARD. B-but I can’t possibly go like this.
ANNE. No, that’s what I say.
LEONARD. I mean I haven’t got any luggage for one thing—and, with a
cold like this, I’m not at all sure——
ANNE. You’ve lost your luggage?
LEONARD. Apparently it was left behind by——
ANNE (_with anger_). You let yourself be tricked and humiliated by
this Mr. Latimer, you let _me_ be humiliated, and then when I say
that, whatever happens, I won’t be humiliated, you—you lose your
luggage!
LEONARD. _I_ didn’t lose it. It just happens to _be_ lost.
ANNE. And you catch a cold!
LEONARD. _I_ didn’t catch it. It caught _me_.
ANNE. The—the humiliation of it!... And what do you propose to do
now?
LEONARD. As soon as my luggage turns up, and I am well enough to
travel——
ANNE. Meanwhile you accept this man’s hospitality——
LEONARD. Under protest. (_Helping himself from the dish._) I shall
keep a careful account of everything that we have here——
ANNE. Well, that’s your third kidney; you’d better make a note of it.
LEONARD (_with dignity_). As it happens I was helping myself to a
trifle more bacon.... As I say, I shall keep a careful account, and
send him a cheque for our board and lodging as soon as we have left
his roof.
ANNE. Oh!... I had some coffee and one slice of toast and a little
marmalade. About a spoonful. And a cup of tea and two thin slices of
bread and butter upstairs. Oh, and I’ve had two baths. They’re extra,
aren’t they? A hot one last night and a cold one this morning. I
think that’s all. Except supper last night, and you wouldn’t let me
finish that, so I expect there’ll be a reduction.... You want a
note-book with one of those little pencils in it.
LEONARD (_reproachfully_). I say, Anne, look here——
ANNE. Do go on with your breakfast.
LEONARD. You’re being awfully unfair. How can we possibly go now? Why,
I haven’t even got a pair of trousers to put on.
ANNE. You’re not going to say you’ve lost those too!
LEONARD (_sulkily_). It’s not my fault. That fellow—What’s ’is
name——
ANNE (_wonderingly_). What made you ever _think_ that you could take
anybody to the South of France? Without any practice at all?... Now,
if you had been taking an aunt to Hammersmith—well, you might have
lost a bus or two ... and your hat might have blown off ... and you
would probably have found yourselves at Hampstead the first two or
three times ... and your aunt would have stood up the whole way ...
but still you might have got there eventually. I mean, it would be
worth trying—if your aunt was very anxious to get to Hammersmith. But
the South of France! My dear Leonard! It’s so audacious of you.
LEONARD (_annoyed_). Now, look here, Anne——
(_MR. LATIMER comes in cheerily with shaving-pot, brush,
safety-razor, and towel._)
LATIMER. Now then, Leonard, we’ll soon have you all right. (_He puts
the things down._) Ah, Anne! You don’t mind waiting while Leonard has
a shave? He wanted to grow a special beard for the Continent, but I
persuaded him not to. The French accent will be quite enough.
(_Picking up the razor_) Do you mind Wednesday’s blade? I used
Tuesday’s myself this morning.
ANNE (_all sweetness in a moment_). Oh, Mr. Latimer, I find that we
shall not want the car after all.
LATIMER. No?
ANNE. No. Poor Leonard is hardly well enough to travel. I hope that by
to-morrow, perhaps—— But I am afraid that we must trespass on your
hospitality until then. I am so sorry.
LATIMER. But I am charmed to have you. Let me tell your maid to
unpack.
ANNE. Don’t trouble, thanks. I’ve got to take my hat off. (_Very
lovingly for LATIMER’S benefit_) I shan’t be a moment, Leonard
darling.
(_She goes out, her chin in the air. She is still carrying it
off._)
LATIMER. Now then, Leonard darling, to work.
LEONARD (_picking up the things_). Thanks.
LATIMER. But where are you going?
LEONARD. Upstairs, of course.
LATIMER. Is that wise? With a cold like yours?
LEONARD. Damn it, I can’t shave down here.
LATIMER. Oh, come, we mustn’t stand on ceremony when your life is at
stake. You were complaining only five minutes ago of the draught in
your room. Now, here we have a nice even temperature——
LEONARD. Well, there’s something in that.
LATIMER. There’s everything in it. Of course you’ve never had a cold
before, so you don’t know, but any doctor will tell you how important
it is to stay in one room—with a nice even temperature. You mustn’t
dream of going upstairs.
LEONARD (_surrendering_). Well——
LATIMER. That’s right. Got everything you want? There are plenty of
mirrors. Which period do you prefer? Queen Anne?
LEONARD. It’s all right, thanks.
LATIMER. Good. Then I’ll leave you to it.
(_He goes out. Standing in front of a glass on the wall, LEONARD
applies the soap. His cheeks are just getting beautifully creamy
when NICHOLAS enters._)
NICHOLAS. Hallo!
LEONARD (_looking round_). Hallo!
NICHOLAS. Shaving?
LEONARD (_exasperated_). Well, what the devil did you think I was
doing?
NICHOLAS. Shaving. (_He sits down. LEONARD gets on with the good
work._)
LEONARD. A-tish-oo!
NICHOLAS. Got a cold?
LEONARD. Obviously.
NICHOLAS (_sympathetically_). Horrid, sneezing when you’re all covered
with soap.
LEONARD. Look here, I didn’t ask for your company, and I don’t want
your comments.
NICHOLAS. Well, if it comes to that, I was here first, and I didn’t
ask you to shave in the hall.
LEONARD (_with dignity_). There are reasons why it is necessary for me
to shave in the hall.
NICHOLAS. Don’t bother to tell me. I know ’em.
LEONARD. What do you mean?
NICHOLAS. You’re the couple that arrived last night.
LEONARD (_looking at him, thoughtfully_). And you’re the couple that
is leaving this morning.
NICHOLAS. Exactly.
LEONARD. Yes, but I don’t see——
NICHOLAS. You haven’t tumbled to it yet?
LEONARD. Tumbled to what?
NICHOLAS. The fact that a week ago there were reasons why it was
necessary for _me_ to shave in the hall.
LEONARD. You!... You don’t mean——
NICHOLAS. Yes, I do.
LEONARD. You lost your luggage?
NICHOLAS. Yes.
LEONARD. You woke up with a cold?
NICHOLAS. Yes.... Horrid, sneezing when you’re all covered with soap.
LEONARD (_excitedly_). I say, that fellow—what’s ’is name—didn’t
drop _your_ clothes in the bath?
NICHOLAS. Oh, rather.... Damned smart chap, Latimer.
LEONARD. Damned scoundrel.
NICHOLAS. Oh no. He’s quite right. One learns a lot down here.
LEONARD. I shall leave his house at once ... as soon as I have shaved.
NICHOLAS. You still want to? (_LEONARD looks at him in surprise_) Oh,
well, you’ve hardly been here long enough, I suppose.
LEONARD. What do you mean? Don’t _you_ want to any more?
NICHOLAS. Latimer’s quite right, you know. One learns a lot down here.
LEONARD (_shaving_). What about the lady?
NICHOLAS. That’s the devil of it.
LEONARD. My dear fellow, as a man of honour, you’re bound to go on.
NICHOLAS. As a man of honour, ought I ever to have started?
LEONARD (_little knowing_). Naturally I can’t give an opinion on that.
NICHOLAS. No.... You want to be careful with that glass. The light
isn’t too good. I should go over it all again.
LEONARD (_stiffly_). Thank you. I am accustomed to shaving myself.
NICHOLAS. I was just offering a little expert advice. You needn’t take
it.
LEONARD (_surveying himself doubtfully_). H’m, perhaps you’re right.
(_He lathers himself again. In the middle of it he stops and says_)
Curious creatures, women.
NICHOLAS. Amazing.
LEONARD. It’s a life’s work in itself trying to understand ’em. And
then you’re no further.
NICHOLAS. A week told _me_ all I wanted to know.
LEONARD. They’re so unexpected.
NICHOLAS. So unreasonable.
LEONARD. What was it the poet said about them?
NICHOLAS. What didn’t he say?
LEONARD. No, _you_ know the one I mean. How does it begin?... “O
woman, in our hours of ease——”
NICHOLAS. “Uncertain, coy and hard to please.”
LEONARD. That’s it. Well, I grant you _that_——
NICHOLAS. Grant it me! I should think you do! They throw it at you
with both hands.
LEONARD. But in the next two lines he misses the point altogether.
When—what is it?—“When pain and anguish wring the brow”——
NICHOLAS (_with feeling_). “A ministering angel thou.”
LEONARD. Yes, and it’s a lie. It’s simply a lie.
NICHOLAS. My dear fellow, it’s the truest thing anybody ever said.
Only—only one gets too much of it.
LEONARD. True? Nonsense!
NICHOLAS. Evidently you don’t know anything about women.
LEONARD (_indignantly_). _I!_ Not know anything about women!
NICHOLAS. Well, you said yourself just now that you didn’t.
LEONARD. I never said—— What I said——
NICHOLAS. If you did know anything about ’em, you’d know that there’s
nothing they like more than doing the ministering angel business.
LEONARD. Ministering angel!
NICHOLAS. Won’t you have a little more of this, and won’t you have a
little more of that, and how is the poor cold to-day, and——
LEONARD. You really think that women talk like that?
NICHOLAS. How else do you think they talk?
LEONARD. My dear fellow!... Why, I mean, just take my own case as an
example. Here am I, with a very nasty cold, the first I’ve ever had in
my life. I sit down for a bit of breakfast—not wanting it
particularly, but feeling that, for the sake of my health, I ought to
try and eat something. And what happens?
(_LATIMER has come in during this speech. He stops and listens to
it._)
LATIMER (_trying to guess the answer_). You eat too much.
LEONARD (_turning round angrily_). Ah, so it’s you! You have come just
in time, Mr. Latimer. I propose to leave your house at once.
LATIMER (_surprised_). Not like that? Not with a little bit of soap
behind the ear? (_LEONARD hastily wipes it._) The other ear. (_LEONARD
wipes that one_) That’s right.
LEONARD. At once, sir.
NICHOLAS. You’d better come with us. We’re just going.
LEONARD. Thank you.
LATIMER. Four of you. A nice little party.
_ANNE comes in._
LEONARD. Anne, my dear, we are leaving the house at once. Are you
ready?
ANNE. But——
EUSTASIA (_from outside_). Nich-o-las!
(_LEONARD looks up in astonishment._)
NICHOLAS (_gloomily_). Hallo!
EUSTASIA. Where are you?
NICHOLAS. Here!
_EUSTASIA comes in._
EUSTASIA. Are you ready, darling? (_She stops on seeing them all, and
looks from one to the other. She sees her husband_) Leonard!
NICHOLAS (_understanding_). Leonard!
LEONARD. Eustasia!
ANNE. Eustasia!
(_They stare at each other—open-mouthed—all but MR. LATIMER.
MR. LATIMER has picked up “The Times,” and seems to have forgotten
that they are there...._)
ANNE (_after hours and hours_). Oh, isn’t anybody going to say
anything? Mr. Latimer, while Leonard is thinking of something, you
might introduce me to his wife.
LATIMER (_recalled suddenly from the leading article_). I beg your
pardon! Eustasia, this is Anne.
ANNE. How do you do? (_Not that she minds._)
EUSTASIA. How do you do? (_Nor she._)
LATIMER. Leonard, this is Nicholas.
NICHOLAS (_nodding_). We’ve met. Quite old friends.
LEONARD (_indignantly_). I repudiate the friendship. We met under
false pretences. I—I—Well, upon my word, I don’t know _what_ to say.
NICHOLAS. Then don’t say it, old boy. Here we all are, and we’ve got
to make the best of it.
LEONARD. I—I—_a-tish-oo!_
EUSTASIA (_alarmed_). Leonard, you have a cold?
NICHOLAS. A very nasty cold.
ANNE (_coldly_). It will be better when he has finished his breakfast.
LEONARD (_hurt_). I _have_ finished my breakfast. A long time ago.
ANNE. I beg your pardon. (_She indicates the towel round his neck_) I
misunderstood.
LEONARD (_pulling it away_). I’ve been shaving.
EUSTASIA. But, Leonard dear, I don’t understand. I’ve never known you
ill before.
LEONARD. I never have been ill before. But I am ill now. Very ill. And
nobody minds. Nobody minds at all. This fellow Latimer invaygles me
here—
LATIMER. Inveegles.
LEONARD. I shall pronounce it how I like. It is quite time I asserted
myself. I have been too patient. You invaygle me here and purposely
give me a cold. You—(_pointing accusingly to ANNE_)—are entirely
unmoved by my sufferings, instead of which you make fun of the very
simple breakfast which I had forced myself to eat. You—(_to
NICHOLAS_)—run away with my wife, at a time when I am ill and unable
to protect her, and you—(_to EUSTASIA_)—well, all I can say is that
you surprise me, Eustasia, you surprise me. I didn’t think you had it
in you.
LATIMER. A masterly summing up of the case. Well, I hope you’re all
ashamed of yourselves.
EUSTASIA. But, Leonard, how rash of you to _think_ of running away
with a cold like this. (_She goes up and comforts him_) You must take
care of yourself—Eustasia will take care of you and get you well.
Poor boy! He had a nasty, nasty cold, and nobody looked after him.
Mr. Latimer, I shall want some mustard, and hot water, and
eucalyptus.
LATIMER. But of course!
LEONARD (_to ANNE_). There you are! As soon as somebody who really
understands illness comes on the scene, you see what happens. Mustard,
hot water, eucalyptus—she has it all at her finger-ends.
_Enter DOMINIC._
DOMINIC. Yes, sir?
LATIMER. A small mustard and water for his lordship.
EUSTASIA. It’s to put his feet in, not to drink.
LATIMER. A large mustard and water.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
EUSTASIA. Hot water.
DOMINIC. Yes, my lady.
EUSTASIA. And if you have any eucalyptus——
DOMINIC. Yes, my lady; we got some in specially for his lordship.
LATIMER. Did Mr. Nicholas absorb all the last bottle?
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
NICHOLAS (_with feeling_). I fairly lived on it.
DOMINIC (_to EUSTASIA_). Is there anything else his lordship will
require?
NICHOLAS. What about a mustard-plaster?
LEONARD. Please mind your own business.
EUSTASIA. No, I don’t think there’s anything else, thank you.
NICHOLAS. Well, I call that very unfair. I had one.
LEONARD (_asserting his rights as a husband_). Oh, did you? Well, in
that case, Eustasia, I certainly don’t see why——
LATIMER (_to DOMINIC_). Two mustard-plasters. We mustn’t grudge his
lordship anything.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
[_He retires._
EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). Now come over here, darling, away from the
door. (_She leads him to an arm-chair in the corner of the room_) Lean
on me.
ANNE. Surely one can walk with a cold in the head!
NICHOLAS. No, it’s very dangerous.
LATIMER. Nicholas speaks as an expert.
EUSTASIA (_settling LEONARD_). There! Is that comfy?
LEONARD. Thank you, Eustasia.
EUSTASIA. We’ll soon have you all right, dear.
LEONARD (_pressing her hand_). Thank you.
LATIMER (_after a little silence_). Well, as Nicholas said just now,
“Here we all are, and we’ve got to make the best of it.” What are we
all going to do?
ANNE. Please leave me out of it. (_She is beaten, but that doesn’t
matter. The only thing that matters now is to get out of this horrible
house._) I can make my own arrangements. (_She gives them a cool
little bow as she goes out._) If you will excuse me.
(_DOMINIC comes in with a clinical thermometer on a tray._)
DOMINIC. I thought that her ladyship might require a thermometer for
his lordship’s temperature.
EUSTASIA. Thank you. I think it would be safer just to take it. And I
wondered if we couldn’t just put this screen round his lordship’s
chair.
DOMINIC. Certainly, my lady, one can’t be too careful. (_He helps her
with it._)
EUSTASIA. Yes, that’s right.
LATIMER (_to NICHOLAS_). Did _you_ have the screen?
NICHOLAS. Oh, rather.
LATIMER. And the thermometer?
NICHOLAS. Yes.... Funny thing was I liked it just at first. I don’t
mean the actual thermometer, I mean all the fussing.
LATIMER. It’s a wonderful invention, a cold in the head. It finds you
out. There’s nothing like it, Nicholas, nothing.
EUSTASIA (_to DOMINIC_). Thank you. And you’re bringing the other
things?
DOMINIC. Yes, my lady, as soon as ready.
[_He goes out._
EUSTASIA. Thank you. (_To LEONARD_) Now, dear, under the tongue. (_She
puts it in his mouth._)
LEONARD (_mumbling_). I don’t think I ever——
EUSTASIA. No, dear, don’t try to talk.
(_And now it is the turn of NICHOLAS._)
NICHOLAS (_coming close to LATIMER_). I say——
LATIMER. Well?
NICHOLAS (_indicating the screen_). I say, not too loud.
LATIMER (_in a whisper_). Well?
NICHOLAS. Well, what about it?
LATIMER. What about what?
NICHOLAS. I mean, where do I come in? As a man of honour, oughtn’t I
to—er—— You see what I mean? Of course I want to do the right
thing.
LATIMER. Naturally, my dear Nicholas. It’s what one expected of you.
NICHOLAS. I thought that if I slipped away now, unostentatiously....
LATIMER. With just a parting word of farewell——
NICHOLAS. Well, that was what I was wondering. Would anything in the
nature of a farewell be in good taste?
LATIMER. I see your point.
NICHOLAS. Don’t think that I’m not just as devoted to Eustasia as ever
I was.
LATIMER. But you feel that in the circumstances you could worship her
from afar with more propriety.
NICHOLAS (_waving a hand at the screen_). Yes. You see, I had no idea
that they were so devoted.
LATIMER. But their devotion may not last for ever.
NICHOLAS. Exactly. That’s why I thought I’d slip away now.
LATIMER. Oh, Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas!
NICHOLAS (_a little offended_). Well, I don’t want to say anything
against Eustasia——
LATIMER. The house is full of people who don’t want to say anything
against Eustasia.
NICHOLAS. But, you see—— Look out, here’s Miss Anne.
_ANNE comes in._
LATIMER. Anne, you’re just in time. Nicholas wants your advice.
NICHOLAS. I say, shut up! We can’t very well——
ANNE (_with all that is left of her dignity, but she is only a child
after all_). Mr. Latimer, I went upstairs to get my things and find my
way to the nearest railway station. But—but there is a reason why I
am not going after all. Just yet. I thought I’d better tell you.
LATIMER. Were you really thinking of going? (_She nods._) I’m so glad
you’ve changed your mind.
ANNE (_with a smile_). There are reasons why I had to.
LATIMER. Bless them!... Nicholas, I believe she stayed just so that
she might help you.
ANNE. What does Mr. Nicholas want?
NICHOLAS. I say, it’s awfully good of you and all that, but this is
rather—I mean, it’s a question that a fellow ought to settle for
himself.
LATIMER. What he means is, ought _he_ to get his things and find his
way to the nearest railway station?
ANNE (_dismayed_). Oh no!
LATIMER. There you are, Nicholas.
NICHOLAS (_rather flattered_). Oh, well—well—— (_He looks at her
admiringly_) Well, perhaps you’re right.
EUSTASIA (_the three minutes up_). There! (_She takes the thermometer
out and comes from behind the screen in order to get nearer the
light._)
LATIMER. His temperature! This is an exciting moment in the history of
the House of Lords. (_He follows EUSTASIA to the window._)
NICHOLAS (_to ANNE_). I say, do you really think I ought to stay?
ANNE. Please, Mr. Nicholas, I want you to stay.
NICHOLAS. Righto! then I’ll stay.
LATIMER (_over EUSTASIA’S shoulder_). A hundred and nine.
LEONARD (_putting his head round the screen_). I say, what ought it to
be?
NICHOLAS. Ninety-eight.
LEONARD. Good Lord! I’m dying!
EUSTASIA. It’s just ninety-nine. A little over normal, Leonard, but
nothing to matter.
LATIMER. _Ninety_-nine—so it is. I should never have forgiven myself
if it had been a hundred and nine.
NICHOLAS (_coming up to LATIMER_). It’s all right, I’m going to.
EUSTASIA (_surprised_). Going to? Going to what?
NICHOLAS (_confused_). Oh, nothing.
LATIMER. What he means is that he is going to be firm. He thinks we
all ought to have a little talk about things. Just to see where we
are.
EUSTASIA. Well, things aren’t quite as they were, are they? If I’d
known that Leonard was ill—but I’ve seen so little of him lately. And
he’s _never_ been ill before!
NICHOLAS. Of course we ought to know where we are.
LATIMER. Yes. At present Leonard is behind that screen, which makes it
difficult to discuss things properly. Leonard, could you——
EUSTASIA. Oh, we mustn’t take any risks! But if we moved the screen a
little, and all sat up at that end of the room——
LATIMER. Delightful!
NICHOLAS (_leading the way_). Sit here, Miss Anne, won’t you?
(_They arrange themselves. LATIMER in the middle._)
LATIMER. There! Now, are we all here?... We are. Then with your
permission, Ladies and Gentlemen, I will open the proceedings with a
short speech.
NICHOLAS. Oh, I say, must you?
LATIMER. Certainly.
EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). Hush, dear.
LEONARD. I didn’t say anything.
EUSTASIA. No, but you were just going to.
LATIMER (_severely_). Seeing that I refrained from making my speech
when Leonard had the thermometer in his mouth, the least he can do now
is to listen in silence.
LEONARD. Well, I’m——
LATIMER. I resume.... By a fortunate concatenation of circumstances,
ladies and gentlemen—or, as more illiterate men would say, by a bit
of luck—two runaway couples have met under my roof. No need to
mention names. You can all guess for yourselves. But I call now—this
is the end of my speech, Leonard—I call now upon my noble friend on
the right to tell us just why he left the devoted wife by his side in
order to travel upon the Continent.
LEONARD. Well, really——
LATIMER. Naturally Leonard does not wish to say anything against
Eustasia. Very creditable to him. But can it be that the devoted wife
by his side wishes to say anything against Leonard?
EUSTASIA. You neglected me, Leonard, you know you did. And when I was
so ill——
LEONARD. My dear, you were _always_ ill. That was the trouble.
LATIMER. And you were never ill, Leonard. _That_ was the trouble....
You heartless ruffian!
EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). Hush, dear.
LATIMER. Why couldn’t you have had a cold sometimes? Why couldn’t you
have come home with a broken leg, or lost your money, or made a rotten
speech in the House of Lords? If she could never be sorry for _you_,
for whom else could she be sorry, except herself? (_To EUSTASIA_) I
don’t suppose he even lost his umbrella, did he?
ANNE (_feeling that anything is possible to a man who mislays his
trousers_). Oh, he must have lost that.
LATIMER. Eustasia, ladies and gentlemen, is one of those dear women,
those sweet women, those delightful women—(_aside to ANNE_)—stop me
if I’m overdoing it—those adorable women who must always cosset or be
cosseted. She couldn’t cosset Leonard; Leonard wouldn’t cosset her.
Hence—the Dover Road.
EUSTASIA. How well you understand, Mr. Latimer!
LATIMER. Enter, then, my friend Nicholas. (_Shaking his head at him_)
Oh, Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas!
NICHOLAS (_uneasily_). What’s all that about?
LATIMER. Anything you say will be used in evidence against you.
Proceed, my young friend.
NICHOLAS. Well—well—well—I mean, there she was.
LATIMER. Lonely.
NICHOLAS. Exactly.
LATIMER. Neglected by her brute of a husband—(_As LEONARD opens his
mouth_) fingers crossed, Leonard—who spent day and night rioting in
the House of Lords while his poor little wife cried at home.
NICHOLAS. Well——
LATIMER. Then out spake bold Sir Nicholas—(_Aside to ANNE_) This was
also composed in my bath—
Then out spake bold Sir Nicholas,
An Oxford man was he;
“Lo, I will write a note to-night
And ask her out to tea.”
NICHOLAS. Well, you see——
LATIMER. I see, Nicholas.... And so here we all are.
ANNE. Except me.
LATIMER. I guessed at you, Anne. Did I guess right?
ANNE (_meekly_). Yes.
LATIMER. And so here we all are.... And what are we all going to do?
My house is at your disposal for as long as you wish. The doors are
open for those who wish to go.... Eustasia?
EUSTASIA. My duty is to stay here—to look after my husband.
LATIMER. Well, that settles Eustasia.... Anne?
ANNE. Of necessity I must stay here—for the present.
LATIMER. Well, that settles Anne.... Nicholas?
NICHOLAS. I stay here too—(_looking at ANNE_) from choice.
LATIMER. Well, that settles Nicholas.... Leonard?
(_DOMINIC, followed by all the Staff, comes in, together with a
collection of mustard-baths, plasters, eucalyptus, etc., etc._)
LATIMER (_looking round at the interruption_). Ah!... And this will
settle Leonard.
(_It settles him._)
ACT III
_Three days later, and evening again. ANNE is busy with a pencil and
paper, an A.B.C., and her purse. She is trying to work out how much it
costs to go home, and subtracting three and fourpence ha’penny from
it. Having done this, she puts the paper, pencil, and purse in her
bag, returns the A.B.C. to its home, and goes towards the door. One
gathers that she has come to a decision._
* * * * *
ANNE (_calling_). Nich-o-las!
NICHOLAS (_from outside_). Hallo!
ANNE. Where—are—you?
NICHOLAS. Coming. (_He comes._) Just went upstairs to get a pipe.
(_Putting his hand to his pocket_) And now I’ve forgotten it.
(_They go to the sofa together._)
ANNE. Oh, Nicholas, how silly you are! (_She sits down._)
NICHOLAS (_sitting close_). I don’t want to smoke, you know.
ANNE. I thought men always did.
NICHOLAS. Well, it depends what they’re doing.
(_There is no doubt what he is doing. He is making love to ANNE,
the dog, and ANNE is encouraging him._)
ANNE (_looking away_). Oh!
NICHOLAS. I say, it has been rather jolly here the last three days,
don’t you think?
ANNE. It _has_ been rather nice.
NICHOLAS. We’ve sort of got so friendly.
ANNE. We have, haven’t we?
NICHOLAS. You’ve been awfully nice to me.
ANNE. You’ve been nice to _me_.
NICHOLAS. I should have gone, you know, if it hadn’t been for you.
ANNE. I don’t know _what_ I should have done if you had gone.
NICHOLAS. You did ask me to stay, didn’t you?
ANNE. Yes, I couldn’t let you go.
NICHOLAS. Do you know what you said? You said, “Please, Mr. Nicholas,
I want you to stay.” I shall always remember that. (_Fatuously to
himself_) “Please, Mr. Nicholas, I want you to stay.” I wonder what
made you think of saying that?
ANNE. I wanted us to be friends. I wanted to get to know you; to make
you think of me as—as your friend.
NICHOLAS. We _are_ friends, Anne, aren’t we?
ANNE. I think we are now, Nicholas.
NICHOLAS (_with a sentimental sigh_). Friends!
(_ANNE looks at him, wondering if she shall risk it; then away
again; then summons up her courage and takes the plunge._)
ANNE. Nicholas!
NICHOLAS. Yes?
ANNE (_timidly_). I—I want you to do something for me.
NICHOLAS. Anything, Anne, anything.
ANNE. I don’t know whether I ought to ask you.
NICHOLAS. Of course you ought!
ANNE. But you see, we _are_ friends—almost like brother and
sister——
NICHOLAS (_disappointed_). Well, I shouldn’t put it quite like
that——
ANNE. And I thought I might ask you——
NICHOLAS. Of course, Anne! You know I would do anything for you.
ANNE. Yes.... Well—well—— (_In a rush_) Well, then, will you lend
me one pound two and sixpence till next Monday?
NICHOLAS. Lend you——!
ANNE. To-day’s Friday, I’ll send you the money off on Sunday. I
promise. Of course I know one oughtn’t to borrow from men, but you’re
different. Almost like a brother. I knew you would understand.
NICHOLAS. But—but—I _don’t_ understand.
ANNE (_ashamed_). You see, I—I only have three and fourpence
ha’penny. And it costs one pound five and twopence to get home.
(_Indignantly_) Oh, it’s a shame the way men always pay for us, and
then when we really want money we haven’t got any.... But I will pay
you back on Sunday. I have some money at home; I meant to have brought
it.
NICHOLAS. But—but why do you suddenly——
ANNE. Suddenly? I’ve been wanting it ever since that first morning. I
went upstairs to get my hat, meaning to walk straight out of the
house—and then I looked in my purse and found—(_pathetically_) three
and fourpence ha’penny. What was I to do?
NICHOLAS. Any one would have lent you anything.
ANNE (_coldly_). Leonard, for instance?
NICHOLAS (_thoughtfully_). Well ... no.... No. You couldn’t very well
have touched Leonard. But Latimer——
ANNE. Mr. Latimer! The man who had brought us here, locked us up here,
and started playing Providence to us—I was to go on my knees to _him_
and say, “Please, dear Mr. Latimer, could you lend me one pound two
and sixpence, so that I may run away from your horrid house?” Really!
NICHOLAS. Well, you seem to have been pretty friendly with him these
three days.
ANNE. Naturally I am polite to a man when I am staying in his house.
That’s different.
NICHOLAS. As a matter of fact, Latimer has been jolly decent. Anyway,
he has saved us both from making silly asses of ourselves.
ANNE. And you think I am grateful to him for that?... Doesn’t _any_
man understand _any_ woman?
NICHOLAS (_annoyed_). Are you suggesting that _I_ don’t understand
women?
ANNE. I’m suggesting that you should lend me one pound two shillings
and sixpence.
NICHOLAS (_sulkily, feeling in his pockets_). Of course, if you’re in
such a confounded hurry to get away from here—— Do you mind all
silver?
ANNE. Not at all.
NICHOLAS. In such a confounded hurry to get away from here—— (_He
counts the money._)
ANNE. Why ever should I want to stay?
NICHOLAS. Well—well—— (_With a despairing shrug_) Oh, Lord!... Ten
shillings ... fourteen and six ... why should she want to stay! Why do
you think _I’m_ staying?
ANNE (_wickedly_). Because you’re so fond of Mr. Latimer. He’s so
jolly decent.
NICHOLAS (_looking at the money in his hand_). One pound two shillings
and sixpence. I suppose if I told you what I really thought about it
all, you’d get on your high horse again and refuse the money from
_me_. So I won’t tell you. Here you are.
ANNE (_gently_). You didn’t think I was in love with you, Nicholas?
(_NICHOLAS looks uncomfortable._) In three days? Oh, Nicholas!
NICHOLAS. Well—well, I don’t see—— (_He holds out the money. But
ANNE won’t take it on those terms._)
ANNE. From a friend?
NICHOLAS. From a friend.
ANNE. Lent to a friend?
NICHOLAS. Lent to a friend.
ANNE (_taking it_). Thank you, Nicholas. (_She hurries out, clasping
the precious money. NICHOLAS will never see her again.... And then,
suddenly, her head comes round the door_) Thank you very much,
Nicholas! (_She is gone._)
NICHOLAS. Well, I’m damned!
(_He sits there gloomily, his legs stretched out, and regards his
shoes. So far as we can tell he goes on saying, “Well, I’m damned”
to himself. EUSTASIA and LEONARD come in. He is properly dressed
now, but still under EUSTASIA’S care, and she has his arm, as if
he were attempting a very difficult feat in walking across the
hall._)
NICHOLAS (_looking round_). Hallo! (_Getting up_) Do you want to come
here?
LEONARD (_hastily_). Don’t go, old boy, don’t go. Plenty of room for
us all.
EUSTASIA. Thank you so much. Leonard is not very strong yet. His
temperature is up again to-day. (_To LEONARD_) You will be better on
the sofa, darling. (_Distantly to NICHOLAS_) I’m so sorry to trouble
you.
NICHOLAS. Not at all. I was just going anyhow.
LEONARD (_sitting on the sofa_). Oh, nonsense. Stay and talk to us.
Plenty of room for us all.
NICHOLAS (_feeling in his pockets_). Got to get my pipe. Left it
upstairs, like an ass.
LEONARD (_taking out his case_). Have a cigarette instead?
NICHOLAS. Rather have a pipe, thanks. (_He makes for the door._)
LEONARD (_anxiously_). But you’ll come back?
NICHOLAS (_unwillingly_). Oh—er—righto.
[_He goes out._
LEONARD. Come and keep us company. (_To EUSTASIA, who is tucking him
up_) Thanks, Eustasia, thanks. That’s quite all right.
EUSTASIA. Another cushion for your back, darling?
LEONARD. No, thanks.
EUSTASIA. Quite sure?
LEONARD. Quite sure, thanks.
EUSTASIA. I can easily get it for you.
LEONARD (_weakly_). Oh, very well.
EUSTASIA. That’s right. (_Getting the cushion_) You must be
comfortable. Now, are you sure that’s all right?
LEONARD. Quite all right, thank you.
EUSTASIA. Sure, darling? Anything else you want, I can get it for you
at once. A rug over your knees?
LEONARD. No, thank you, Eustasia. (_Now_ he _is saying it._)
EUSTASIA. You wouldn’t like a hot-water bottle?
LEONARD (_with a sigh_). No, thank you, Eustasia.
EUSTASIA. You’ve only got to say, you know. Now shall we talk, or
would you like me to read to you? (_She settles down next to him._)
LEONARD (_choosing the lesser evil_). I think read—no, I mean,
talk—no, read to me.
EUSTASIA. It’s for you to say, darling.
LEONARD (_his eyes closed_). Read to me, Eustasia.
EUSTASIA (_opening her book_). We’ll go on from where we left off. We
didn’t get very far—I marked the place.... Yes, here we are. “... the
sandy deserts of Arabia and Africa.... 4.” And then there’s a little
footnote at the bottom; that’s how I remember it. (_Reading the
footnote_) “Tacit. Annal. l. ii., Dion Cassius l. lvi. p. 833, and the
speech of Augustus himself.” That doesn’t seem to mean much. “It
receives great light from the learned notes of his French translator,
M. Spanheim.” Well, that’s a good thing. Spanheim—sounds more like a
German, doesn’t it? Now are you sure you’re quite comfortable, dear?
LEONARD (_his eyes closed_). Yes, thank you, Eustasia.
EUSTASIA. Then I’ll begin. (_In her reading-aloud voice_) “Happily for
the repose of mankind, the moderate system recommended by the wisdom
of Augustus was adopted by the fears and vices of his immediate
successors. Engaged in the pursuit of pleasure or the exercise of
tyranny, the first Caesars seldom showed themselves to the armies or
to the provinces; nor were they disposed to suffer that those triumphs
which their indolence neglected should be usurped by the conduct and
valour of their lieutenants.” (_Speeding up_) “The military fame of a
subject was considered as an insolent invasion of the Imperial
prerogative; and it became the duty as well as interest of every Roman
General to guard the frontiers entrusted to his care”—(_recklessly_)
“without aspiring for conquests which might have proved no less fatal
to himself than to the vanquished barbarians.”... And then there’s
another little footnote. Perhaps it would be better if I read all the
little footnotes afterwards—what do you think, darling? Or shall we
take them as they come?
LEONARD (_without opening his eyes_). Yes, dear.
EUSTASIA. Very well. This is footnote 5. “Germanicus, Suetonius
Paulinus and Agricola”—(_she stumbles over the names_)—“were checked
and recalled in the course of their victories. Corbulo was put to
death.” Oh, what a shame! “Military merit, as it is admirably
expressed by Tacitus, was, in the strictest sense of the word——”
well, there are _two_ words, and they are both in Latin. I suppose
Tacitus wrote in Latin. But it doesn’t really matter, because it’s
only a little footnote. (_Anxiously_) Are you liking the book,
darling?
LEONARD. Very much, dear.
EUSTASIA. It’s nicely written, but I don’t think it’s very exciting. I
don’t think Mr. Latimer has a very good taste in books. I asked him to
recommend me something really interesting to read aloud, and he said
that the two most interesting books he knew were Carlyle’s _French
Revolution_ and—and—(_looking at the cover_) Gibbon’s _Roman
Empire_.... Fancy, there are four volumes of it and six hundred pages
in a volume. We’re at page 3 now. (_She reads a line or two to
herself._) Oh, now, this is rather interesting, because it’s all about
_us_. “The only accession which the Roman Empire received during the
first century of the Christian era was the province of Britain.”
Fancy! “The proximity of its situation to the coast of Gaul seemed to
invite their arms, the pleasing though doubtful intelligence of a
pearl fishery attracted their avarice.” And then there’s a little
footnote—I suppose that’s to say it was Whitstable. (_Getting to it_)
Oh no—“The British pearls proved, however, of little value, on
account of their dark and livid colour.” How horrid. “Tacitus
observes——” well, then, Tacitus says something again.... I _wish_ he
would write in English.... Now where was I? Something about the
pearls. Oh yes. “After a war of about forty years”—good
gracious!—“undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the most
dissolute, and——”
(_NICHOLAS returns with his pipe._)
NICHOLAS. Oh, sorry, I’m interrupting.
LEONARD (_waking up_). No, no. Eustasia was just reading to me. (_To
her_) You mustn’t tire yourself, dear. (_To NICHOLAS_) Stay and talk.
NICHOLAS. What’s the book? Carlyle’s _French Revolution_?
EUSTASIA (_primly_). Certainly not. (_Looking at the title again_)
Gibbon’s _Roman Empire_.
NICHOLAS. Any good?
EUSTASIA. Fascinating, isn’t it, Leonard?
LEONARD. Very.
NICHOLAS. You ought to try Carlyle, old chap.
LEONARD. Is _he_ good?
NICHOLAS (_who has had eight pages read aloud to him by EUSTASIA_).
Oh, topping.
EUSTASIA (_looking at her watch_). Good gracious! I ought to be
dressing.
LEONARD (_looking at his_). Yes, it _is_ about time.
NICHOLAS (_looking at his_). Yes.
EUSTASIA. Leonard, darling, I don’t think it would be safe for you to
change. Not to-night; to-morrow if you like.
LEONARD. I say, look here, you said that last night.
EUSTASIA. Ah, but your temperature has gone up again.
NICHOLAS. I expect that’s only because the book was so exciting.
LEONARD. Yes, that’s right.
EUSTASIA. But I took his temperature _before_ I began reading.
NICHOLAS. Perhaps yesterday’s instalment was still hanging about a
bit.
EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). No, darling, not to-night. Just to please his
Eustasia.
LEONARD (_sulkily_). All right.
EUSTASIA. That’s a good boy. (_She walks to the door, NICHOLAS going
with her to open it._) And if he’s _very_ good, and Eustasia is _very_
quick dressing, perhaps she’ll read him another little bit of that
nice book before dinner.
[_She goes out._
LEONARD. I say, don’t go, old chap. You can change in five minutes.
NICHOLAS. Righto.
(_He comes back. There is silence for a little._)
LEONARD. I say!
NICHOLAS. Yes?
LEONARD (_thinking better of it_). Oh, nothing.
NICHOLAS (_after a pause_). Curious creatures, women.
LEONARD. Amazing.
NICHOLAS. They’re so unexpected.
LEONARD. So unreasonable.
NICHOLAS. Yes....
LEONARD (_suddenly_). I hate England at this time of year.
NICHOLAS. So do I.
LEONARD. Do you go South as a rule?
NICHOLAS. As a rule.
LEONARD. Monte?
NICHOLAS. Sometimes. We _had_ thought—I half thought of Nice.
LEONARD. Not bad. We were—I think I prefer Cannes myself.
NICHOLAS. There’s not much in it.
LEONARD. No.... (_After a pause_) Between ourselves, you know—quite
between ourselves—I’m about fed up with women.
NICHOLAS. Absolutely.
LEONARD. You are too?
NICHOLAS. Rather. I should think so.
LEONARD. They’re so dashed unreasonable.
NICHOLAS. So unexpected....
LEONARD (_suddenly_). Had you booked your rooms?
NICHOLAS. At Nice? Yes.
LEONARD. So had I.
NICHOLAS. At Cannes?
LEONARD. Yes.... I say, what about it?
NICHOLAS. Do you mean—— (_He waves a hand at the door._)
LEONARD. Yes.
NICHOLAS. Evaporating?
LEONARD. Yes. Quite quietly, you know.
NICHOLAS. Without ostentation.
LEONARD. That’s it.
NICHOLAS. It’s rather a scheme. And then we shouldn’t waste the rooms.
At least, only one set of them. I’ll tell you what. I’ll toss you
whether we go to Nice or Cannes.
LEONARD. Right. (_He takes out a coin and tosses._)
NICHOLAS. Tails.
LEONARD (_uncovering the coin_). Heads. Do you mind coming to Cannes?
NICHOLAS. Just as soon, really. When shall we go? To-morrow?
LEONARD. Mightn’t get a chance to-morrow. Why not to-night? It seems a
pity to waste the opportunity.
NICHOLAS. You mean while Eustasia’s dressing?
LEONARD. The—er—opportunity. Sleep the night at Dover and cross
to-morrow morning.
NICHOLAS. She’ll be after us.
LEONARD. Nonsense.
NICHOLAS. My dear man, you don’t know Eustasia.
LEONARD. I don’t know Eustasia? Well!
NICHOLAS (_with conviction_). She’ll be after you like a bird. You’ve
never seen Eustasia when she has got somebody ill to look after.
LEONARD. I’ve never seen Eustasia? Well!
NICHOLAS. My dear chap, you’ve only had three days of her; I’ve had
six.... Lord!... Look here. We shall have to——
_Enter LATIMER._
LATIMER. What, Leonard, all alone?
NICHOLAS. I say, you’re the very man we want.
LEONARD (_frowning_——). S’sh.
LATIMER. Leonard, don’t “s’sh” Nicholas when he wants to speak to me.
NICHOLAS (_to LEONARD_). It’s all right, old chap, Latimer is a
sportsman.
LATIMER (_to LEONARD_). There! You see the sort of reputation I have
in the West End. (_To NICHOLAS_) What is it you want to do? Run away?
LEONARD. Well—er——
NICHOLAS. I say, however did you guess?
LATIMER. Leonard’s car has had steam up for the last twenty-four
hours, waiting for a word from its owner.
LEONARD (_seeing the south of France_). By Jove!
LATIMER. And you are going with him, Nicholas?
NICHOLAS. Yes. Thought I might as well be getting on. Very grateful
and all that, but can’t stay here for ever.
LATIMER (_wondering what has happened between NICHOLAS and ANNE_). So
you are going too! I thought—— Well! Nicholas is going too.
LEONARD. I say, you do understand—I mean about—er—I mean, when I’m
quite well again—start afresh and all that. Cosset _her_ a bit. But
when you’re ill—or supposed to be ill—— Well, I mean, ask Nicholas.
NICHOLAS. Oh, rather.
LATIMER. My dear Leonard, why these explanations? Who am I to
interfere in other people’s matrimonial affairs? You and Nicholas are
going away—good-bye. (_He holds out his hand._)
NICHOLAS. Yes, but what about Eustasia? She’s not going to miss the
chance of cosseting Leonard just when she is getting into it. She’ll
be after him like a bird.
LATIMER. I see. So you want me to keep her here?
NICHOLAS. That’s the idea, if you could.
LATIMER. How can I keep her here if she doesn’t want to stay?
LEONARD. Well, how do you keep _any_body here?
LATIMER. Really, Leonard, I am surprised at you. By the charm of my
old-world courtesy and hospitality, of course.
LEONARD. Oh! Well, I doubt if that keeps Eustasia.
LATIMER (_shaking his head sadly_). I am afraid that that is only too
true. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I realise that there
is only one thing which will keep this devoted wife from her afflicted
and suffering husband.
LEONARD and NICHOLAS. What?
_DOMINIC comes in._
LATIMER. His lordship and Mr. Nicholas are leaving at once. His
lordship’s car will wait for them outside the gates. See that a bag is
packed for them.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
LATIMER. And come back when you’ve seen about that.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
[_He goes out._
LATIMER. The car can return for the rest of your luggage, and take it
over in the morning.
NICHOLAS. Good!
LEONARD. Er—thanks very much. (_Anxiously_) What were you going to
say about the only way of—er——
LATIMER. The only way of keeping this devoted wife from her afflicted
and suffering husband?
LEONARD (_gruffly_). Yes. What is it?
LATIMER. Somebody else must have a temperature. Somebody else must be
ill. Eustasia must have somebody else to cosset.
NICHOLAS. I say, how awfully sporting of you!
LATIMER. Sporting?
NICHOLAS. To sacrifice yourself like that.
LATIMER. I? You don’t think _I_ am going to sacrifice myself, do you?
No, no, it’s Dominic.
DOMINIC (_coming in_). Yes, sir.
LATIMER. Dominic, are you ever ill?
DOMINIC. Never, sir, barring a slight shortness of the breath.
LATIMER (_to the others_). That’s awkward. I don’t think you can
cosset a shortness of the breath.
NICHOLAS (_to DOMINIC_). I say, you could pretend to be ill, couldn’t
you?
DOMINIC. With what object, sir?
NICHOLAS. Well—er——
LATIMER. Her ladyship is training to be a nurse. She has already cured
two very obstinate cases of nasal catarrh accompanied by debility and
a fluctuating temperature. If she brings one more case off
successfully, she earns the diploma and the gold medal of the Royal
Therapeutical Society.
NICHOLAS. That’s right.
DOMINIC. And you would wish me to be that third case, sir?
NICHOLAS. That’s the idea.
DOMINIC. And be cosseted back to health by her ladyship?
LATIMER. Such would be your inestimable privilege.
DOMINIC. I am sorry, sir. I must beg respectfully to decline.
NICHOLAS. I say, be a sport.
LEONARD (_awkwardly_). Of course we should—— Naturally you would
not—er—lose anything by—er——
LATIMER. His lordship wishes to imply that not only would your mental
horizon be widened during the period of convalescence, but that
material blessings would also flow. Isn’t that right, Leonard?
NICHOLAS. A commission on the gold medal. Naturally.
DOMINIC. I am sorry, sir. I am afraid I cannot see my way.
NICHOLAS. I say——
LATIMER. Thank you, Dominic.
DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.
[_He goes out._
NICHOLAS. Well, that’s torn it. (_To LATIMER_) If you’re quite sure
that you wouldn’t like to have a go? It’s the chance of a lifetime to
learn all about the French Revolution.
LATIMER. Well, well! Something must be done. (_He smiles suddenly_)
After all, why not?
LEONARD (_eagerly_). You will?
LATIMER. I will.
NICHOLAS. I say——
LATIMER (_waving them off_). No, no. Don’t wait. Fly.
LEONARD. Yes, we’d better be moving. Come on!
NICHOLAS (_with a grin, as he goes_). There’s an awfully good bit in
the second chapter——
LATIMER (_holding up a finger_). Listen! I hear her coming.
LEONARD. Good Lord!
(_They fly._
_LATIMER, left alone, gives himself up to thought. What illness
shall he have? He rings one of his many bells, and DOMINIC comes
in._)
LATIMER. Oh, Dominic. In consequence of your obstinate good-health, I
am going to sacrifice myself—I mean, I myself am going to embrace
this great opportunity of mental and spiritual development.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Very good of you, I’m sure, sir.
LATIMER. What sort of illness would you recommend?
DOMINIC. How about a nice sprained ankle, sir?
LATIMER. You think that would go well?
DOMINIC. It would avoid any interference with the customary habits at
meal-time, sir. There’s a sort of monotony about bread-and-milk; no
inspiration about it, sir, whether treated as a beverage or as a
comestible.
LATIMER. I hadn’t thought about bread-and-milk.
DOMINIC. You’ll find that you will have little else to think about,
sir, if you attempt anything stomachic. Of course you could have the
usual nasty cold, sir.
LATIMER. No, no, not that. Let us be original....
DOMINIC. How about Xerostomia, sir? Spelt with an x.
LATIMER. Is that good?
DOMINIC. Joseph tells me that his father has had it for a long time.
LATIMER. Oh! Then perhaps we oughtn’t to deprive him of it.
DOMINIC. I looked it up in the dictionary one Sunday afternoon, sir.
They describe it there as “an abnormal dryness of the mouth.”
LATIMER. I said I wanted to be original, Dominic.
DOMINIC. Quite so, sir.
(_They both think in silence._)
LATIMER. Perhaps I had better leave it to the inspiration of the
moment.
EUSTASIA (_off_). Dominic! Dominic!
DOMINIC. This appears to be the moment, sir.
LATIMER. Quick. (_Bustling him off_) Don’t let her ladyship come in
for a moment. I must assume a recumbent position.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
[_He goes out._
(_LATIMER lies down at full length on the sofa and begins to
groan; putting a hand first on his stomach, then on his head, then
on his elbow. EUSTASIA does not come. He cautiously raises his
head; the room is empty._)
LATIMER (_disappointedly_). Throwing it away! (_He hears footsteps,
and settles down again._)
(_ANNE comes in, hat on, bag in hand. She is just at the door when
a groan reaches her. She stops. Another groan comes. She puts down
her bag and comes towards the sofa with an “Oh!” of anxiety._)
LATIMER. Oh, my poor—er—head! (_He clasps it._)
ANNE (_alarmed_). What is it? (_She kneels by him._)
LATIMER. Oh, my—— (_Cheerfully_) Hallo, Anne, is it you? (_He sits
up._)
ANNE (_still anxious_). Yes, what is it?
LATIMER (_bravely_). Oh, nothing, nothing. A touch of neuralgia.
ANNE. Oh!... You frightened me.
LATIMER. Did I, Anne? I’m sorry.
ANNE. You were groaning so. I thought—I didn’t know what had
happened.... (_Sympathetically_) Is it very bad?
LATIMER. Not so bad as it sounded.
ANNE (_taking off her gloves_). I know how bad it can be. Father has
it sometimes. Then I have to send it away. (_She has her gloves off
now_) May I try?
LATIMER (_remorsefully_). Anne!
(_She leans over from the back of him and begins to stroke his
forehead with the tips of her fingers. He looks up at her._)
ANNE. Close your eyes.
LATIMER. Ah, but I don’t want to now.
(_She laughs without embarrassment._)
ANNE. It will go soon.
LATIMER. Not too soon....
ANNE (_laughing suddenly_). Aren’t faces funny when they’re upside
down?
LATIMER. You have the absurdest little upside-down face that ever I
saw, Anne.
ANNE (_happily_). Have I?
LATIMER. Why do you wear a hat on your chin? (_She laughs._) Why do
you wear a hat?
ANNE. I was going away.
LATIMER. Without saying good-bye?
ANNE (_ashamed_). I—I think so.
LATIMER. Oh, Anne!
ANNE (_hastily_). I should have written.
LATIMER. A post-card!
ANNE. A letter.
LATIMER. With many thanks for your kind hospitality, yours sincerely.
ANNE. Yours _very_ sincerely.
LATIMER. P.S.—I shall never see you again.
ANNE. P.S.—I shall never forget.
LATIMER. Ah, but you _must_ forget....
ANNE (_after a pause_). Is it better?
LATIMER (_lazily_). It is just the same. It will always be the same.
It is unthinkable that anything different should ever happen. In a
hundred years’ time we shall still be like this. You will be a little
tired, perhaps; your fingers will ache; but I shall be lying here,
quite, quite happy.
ANNE. You shall have another minute—no more.
LATIMER. Then I shall go straight to the chemist and ask for three
pennyworth of Anne’s fingers. (_They are silent for a little. Then she
stops and listens._) What is it?
ANNE. I heard something. Whispers.
LATIMER. Don’t look round.
(_LEONARD and NICHOLAS, in hats and coats, creep cautiously in.
Very noiselessly, fingers to lips, they open the front door and
creep out._)
ANNE. What was it? Was it——
LATIMER. An episode in your life. Over, buried, forgotten....
ANNE (_pleadingly_). It never really happened, did it?
LATIMER. Of course not! We must have read about it somewhere—or was
it in a play?
ANNE (_eagerly_). That was it! We were in a box together.
LATIMER. Munching chocolates. (_With a sigh_) What a child she
was—that girl in the play—with her little, funny, grown-up airs!
(_DOMINIC comes in, and stops suddenly on seeing them._)
DOMINIC. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.
LATIMER. Go on, Anne. (_Happily_) I am having neuralgia, Dominic.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir. A stubborn complaint, as I have heard, sir.
LATIMER. Miss Anne is making me well.... What did you want?
DOMINIC. Her ladyship says will you please excuse her if she is not
down to-night.
LATIMER (_to ANNE_). Shall we excuse her if she is not down to-night?
DOMINIC. The fact is, sir, that Joseph is taken ill suddenly, and——
LATIMER (_to himself_). I never thought of Joseph!
ANNE. Oh, poor Joseph! What is it?
DOMINIC. A trifling affection of the throat, but necessitating careful
attention, her ladyship says.
LATIMER. Please tell her ladyship how very much I thank her for
looking after Joseph ... and tell Joseph how very sorry I am for him.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
[_He goes out._
LATIMER. You can’t go now, Anne. You will have to stay and chaperone
Eustasia and me. (_She laughs and shakes her head._) Must you go?
ANNE. Yes.
LATIMER. Back to your father?
ANNE. Yes. (_He looks at her. She is so very pretty; so brave._)
LATIMER (_it must be somebody else speaking—he hardly recognises the
voice_). Let us say good-bye now. There is a magic in your fingers
which goes to my head, and makes me think ridiculous things. Let us
say good-bye now.
ANNE (_taking his hand_). Good-bye! (_Impulsively_) I wish _you_ had
been my father.
(_Then she goes out. And she has won, after all. For MR. LATIMER
stands there dumb, wondering what has happened. He walks across to
a mirror to have a look at himself. While he is there, DOMINIC
comes in to superintend the laying of the table._)
LATIMER (_at the mirror_). Dominic, how old would you say I was?
DOMINIC. More than that, sir.
LATIMER (_with a sigh_). Yes, I’m afraid I am. And yet I look very
young. Sometimes I think I look too young.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
LATIMER. Miss Anne has just asked me to be her father.
DOMINIC. Very considerate of her, I’m sure, sir.
LATIMER. Yes.... To prevent similar mistakes in the future, I think I
shall wear a long white beard.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Shall I order one from the Stores?
LATIMER. Please.
DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.... Is Miss Anne leaving us, sir?
LATIMER. Yes.... Don’t overdo the length, Dominic, and I like the
crinkly sort.
DOMINIC. Yes, sir.... One of our most successful weeks on the whole,
if I may say so, sir.
LATIMER (_thoughtfully_). Yes.... Well, well, we must all do what we
can, Dominic.
DOMINIC. That’s the only way, isn’t it, sir?
(_They stand looking at each other. Just for a moment DOMINIC is
off duty. That grave face relaxes; the eyes crease into a smile.
MR. LATIMER smiles back.... Very gently they begin to laugh
together; old friends; master and servant no longer. “Dear, dear!
These children!” says DOMINIC’S laugh. “How very amusing they are,
to be sure!” LATIMER’S laugh is a little rueful; a moment ago he,
too, was almost a child. Yet he laughs. “Good old DOMINIC!”_
_Suddenly the front-door bell rings. Instinctively they stiffen to
attention. They are on duty again. They turn and march off,
almost, as it were, saluting each other; MR. LATIMER to his
quarters, DOMINIC to his bolts and bars. He draws the curtains and
opens the big front door._)
A MANLY VOICE. Oh, is this—er—an hotel?
DOMINIC. A sort of hotel, your Grace.
HIS GRACE (_coming in, a lady on his arm_). My chauffeur said—we’ve
had an accident—been delayed on the way—he said that——
(_Evidently another romantic couple. Let us leave them to
MR. LATIMER._)
THE TRUTH ABOUT BLAYDS
CHARACTERS
Oliver Blayds.
Isobel (_his younger daughter_).
Marion Blayds-Conway (_his elder daughter_).
William Blayds-Conway (_his son-in-law_).
Oliver Blayds-Conway }
Septima Blayds-Conway } (_his grandchildren_).
A. L. Royce.
Parsons.
* * * * *
_A room in OLIVER BLAYDS’ house in Portman Square._
* * * * *
This play was first produced at the Globe Theatre on December 20,
1921, with the following cast:
_Oliver Blayds_ Norman McKinnel.
_Isobel_ Irene Vanbrugh.
_Marion Blayds-Conway_ Irene Rooke.
_William Blayds-Conway_ Dion Boucicault.
_Oliver_ Jack Hobbs.
_Septima_ Faith Celli.
_A. L. Royce_ Ion Swinley.
_Parsons_ Ethel Wellesley.
ACT I
_A solid, handsomely-furnished room in a house in Portman
Square—solid round table, solid writing-desk, solid chairs and sofa,
with no air of comfort, but only of dignity. Over the fireplace is a
painting of OLIVER BLAYDS, also handsome and dignified.... OLIVER
BLAYDS-CONWAY, his young grandson, comes in with ROYCE, the latter a
clean-shaven man of forty, whose thick dark hair shows a touch of
grey. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon._
* * * * *
OLIVER (_as he comes in_). This way. (_He holds the door open for
ROYCE._)
ROYCE (_coming in_). Thanks.
OLIVER. Some of the family will be showing up directly. Make yourself
comfortable. (_For himself, he does his best in one of the dignified
chairs._)
ROYCE. Thanks. (_He looks round the room with interest, and sees the
picture over the fireplace_) Hallo, there he is.
OLIVER. What? (_Bored_) Oh, the old ’un, yes.
ROYCE (_reverently_). Oliver Blayds, the last of the Victorians.
(_OLIVER sighs and looks despairingly to Heaven._) I can’t take my hat
off because it’s off already, but I should like to.
OLIVER. Good Lord, you don’t really feel like that, do you?
ROYCE. Of course. Don’t you?
OLIVER. Well, hardly. He’s my grandfather.
ROYCE. True. (_Smiling_) All the same, there’s nothing in the Ten
Commandments about _not_ honouring your grandfather.
OLIVER. Nothing about honouring ’em either. It’s left optional. Of
course, he’s a wonderful old fellow—ninety, and still going strong;
but—well, as I say, he’s my grandfather.
ROYCE. I’m afraid, Conway, that even the fact of his being your
grandfather doesn’t prevent me thinking him a very great poet, a very
great philosopher, and a very great man.
OLIVER (_interested_). I say, do you really mean that, or are you just
quoting from the Address you’ve come to present?
ROYCE. Well, it’s in the Address, but then I wrote the Address, and
got it up.
OLIVER. Yes, I know—you told me—“To Oliver Blayds on his ninetieth
birthday: Homage from some of the younger writers.” Very pretty of
them and all that, and the old boy will love it. But do they really
feel like that about him—that’s what interests me. I’ve always
thought of him as old-fashioned, early Victorian, and that kind of
thing.
ROYCE. Oh, he is. Like Shakespeare. Early Elizabethan and that kind of
thing.
OLIVER. Shakespeare’s different. I meant more like Longfellow....
Don’t think I am setting up my opinion against yours. If you say that
Blayds’ poetry is as good as the best, I’ll take your word for it.
Blayds the poet, _you’re_ the authority. Blayds the grandfather, _I_
am.
ROYCE. All right, then, you can take my word for it that his best is
as good as the best. Simple as Wordsworth, sensuous as Tennyson,
passionate as Swinburne.
OLIVER. Yes, but what about the modern Johnnies? The Georgians.
ROYCE. When they’re ninety I’ll tell you. If I’m alive.
OLIVER. Thanks very much.
(_There is a short silence. ROYCE leaves the picture and comes
slowly towards the writing-table._)
OLIVER (_shaking his head_). Oh, no!
ROYCE (_turning round_). What?
OLIVER. That’s not the table where the great masterpieces are written,
and that’s not the pen they are written with.
ROYCE. My dear fellow——
OLIVER. Is there a pen there, by the way?
ROYCE (_looking_). Yes. Yours?
OLIVER. The family’s. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to keep pens
there.
ROYCE. Why, where do they go to?
OLIVER. The United States, mostly. Everybody who’s let in here makes
for the table sooner or later and pinches one of the pens. “Lands’
sake, what a head,” they say, waving at the picture with their right
hand and feeling behind their back with the left; it’s wonderful to
see ’em. Tim, my sister—Tim and I glued a pen on to the tray once
when one of ’em was coming, and watched him clawing at it for about
five minutes, and babbling about the picture the whole time. I should
think he knew what the poet Blayds looked like by the time he got the
pen into his pocket.
ROYCE (_going back to the picture_). Well, it’s a wonderful head.
OLIVER. Yes, I will say that for the old boy, he does look like
somebody.
ROYCE. When was this done?
OLIVER. Oh, about eighteen years ago.
ROYCE. Yes. That was about when I met him.
OLIVER. You never told me you’d met him. Did you meet _me_ by any
chance?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. I was five then, and people who came to see Blayds the poet
patted the head of Blayds the poet’s grandson and said: “Are you going
to be a poet too, my little man, when you grow up?”
ROYCE (_smiling_). And what did Blayds the poet’s grandson say?
OLIVER. Urged on by Blayds the poet’s son-in-law, Blayds the poet’s
grandson offered to recite his grandfather’s well-known poem, “A
Child’s Thoughts on Waking.” I’m sorry you missed it, Royce, but it’s
no good asking for it now.
ROYCE (_half to himself_). It was at Bournemouth. He was there with
his daughter. Not your mother, she would have been younger than that.
OLIVER. You mean Aunt Isobel.
ROYCE. Isobel, yes. (_After a little silence_) Isobel Blayds. Yes,
that was eighteen years ago. I was about your age.
OLIVER. A fine handsome young fellow like me?
ROYCE. Yes.
OLIVER. Any grandfathers living?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. Lucky devil. But I don’t suppose you realised it.
ROYCE. No, I don’t think I realised it.
OLIVER (_thinking it out_). I suppose if I had a famous father I
shouldn’t mind so much. I should feel that it was partly my doing. I
mean that he wouldn’t have begun to be famous until I had been born.
But the poet Blayds was a world-wide celebrity long before I came on
the scene, and I’ve had it hanging over me ever since.... Why do you
suppose I am a member of the club?
ROYCE. Well, why not? It’s a decent club. We are all very happy there.
OLIVER. Yes, but why did they elect _me_?
ROYCE. Oh, well, if we once began to ask ourselves that——
OLIVER. Not at all. The answer in your case is because A. L. Royce is
a well-known critic and a jolly good fellow. The answer in my case is
because there’s a B. in both. In other words, because there’s a Blayds
in Blayds-Conway. If my father had stuck to his William Conway when he
got married, I should never have been elected. Not at the age of
twenty-two, anyway.
ROYCE. Then I’m very glad he changed his name. Because otherwise, it
seems, I might not have had the pleasure of meeting you.
OLIVER. Oh, well, there’s always a something. But, compliments aside,
it isn’t much fun for a man when things happen to him just because of
the Blayds in Blayds-Conway. You know what I am doing now, don’t you?
I told you.
ROYCE. Secretary to some politician, isn’t it?
OLIVER. Yes. And why? Because of the Blayds in——
ROYCE. Oh, nonsense!
OLIVER. It’s true. Do you think I want to be a private secretary to a
dashed politician? What’s a private secretary at his best but a
superior sort of valet? I wanted to be a motor engineer. Not allowed.
Why not? Because the Blayds in Blayds-Conway wouldn’t have been any
use. But politicians simply live on that sort of thing.
ROYCE. What sort of thing?
OLIVER. Giving people jobs because they’re the grandsons of somebody.
ROYCE. Yes, I wonder if I was as cynical as you eighteen years ago.
OLIVER. Probably not; there wasn’t a Grandfather Royce. By the way,
talking about being jolly good fellows and all that, have you noticed
that I haven’t offered you a cigarette yet?
ROYCE. I don’t want to smoke.
OLIVER. Well, that’s lucky. Smoking isn’t allowed in here.
ROYCE (_annoyed by this_). Now look here, Conway, do you mind if I
speak plainly?
OLIVER. Do. But just one moment before you begin. My name,
unfortunately, is _Blayds_-Conway. Call me Conway at the Club and I’ll
thank you for it. But if you call me Conway in the hearing of certain
members of my family, I’m afraid there will be trouble. Now what were
you going to say?
ROYCE (_his annoyance gone_). Doesn’t matter.
OLIVER. No, do go on, Mr. Blayds-Royce.
ROYCE. Very well, Mr. Blayds-Conway. I am old enough to be—no, not
your grandfather—your uncle—and I want to say this. Oliver Blayds is
a very great man and also a very old man, and I think that while you
live in the house of this very great man, the inconveniences to which
his old age puts you, my dear Conway——
OLIVER. Blayds-Conway.
ROYCE (_smiling_). Blayds-Conway, I’m sorry.
OLIVER. Perhaps you’d better call me Oliver.
ROYCE. Yes, I think I will. Well, then, Oliver——
OLIVER. Yes, but you’ve missed the whole point. The whole point is
that I don’t _want_ to live in his house. Do you realise that I’ve
never had a house I could call my own? I mean a house where I could
ask people. I brought you along this afternoon because you’d got
permission to come anyhow with that Address of yours. But I shouldn’t
have dared to bring anybody else along from the club. Here we all are,
and always have been, living not _our_ lives, but _his_ life.
Because—well, just because he likes it so.
ROYCE (_almost to himself_). Yes ... yes.... I know.
OLIVER. Well!
(_And there is so much conviction behind it that ROYCE has nothing
to say. However, nothing is needed, for at this moment SEPTIMA
BLAYDS-CONWAY comes in, a fair-haired nineteen-year-old modern,
with no sentimental nonsense about her._)
SEPTIMA. Hallo!
OLIVER (_half getting out of his chair_). Hallo, Tim. Come and be
introduced. This is Mr. A. L. Royce. My sister, Septima.
ROYCE (_surprised_). Septima? (_Mechanically he quotes_):
“Septima, seventh dark daughter;
I saw her once where the black pines troop to the water—
A rock-set river that broke into bottomless pools—”
SEPTIMA. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce. (_Holding out her hand to
OLIVER_) Noll, I’ll trouble you.
OLIVER (_feeling in his pockets_). Damn! I did think, Royce—— (_He
hands her a shilling_) Here you are.
SEPTIMA. Thanks. Thank you again, Mr. Royce.
ROYCE. I’m afraid I don’t understand.
SEPTIMA. It’s quite simple. I get a shilling when visitors quote
“Septima” at me, and Noll gets a shilling when they don’t.
OLIVER (_reproachfully_). I did think that _you_ would be able to
control yourself, Royce.
ROYCE (_smiling_). Sorry! My only excuse is that I never met any one
called Septima before, and that it came quite unconsciously.
SEPTIMA. Oh, don’t apologise. I admire you immensely for it. It’s the
only fun I get out of the name.
OLIVER. Septima Blayds-Conway, when you’re the only daughter, and fair
at that—I ask you.
ROYCE (_defensively_). It’s a beautiful poem.
SEPTIMA. Have you come to see Blayds the poet?
ROYCE. Yes.
OLIVER. One of the homage merchants.
ROYCE. Miss Blayds-Conway, I appeal to you.
SEPTIMA. Anything I can do in return for your shilling——
ROYCE. I have come here on behalf of some of my contemporaries, in
order to acquaint that very great man Oliver Blayds with the feelings
of admiration which we younger writers entertain for him. It appears
now that not only is Blayds a great poet and a great philosopher, but
also a——
OLIVER. Great-grandfather.
ROYCE. But also a grandfather. Do you think you can persuade your
brother that Blayds’ public reputation as a poet is in no way affected
by his private reputation as a grandfather, and beg him to spare me
any further revelations?
SEPTIMA. Certainly; I could do all that for ninepence, and you’d still
be threepence in hand. (_Sternly to OLIVER_) Blayds-Conway, young
fellow, have you been making r-revelations about your ger-rand-father?
OLIVER. My dear girl, I’ve made no r-revelations whatever. What’s
upset him probably is that I refused to recite to him “A Child’s
Thoughts on Waking.”
SEPTIMA. Did he pat your head and ask you to?
ROYCE. No, he didn’t.
SEPTIMA. Well, you needn’t be huffy about it, Mr. Royce. You would
have been in very good company. Meredith and Hardy have, and lots of
others.
OLIVER. Well, anyway, I’ve never been kissed by Maeterlinck.
SEPTIMA (_looking down coyly_). Mr. Royce, you have surprised my
secret, which I have kept hidden these seventeen years.
Maeterlinck—Maurice and I——
ROYCE. Revelations was not quite the word. What I should have said was
that I have been plunged suddenly, and a little unexpectedly, into an
unromantic, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which hardly suits the occasion
of my visit. On any other day—you see what I mean, Miss Septima.
SEPTIMA. You’re quite right. This is not the occasion for persiflage.
Besides, we’re very proud of him really.
ROYCE. I’m sure you are.
SEPTIMA (_weightily_). You know, Noll, there are times when I think
that possibly we have misjudged Blayds.
OLIVER. Blayds the poet or Blayds the man?
SEPTIMA. Blayds the man. After all, Uncle Thomas was devoted to him,
and _he_ was rather particular. Wasn’t he, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. I don’t think I know your Uncle Thomas, do I?
SEPTIMA. He wasn’t mine, he was mother’s.
OLIVER. The Sage of Chelsea.
ROYCE. Oh, Carlyle. Surely——
SEPTIMA. Mother called them all “uncle” in her day.
ROYCE. Well, now, there you are. That’s one of the most charming
things about Oliver Blayds. He has always had a genius for friendship.
Read the lives and letters of all the great Victorians, and you find
it all the way. They loved him. They——
OLIVER (_striking up_). God save our gracious Queen!
ROYCE (_with a good-humoured shrug_). Oh, well!
SEPTIMA. Keep it for father and mother, Mr. Royce. We’re hopeless.
Shall I tell you why?
ROYCE. Yes?
SEPTIMA. When you were a child, did you ever get the giggles in
church?
ROYCE. Almost always—when the Vicar wasn’t looking.
SEPTIMA. There’s something about it, isn’t there—the solemnity of it
all—which starts you giggling? When the Vicar isn’t looking.
ROYCE. Yes.
SEPTIMA. Exactly. And that’s why _we_ giggle—when the Vicar isn’t
looking.
MARION (_from outside_). Septima!
OLIVER. And here comes the Vicar’s wife.
(_MARION BLAYDS-CONWAY is fifty-five now. A dear, foolish woman,
who has never got over the fact that she is OLIVER BLAYDS’
daughter, but secretly thinks that it is almost more wonderful
to be WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY’S wife._)
MARION. Oh, there you are. Why didn’t you—— (_She sees ROYCE_) Oh!
OLIVER. This is Mr. A. L. Royce, Mother.
MARION (_distantly_). How do you do?
ROYCE. How do you do?
(_There is an awkward silence._)
MARION. You’ll excuse me a moment, Mr.—er—er——
OLIVER. Royce, Mother, A. L. Royce.
MARION. Septima—— This is naturally rather a busy day, Mr.—er——
We hardly expected—— (_She frowns at OLIVER, who ought to have
known better by this time._) Septima, I want you just a moment—Oliver
will look after his friend. I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr.—er——
ROYCE. Oh, quite. Of course.
SEPTIMA. Mr. Royce has come to see Grandfather, Mother.
MARION (_appalled_). To see Grandfather!
ROYCE. I was hoping—Mr. Blayds-Conway was good enough to say——
MARION. I am afraid it is quite impossible. I am very sorry, but
really quite impossible. My son shouldn’t have held out hopes.
OLIVER. He didn’t. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mother. It’s
Father who invited him.
ROYCE. I am here on behalf of certain of my contemporaries——
OLIVER. Homage from some of our younger writers——
ROYCE. Mr. Blayds was gracious enough to indicate that——
SEPTIMA (_in a violent whisper_). A. L. Royce, Mother!
MARION. Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon. Why didn’t you tell me it was A. L.
Royce, Oliver? Of course! We wrote to you.
ROYCE. Yes.
MARION (_all hospitality_). How silly of me! You must forgive me,
Mr. Royce. Oliver ought to have told me. Grandfather—Mr. Blayds—will
be ready at three-thirty. The doctor was very anxious that Grandfather
shouldn’t see any one this year—outside the family, of course. I
couldn’t tell you how many people wrote asking if they could come
to-day. Presidents of Societies and that sort of thing. From all over
the world. Father did tell us. Do you remember, Septima?
SEPTIMA. I’m afraid I don’t, Mother. I know I didn’t believe it.
MARION (_to ROYCE_). Septima—after the poem, you know. “Septima,
seventh dark daughter——” (_And she would quote the whole of it, but
that her children interrupt._)
OLIVER (_solemnly_). Don’t say you’ve never heard of it, Royce.
SEPTIMA (_distressed_). I don’t believe he has.
OLIVER (_encouragingly_). You must read it. I think you’d like it.
MARION. It’s one of his best known. _The Times_ quoted it only last
week. We had the cutting. “Septima, seventh dark daughter——” It was
a favourite of my husband’s even before he married me.
ROYCE. It has been a favourite of mine for many years.
MARION. And many other people’s, I’m sure. We often get letters—Oh,
if you could see the letters we get!
ROYCE. I wonder you don’t have a secretary.
MARION (_with dignity_). My husband—Mr. Blayds-Conway—_is_
Grandfather’s secretary. He was appointed to the post soon after he
married me. Twenty-five years ago. There is almost nothing he mightn’t
have done, but he saw where his duty lay, and he has devoted himself
to Grandfather—to Mr. Blayds—ever since.
ROYCE. I am sure we are all grateful to him.
MARION. Grandfather, as you know, has refused a Peerage more than
once. But I always say that if devotion to duty counts for anything,
William, my husband, ought to have been knighted long ago. Perhaps
when Grandfather has passed away—— But there!
ROYCE. I was telling Oliver that I did meet Mr. Blayds once—and Miss
Blayds. Down at Bournemouth. She was looking after him. He wasn’t
very well at the time.
MARION. Oh, Isobel, yes. A wonderful nurse. I don’t know what
Grandfather would do without her.
ROYCE. She is still——? I thought perhaps she was married, or——
MARION. Oh, no! Isobel isn’t the marrying sort. I say that I don’t
know what Grandfather would do without her, but I might almost say
that I don’t know what she would do without Grandfather. (_Looking at
her watch_) Dear me, I promised Father that I would get those letters
off. Septima, dear, you must help me. Have you been round the house at
all, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. No, I’ve only just come.
MARION. There are certain rooms which are shown to the public. Signed
photographs, gifts from Tennyson, Ruskin, Carlyle and many others.
Illuminated addresses and so on, all most interesting. Oliver, perhaps
you would show Mr. Royce—if it would interest you——
ROYCE. Oh, indeed, yes.
MARION. Oliver!
OLIVER (_throwing down the book he was looking at_). Right. (_He gets
up._) Come on, Royce. (_As they go out_) There’s one thing that I can
show you, anyway.
ROYCE. What’s that?
OLIVER (_violently_). My bedroom. We’re allowed to
smoke there.
[_They go out._
MARION (_sitting down at the writing-table_). He seems a nice man.
About thirty-five, wouldn’t you say—or more?
SEPTIMA. Forty. But you never can tell with men. (_She comes to the
table._)
MARION (_getting to work_). Now those letters just want putting into
their envelopes. And _those_ want envelopes written for them. If you
will read out the addresses, dear—I think that will be the quickest
way—I will——
SEPTIMA (_thinking her own thoughts_). Mother!
MARION. Yes, dear? (_Writing_) Doctor John Treherne.
SEPTIMA. I want to speak to you.
MARION. Do you mean about anything important?
SEPTIMA. For me, yes.
MARION. You haven’t annoyed your grandfather, I hope.
SEPTIMA. It has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION. Beechcroft, Bexhill-on-Sea. We’ve been so busy all day.
Naturally, being the Birthday. Couldn’t you leave it till to-morrow,
dear?
SEPTIMA (_eagerly_). Rita Ferguson wants me to share rooms with her.
You know I’ve always wanted to, and now she’s just heard of some;
there’s a studio goes with it. On Campden Hill.
MARION. Yes, dear. We’ll see what Grandfather says.
SEPTIMA (_annoyed_). I said that this has nothing to do with
Grandfather. We’re talking about _me_. It’s no good trying to do
anything here, and——
MARION. There! I’ve written _Campden_ Hill; how stupid of me.
_Haverstock_ Hill. We’ll see what Grandfather says, dear.
SEPTIMA (_doggedly_). It has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION (_outraged_). Septima!
SEPTIMA. “We’ll see what Grandfather says”—that has always been the
answer to everything in this house.
MARION (_as sarcastically as she can, but she is not very good at
it_). You can hardly have forgotten who Grandfather is.
SEPTIMA. I haven’t.
MARION (_awed_). What was it the _Telegraph_ called him only this
morning? “The Supreme Songster of an Earlier Epoch.” (_Her own
father!_)
SEPTIMA. I said that I hadn’t forgotten what Grandfather _is_. You’re
telling me what he _was_. He _is_ an old man of ninety. I’m twenty.
Anything that I do will affect him for at most five years. It will
affect me for fifty years. That’s why I say this has nothing to do
with Grandfather.
MARION (_distressed_). Septima, sometimes you almost seem as if you
were irreligious. When you think who Grandfather is—and his birthday
too. (_Weakly_) You must talk to your father.
SEPTIMA. That’s better. Father’s only sixty.
MARION. You must talk to your father. He will see what Grandfather
says.
SEPTIMA. And there we are—back again to ninety! It’s always the way.
MARION (_plaintively_). I really don’t understand you children. You
ought to be proud of living in the house of such a great man. I don’t
know what Grandfather will say when he hears about it. (_Tearfully_)
The Reverend William Styles ... Hockley Vicarage ... Bishop Stortford.
(_And from every line she extracts some slight religious comfort._)
SEPTIMA (_thoughtfully_). I suppose father would cut off my allowance
if I just went.
MARION. Went?
SEPTIMA. Yes. Would he? It would be beastly unfair, of course, but I
suppose he would.
MARION (_at the end of her resources_). Septima, you’re _not_ to talk
like that.
SEPTIMA. I think I’ll get Aunt Isobel to tackle Grandfather. She’s
only forty. Perhaps _she_ could persuade him.
MARION. I won’t hear another word. And you had better tidy yourself
up. I will finish these letters myself.
SEPTIMA (_going to the door_). Yes, I must go and tidy up. (_At the
door_) But I warn you, Mother, I mean to have it out this time. And if
Grandfather—— (_She breaks off as her father comes in_) Oh, Lord!
(_She comes back into the room, making way for him._)
(_WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY was obviously meant for the Civil Service.
His prim neatness, his gold pince-nez, his fussiness would be
invaluable in almost any Department. However, running BLAYDS is
the next best thing to running the Empire._)
WILLIAM. What is this, Septima? Where are you going?
SEPTIMA. Tidy myself up.
WILLIAM. That’s right. And then you might help your mother to
entertain Mr. Royce until we send for him. Perhaps we might—wait a
moment——
MARION. Oh, have you seen Mr. Royce, William? He seems a nice young
man, doesn’t he? I’m sure Grandfather will like him.
WILLIAM (_pontifically_). I still think that it was very unwise of us
to attempt to see anybody to-day. Naturally I made it clear to
Mr. Royce what a very unexpected departure this is from our usual
practice. I fancy that he realises the honour which we have paid to
the younger school of writers. Those who are knocking at the door, so
to speak.
MARION. Oh, I’m sure he does.
SEPTIMA (_to the ceiling_). Does anybody want me?
WILLIAM. Wait a moment, please. (_He takes a key out of his pocket and
considers._) Yes.... Yes.... (_He gives the key to SEPTIMA_) You may
show Mr. Royce the autograph letter from Queen Victoria, on the
occasion of your grandmother’s death. Be very careful, please. I think
he might be allowed to take it in his hands—don’t you think so,
Marion?—but lock it up immediately afterwards, and bring me back the
key.
SEPTIMA. Yes, Father. (_As she goes_) What fun he’s going to have!
WILLIAM. Are those the letters?
MARION. Yes, dear, I’ve nearly finished them.
WILLIAM. They will do afterwards. (_Handing her a bunch of telegrams_)
I want you to sort these telegrams. Isobel is seeing about the
flowers?
MARION. Oh, yes, sure to be, dear. How do you mean, sort them?
WILLIAM. In three groups will be best. Those from societies or public
bodies, those from distinguished people, including Royalty—you will
find one from the Duchess there; her Royal Highness is very faithful
to us—and those from unknown or anonymous admirers.
MARION. Oh, yes, I see, dear. (_She gets to work._)
WILLIAM. He will like to know who have remembered him. I fancy that we
have done even better than we did on the eightieth birthday, and of
course the day is not yet over. (_He walks about the room importantly,
weighing great matters in his mind. This is his day._)
MARION. Yes, dear.
WILLIAM (_frowning anxiously_). What did we do last year about
drinking the health? Was it in here, or did we go to his room?
MARION. He was down to lunch last year. Don’t you remember, dear?
WILLIAM. Ah, yes, of course. Stupid of me. Yes, this last year has
made a great difference to him. He is breaking up, I fear. We cannot
keep him with us for many more birthdays.
MARION. Don’t say that, dear.
WILLIAM. Well, we can but do our best.
MARION. What would you like to do, dear, about the health?
WILLIAM. H’m. Let me think. (_He thinks._)
MARION (_busy with the telegrams_). Some of these are a little
difficult. Do you think that Sir John and Lady Wilkins would look
better among the distinguished people including Royalty, or with the
unknown and anonymous ones?
WILLIAM. Anybody doubtful is unknown. I only want a rough grouping. We
shall have a general acknowledgment in the _Times_. And oh, that
reminds me. I want an announcement for the late editions of the
evening papers. Perhaps you had better just take this down. You can
finish those afterwards.
MARION. Yes, dear. (_She gets ready_) Yes, dear?
WILLIAM (_after tremendous thought_). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
MARION (_writing_). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
WILLIAM. The veteran poet spent his ninetieth birthday——
MARION (_to herself_). The veteran poet——
WILLIAM. Passed his ninetieth birthday—that’s better—passed his
ninetieth birthday quietly, amid his family——
MARION. Amid his family——
WILLIAM. At his well-known house—residence—in Portman Square. (_He
stops suddenly. You thought he was just dictating, but his brain has
been working all the time, and he has come to a decision. He announces
it._) We will drink the health in here. See that there is an extra
glass for Mr. Royce. “In Portman Square”—have you got that?
MARION. Yes, dear.
WILLIAM. Mr. William Blayds-Conway, who courteously gave—granted our
representative an interview, informed us that the poet was in good
health—— It’s a pity you never learnt shorthand, Marion.
MARION. I did try, dear.
WILLIAM (_remembering that historic effort_). Yes, I know ... in good
health——
MARION. Good health——
WILLIAM. And keenly appreciative of the many tributes of affection
which he had received.
MARION. Which he had received.
WILLIAM. Among those who called during the day were——
MARION. Yes, dear?
WILLIAM. Fill that in from the visitors’ book. (_He holds out his hand
for the paper_) How does that go?
MARION (_giving it to him_). I wasn’t quite sure how many “p’s” there
were in appreciative.
WILLIAM. Two.
MARION. Yes, I thought two was safer.
WILLIAM (_handing it back to her_). Yes, that’s all right. (_Bringing
out his keys_) I shall want to make a few notes while Mr. Royce is
being received. It may be that Oliver Blayds will say something worth
recording. One would like to get something if it were possible. (_He
has unlocked a drawer in the table and brought out his manuscript
book._) And see that that goes off now. I should think about eight
names. Say three Society, three Artistic and Literary, and two Naval,
Military and Political. (_Again you see his brain working.... He has
come to another decision. He announces it._) Perhaps two Society would
be enough.
MARION. Yes, dear. (_Beginning to make for the door_) Will there be
anything else you’ll want? (_Holding out the paper_) After I’ve done
this?
WILLIAM (_considering_). No ... no.... I’m coming with you. (_Taking
out his keys_) I must get the port. (_He opens the door for her, and
they go out together._)
(_The room is empty for a moment, and then ISOBEL comes in. She is
nearly forty. You can see how lovely she was at twenty, but she
gave up being lovely eighteen years ago, said good-bye to ISOBEL,
and became just Nurse. If BLAYDS wants cheerfulness, she is
cheerful; if sympathy, sympathetic; if interest, interested. She
is off duty now, and we see at once how tired she is. But she has
some spiritual comfort, some secret pride to sustain her, and it
is only occasionally that the tiredness, the deadness, shows
through. She has flowers in her arms, and slowly, thoughtfully,
she decks the room for the great man. We see now for a moment that
she is much older than we thought; it is for her own ninetieth
birthday that she is decorating the room.... Now she has finished,
and she sits down, her hands in her lap, waiting, waiting
patiently.... Some thought brings a wistful smile to her mouth.
Yes, she must have been very lovely at twenty. Then ROYCE comes
in._)