Transcriber’s Note: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores:
_italics_.
FOUR PLAYS
PLAYS BY A. A. MILNE
·
FIRST PLAYS
_Containing_:--Wurzel-Flummery; The Lucky One;
The Boy comes Home; Belinda; The Red Feathers.
_Sixth Impression._
SECOND PLAYS
_Containing_:--Make-Believe; Mr. Pim Passes By;
The Camberley Triangle; The Romantic Age; The
Stepmother. _Sixth Impression._
THREE PLAYS
_Containing_:--The Great Broxopp; The Dover
Road; The Truth about Blayds.
_Second Impression._
CR. 8VO; UNIFORM; 7s. 6d. NET EACH.
FOUR PLAYS
BY A. A. MILNE
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1926
Applications regarding Amateur Performances of these Plays should
be addressed to Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street,
W.C.2. Applications for other rights to Curtis Brown, Ltd., 6
Henrietta Street, W.C.2.
Printed in Great Britain: all rights reserved
CONTENTS
PAGE
TO HAVE THE HONOUR 1
ACT I 3
ACT II 33
ACT III 62
ARIADNE, OR BUSINESS FIRST 87
ACT I 89
Scene 1 89
Scene 2 102
ACT II 114
ACT III 136
PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN IN SLIPPERS 159
SUCCESS 179
ACT I 181
ACT II 212
Scene 1 212
Scene 2 232
ACT III 238
Scene 1 238
Scene 2 253
TO HAVE THE HONOUR
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
CHARACTERS
SIMON BATTERSBY.
ANGELA (_his daughter_).
JENNIFER.
PARLOURMAID.
CAPTAIN HOLT.
ETHEL HOLT.
MRS. FAITHFULL.
IMOGEN FAITHFULL.
DOCTOR AINSLIE.
PRINCE MICHAEL.
JAMES OLIVER.
_The living-room in Simon Battersby’s cottage, Wych Trentham._
ACT I. Before dinner.
ACT II. After dinner.
ACT III. Next morning.
This play was first produced by Sir Gerald du Maurier at Wyndham’s
Theatre on April 22, 1924, with the following cast:
_Simon Battersby_ H. O. NICHOLSON.
_Angela_ FAITH CELLI.
_Jennifer_ MADGE TITHERADGE.
_Captain Holt_ BASIL LODER.
_Ethel Holt_ UNA VENNING.
_Mrs. Faithfull_ GRACE LANE.
_Imogen_ JOAN CLEMENT SCOTT.
_Dr. Ainslie_ ERIC STANLEY.
_Prince Michael_ GERALD DU MAURIER.
_James Oliver_ GEORGE PENN.
_Parlourmaid_ DORIS COOPER.
ACT I
_The Scene is the Living-room in the country cottage of the_
BATTERSBYS _(father and daughter), a room of oak-beams,
distempered walls and lattice windows. At the back, between the
windows is a door, wide open to the garden. There is a door on
the right which leads to the other inhabited parts of the house.
Along the left side of the room a staircase ascends easily, to
meet at right angles a low gallery from which bedrooms may be
reached. The door on the left of the gallery is that of_ ANGELA’S
_room. To the right the gallery leads to_ BATTERSBY’S _room and
the bathroom. Underneath the stairs is a “glory-hole” with a
curtain across it._
_It is nearly 8 o’clock on a warm evening in May. Being summer
time it is still full daylight, and no attempt has been made to
pretend otherwise. The women’s dresses must take their chance.
Time enough to light up after dinner, particularly as electricity
has not yet discovered Wych Trentham._
ANGELA, _aged 18, half-dressed, in rather a casual wrap,
cigarette-holder in mouth, is moving about the room with a slow,
indifferent grace, which is much too charming to be a physical
attribute only. Her indolence, both of voice and movement, is
part of herself; she has the air--odd, and therefore attractive,
on such a youthful prettiness--of living in another world, with a
faint smile for this one. At present she is tidying up the room
for her dinner-party; not with any sort of fussiness; but in the
care-free manner of one to whom it has occurred casually in the
middle of her dressing that Royalty may be here at any moment,
and that her father’s dog-bitten slippers may be in any corner of
the room. While we watch her, she stoops down and collects one
from underneath the sofa; looks thoughtfully about, moves a chair
and discloses the other one. She takes the pair and drops them in
the glory-hole. Then she speaks, raising her voice a little._
ANGELA. Are you out of the bath, Father?
(_She goes on tidying: old newspapers now._ BATTERSBY _opens the
door of his bedroom and looks out_.)
BATTERSBY. In a sense, yes, dear. I was just going in.
ANGELA (_to herself_). Good Heavens!
BATTERSBY. I’m very quick. (_His head begins to go back._)
ANGELA. You’ve put the wine out? (_Silence._ BATTERSBY’S _head stops
its movement_.) Oh Lord, he hasn’t.
BATTERSBY (_firmly, as he comes out, tying his dressing-gown_). I
_am_ putting the wine out. (_He comes down the stairs; a man of about
50, tall and bearded. In a towelled bath-gown and bedroom slippers
he is unconventionally dressed for the dining-room, but you feel
that he would always be a little like that. He has a quick, nervous
way of talking, as if he were communing, rather apologetically, with
himself._) And the cigars. (_He goes into the glory-hole._)
ANGELA (_resigned_). Anyway, everybody knows we’re always late in
this house.
BATTERSBY (_coming out with two boxes of cigars_). _He_ wouldn’t know.
ANGELA. Well, he will after to-night.
BATTERSBY. That’s true.... There are only four of the good cigars
left.
ANGELA. Surely he won’t want more than four?
BATTERSBY. One requires a certain margin.... And then there are the
others. This secretary fellow, Holt, and the Doctor, isn’t it? Five
with me.
ANGELA. I can’t have my medical attendant puffing cigars in a
hygienic house like this.
BATTERSBY. He’d prefer his pipe, in any case. So, if Holt has one of
the cheaper brand, and the secretary and I have one good one each,
that will leave two for the Prince. (_He puts the four Coronas on top
of a broken box of cheaper ones._) I shall tell Holt that the lower
ones are nuttier. What about the wine? Champagne, I suppose.
ANGELA (_thoughtfully_). Emily broke the corkscrew the last time we
had champagne. I wonder if we’ve got another.
BATTERSBY. That was an inferior brand. I have some better than that.
ANGELA. She’d better make a popping noise as she takes the cork
out--to be on the safe side. Have you got enough?
BATTERSBY. A dozen.
ANGELA. Half a bottle each, and seven and a half bottles for the
Prince. That ought to be all right.
BATTERSBY. My dear, you’re looking forward to seeing him again just
as much as I am. (_Opening an empty box_) I suppose you’ve got some
cigarettes.
ANGELA. Some.... A Prince seems much more natural in the South of
France. You sit next to him at lunch, and he’s like anybody else. In
England you feel a snob to be meeting him at all.
BATTERSBY. He invited himself. _We_ didn’t ask him.
ANGELA. I don’t say I _am_ a snob. I say I _feel_ a snob.
BATTERSBY. Pooh! What’s a Prince?
ANGELA. And I don’t say I _feel_ undressed, I _am_ undressed. (_She
pulls her wrap round her, and strolls upstairs._) Go and tell Emily
about the champagne.
BATTERSBY. Prince Michael Robolski of Neo-Slavonia--there are
hundreds like that all over Europe. Penny plain, twopence coloured.
ANGELA (_on the stairs_). Yes, but only one in Wych Trentham. So we
must make the most of him. (_She goes into her room._)
BATTERSBY (_mumbling to himself_). What’s a Prince in this democratic
age? (_He goes kitchenwards._)
(_The room is empty for a moment, and then_ JENNIFER _appears at
the garden door. She is 30, and so overflowing with vitality that
some of it has got into her figure, and led to the word “buxom”
being used. But she is tall enough, and big enough, mentally and
physically, to carry it off with an air. She enjoys her world;
she enjoys herself. It is jolly being_ JENNIFER.... _Nobody is
about, so she announces herself._)
JENNIFER (_loudly_). _How_ do you do? So good of you to come.
(_Shyly_) So kind of you to ask me.
ANGELA (_off_). Oh, is that you, darling?
JENNIFER. Yes. At least it was yesterday. It’s Jennifer.
ANGELA (_appearing in the gallery_). You’re early, aren’t you?
JENNIFER. I haven’t really come yet. Am I dining?
ANGELA. Of course. Life and soul of the party.
JENNIFER. That’s a comfort. I just stepped across to make sure.
Last time, you remember, you sent me away and told me to come in
afterwards. Luckily I had a little cold beef in the house. But
there’s something about sitting down to cold beef and pickles in
diamonds and a dress with no back to it----Well, I just stepped
across to make sure. And now I’ll step back again.
ANGELA. Oh, stop now you’re here!
(_She disappears into her room for a moment, but_ JENNIFER
_doesn’t realise that she is gone_.)
JENNIFER. Good gracious, no! And be introduced to the Prince with a
crowd of others? Never on your life! I shall make a late but superb
entry. All the men will look at me, and say, “Thank God, now we can
eat”; and all the women will look at me and say (quite correctly),
“She came late on purpose, how like her”; and the Prince will look at
me, with a sudden reviving interest in what he had feared would be a
very dull evening, and he’ll say, “_Chère Madame_”--Or does he talk
English? (_There is no answer. She realises that she is alone._) Have
I been soliloquising all this time?
ANGELA (_coming out_). Sorry. What did you say?
JENNIFER. My last words, when solitude descended upon me, were, “Does
he talk English?”
ANGELA. Perfectly. (_She comes slowly downstairs, still smoking._)
JENNIFER. You should have mentioned it in your invitation. We’ve all
been rubbing up our _Easy French in Six Lessons_. Well, then, the
Prince will say, “Ah, dear Lady, this was indeed worth waiting for.”
No, that isn’t very good. Well--anyhow--he’ll look at me. And there’s
more of me to look at every day.
ANGELA. It is ridiculous of you to pretend that you’re fat. Why do
you?
JENNIFER. I don’t. No woman pretends she’s fat. But every woman
over thirty is afraid. On her thirtieth birthday she starts looking
at herself in the glass, and saying, “Is it, or is it not?” And a
morning comes when she says, “I wonder.” I said it this morning. I
say, where _is_--wherever it is?
ANGELA. Neo-Slavonia? I don’t know. (_With a wave of her cigarette_)
Down at the bottom on the right, I suppose. Somewhere.
JENNIFER. They make geography so quickly nowadays that I can’t keep
up with it.
ANGELA. A sort of buffer-state. (_She gives_ JENNIFER _her
ear-rings_.) There’s a dear. I shall make a mess of my hair.
JENNIFER (_fixing them_). If one has never heard of a country, one
always calls it “a sort of buffer-state.” “Miss Angela Battersby
was wearing the family drops.” It must be difficult to feel very
patriotic about a country which is only used so as to prevent two
other countries from getting at each other.... Other ear.
ANGELA (_turning round_). It’s never difficult to feel very patriotic.
JENNIFER. True. At least it’s never difficult to feel how very
unpatriotic other people are.... My buffer, ’tis of thee!... Is he
very good-looking?
ANGELA. Not bad.
JENNIFER. And, to get down to my own class, what’s the secretary
like?... There!
ANGELA (_looking at herself in the glass_). Thanks.... We haven’t
seen him. The Prince wrote to say that he was in London. Could
he--and so on? I said, Delighted. Then he wrote that he and his
secretary were at the Bull at Medenham. Could they--and so forth? I
said, Of course. I suppose he’s a sort of courier, equerry, orderly,
or whatever you call it. I must go and finish myself. (_She goes._)
JENNIFER. Well, speaking as a widow with no desire to marry again, I
wish you luck.
ANGELA (_smiling mysteriously at her from half-way up the stairs_).
Don’t be vulgar, Jennifer.
JENNIFER. I like being vulgar. It suits my shape. Anyhow, darling,
promise that I shall be the first to hear.
ANGELA. You’re sure to be, I should think. You’re quite capable of
hiding behind a tree, and listening. (_She goes into her room._)
JENNIFER (_complacently_). I am. (_Surveying herself_) And thank you
for “tree,” darling. I was afraid you were going to say “bush” or
“clump.” (_Going._) About another quarter-of-an-hour, do you think,
for my entry? (ANGELA _calls out something_.) What?
ANGELA (_putting her head out_). You haven’t got any French mustard,
have you?
JENNIFER (_doubtfully_). _With_ French mustard, you think?
ANGELA. I knew I’d forgotten something.
JENNIFER. I’ll bring some round, if you like.
ANGELA (_retiring_). Do.
JENNIFER. I will.
(_At which moment_ BATTERSBY _comes back from the cellar_.)
BATTERSBY. Hallo, Jennifer, good-evening.
JENNIFER. Good-evening, Simon. (_Reproachfully_) You never told me it
was court dress!
BATTERSBY. What? Oh! (_Looking at himself_) Just going to have a
bath. You couldn’t be much sweller than you are, could you?
JENNIFER (_anxiously_). Much--what?
BATTERSBY. Much more grand.
JENNIFER (_re-assured_). Oh! Just for a moment I----Well, a train and
feathers.
BATTERSBY. He isn’t really royalty, you know. Neo-Slavonia is only----
JENNIFER (_nodding_). A sort of buffer-state.
BATTERSBY. Exactly. And though, I understand, he’s related to the
reigning house----
JENNIFER. There’s no chance of Angela being a queen.
ANGELA (_from her bedroom_). Send that woman away, Father. And for
goodness’ sake, get dressed.
BATTERSBY. It’s Jennifer, dear.
ANGELA. It sounded like Mrs. Bulger.
JENNIFER. It is, darling.
BATTERSBY (_throwing up his hands_). If only it weren’t! _Why_
did.... I mean, _why_ don’t.... (_He shudders._)
JENNIFER (_innocently_). Don’t you like my name?
BATTERSBY. It’s a horrible name.
JENNIFER. I love it. Jennifer Bulger, widow of the late General James
Bulger, C.B. It’s sweet.
BATTERSBY. It may have been all right for _him_--we never knew
him--but for _you_! Jennifer!
JENNIFER. No, no, you mustn’t propose in your dressing-gown.
ANGELA (_off_). Is Father proposing _again_?
BATTERSBY (_shouting_). This is not a proposal. It’s an æsthetic
impulse. (_To_ JENNIFER) I want you to have a name which becomes you.
You ought to be Jennifer Battersby, even at the cost of marrying _me_.
JENNIFER. Dear Simon, nice Simon. You know you don’t mean it.
BATTERSBY. I mean it, every time.... But I must admit that I’m always
a little relieved when you refuse me.
JENNIFER. Dear Simon, of course you are.
ANGELA (_looking out_). Oh, _come_ on, Father!
JENNIFER (_soothingly_). I won’t marry you.
BATTERSBY. Yes, but I don’t think you must marry anybody else.
Promise me that you won’t marry the Prince without my permission.
JENNIFER. Good gracious, that’s two of us after him already!
(_Firmly_) I promise nothing, but that I shall enjoy myself to-night.
BATTERSBY. You always do. That’s why you’re so adorable.
ANGELA (_from the gallery_). Give him a smile, Jennifer, and get rid
of him.
JENNIFER (_laughing happily_). I do like Battersbys. There’s
something about them.... _Au revoir!_ (_She waves and is gone._)
(BATTERSBY _at last goes up to his bath_.)
ANGELA. Hurry up, darling.
BATTERSBY (_impressively_). Have you ever seen forked lightning
playing over water? That’s me in my bath. (_He disappears._)
(ANGELA _remains on the gallery, as_ EMILY, _the parlourmaid,
comes in with a tray of cocktails_.)
ANGELA. Are those the cocktails, Emily?
EMILY. Yes, miss.
ANGELA. Good. (_She comes slowly downstairs, still smoking._)
EMILY. Ellen says I was to remind you about the French mustard, miss.
ANGELA. Mrs. Bulger is bringing some round. (_She takes a cocktail._)
EMILY. Thank you, miss. (_Nervously_) Do I say, “Your Royal
Highness,” miss?
ANGELA. I really don’t know. (_Drinking_) “Your Highness,” I should
think. But don’t overdo it.
EMILY. Thank you, miss.
ANGELA. He won’t throw anything at you, if you’re wrong. (_Finishing
her drink, and giving_ EMILY _the glass_) You’d better take this out.
(_She goes back to her room._)
EMILY. Yes, miss.
[_She goes out._
(ROBERT _and_ ETHEL HOLT _come in. He, a thick-set young
soldier, is just over 30, she just under. He is a very serious
young man, of a sort of determined intellectuality. Nothing
escapes him. Even the lightest remark made by another requires
thinking out. She is a bright helpmeet for such a man, the best
of wives; with, like most wives, more intelligence than appears
on the surface, and enough character to look after herself._)
ETHEL (_brightly_). Why, we’re the first!
ROBERT (_feeling his chin_). I might have gone over it again, after
all.
ETHEL. Better early than late. Particularly with royalty.
ROBERT. Hardly royalty, dear. Neo-Slavonia ... one of these small
buffer-states which have sprung up since the Armistice. All
Mittel-Europa----
ETHEL. (_loudly_). We’re here, Angela! Are we very early? (_To_
ROBERT) Yes, dear.
ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa----
ANGELA (_off_). Hallo! Is that the Holts?
ETHEL. You did say eight, didn’t you?
ANGELA (_her head visible_). Did I? We’re a bit late, I expect. Do
you want to take anything off?
ETHEL. No, thank you, dear.
ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa----
ANGELA. Have a drink, Robert.
ROBERT. Thanks.
ANGELA. Cigarettes. (_A leather case sails into the room._) Sorry.
ETHEL (_picking it up_). Thank you, dear.
ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa----(_Holding out drink_) Will you have one,
Ethel?
ETHEL. I don’t think so. Well, perhaps I will. No, later, I think.
(_She feels that she would like Royalty to see her drinking
one._) I’ll keep the Prince company. (_She laughs a little
self-consciously._) Cigarette?
ROBERT. No, thanks. (_He drinks._)
ETHEL. I don’t think I will either. What were you saying about all
Mittel-Europa, dear?
ROBERT (_drinking_). All Mittel-Europa is in a state of flux just now.
ETHEL (_wearing her intelligent face_). I suppose so. Naturally. The
War, of course. And the Peace.
ROBERT. The old Empires are splitting up--disintegrating. A sort of
de-centralisation is going on. And so you get these small states
coming into a precarious existence. Almost literally a case of “Here
to-day and gone to-morrow.”
ETHEL. You must talk it over with the Prince--if he talks English,
as I suppose he does. They all do, don’t they? I love listening to a
good talk. Men talk so well, I always think.... They say he’s very
good-looking.
ROBERT. In many cases, of course, these little states have a
connected history of their own. Centuries ago, before they were
absorbed into some ramshackle empire, they had their own court and
customs. You would probably find that they had never quite lost their
individuality.
ETHEL. Individuality is the great thing, isn’t it? Oh, did you find
out whether we said Sir or Your Highness or Prince?
ROBERT. I shall say Sir, of course. You’d better not say anything.
ETHEL. Yes, that’s best, isn’t it?
(ANGELA _still in her wrap, empty cigarette-holder in her mouth,
comes down the stairs_.)
ANGELA. Can I have my cigarettes?
ROBERT (_standing to attention_). Good-evening.
ETHEL (_brightly_). How _are_ you, dear? Here you are. (_She goes,
case in hand, to kiss her._)
ANGELA (_taking the case and avoiding the kiss_). Thanks.
ETHEL (_with a little laugh_). We were just wondering what one called
your Prince.
ANGELA (_putting in a cigarette_). As long as you don’t call him _my_
Prince, I don’t mind what you call him. I’ve only met him once.
ROBERT. Oh, is that so? Monte Carlo, wasn’t it? (_He strikes a match
for her._)
ANGELA. Thanks.... That village above Mentone--what’s its name?
Gorbio. We went there one day. With a party. Sort of picnic. He was
one of them.
ETHEL (_with the air of one who knows Gorbio well_). Oh, yes.
ANGELA (_strolling upstairs again_). Shan’t be long.
(_They watch her go._)
ETHEL (_as soon as it is safe_). Well, if you ask _me_, I should say
that Miss Angela Battersby must have made good use of that one day.
ROBERT (_uncomfortably, feeling that this is rather bad form_). Oh, I
don’t know.
ETHEL. I mean it quite nicely, of course. I can quite see the
attraction. She’s so very British, isn’t she? That would always
attract a foreigner.
ROBERT (_wondering if his country is being insulted_). British?
ETHEL. That air of “Oh, is that _you_?”
ROBERT. I don’t see that that’s British exactly. I should call it the
individual rather than the type.
ETHEL. You know what I mean. (_With sudden inspiration_) “I’m Angela
Battersby, take it or leave it.” There!--that’s what I mean. I think
it’s rather attractive.
ROBERT (_frowning_). But why British?
ETHEL. Well, that’s rather what Englishmen say.
ROBERT (_wrestling_). H’m!... I see what you mean.... In a
way--yes.... I suppose we do. (_He looks at her with an admiration
that would be flattering if it were not surprised._) Now what made
you think of that?
ETHEL. Oh, I’m not such a fool as you think.
ROBERT. I have never thought so for a moment. Women often have
surprising intuitions.... “I am an Englishman, take it or leave it.”
That’s good, Ethel. I must tell the Prince that.
ETHEL (_eagerly_). You will say I said it, won’t you?
ROBERT. My dear, of course.
ETHEL (_taking his arm_). Dear old boy! Let’s go into the garden.
It’s nicer outside.
ROBERT (_coming_). You’re quite right, Ethel. We do.
ETHEL. Do what?
ROBERT. That’s why so many foreigners----
ETHEL (_as they approach the door_). Mrs. Faithfull--I didn’t know
_she_ was coming.
(_But she is. For here they are at the door--the Queen of Wych
Trentham, and her only child_, IMOGEN. MRS. FAITHFULL, _short
and square, with the absolute assurance of a woman of 55 who has
to her credit the achievements of wifehood and motherhood, and
can therefore speak with authority on all subjects, exercises
her prerogatives benignly. Practically all it comes to is that
she expects the host to take her in. At present she is very
much a mother to_ IMOGEN, _who at 18_, ANGELA’S _age, is a dumb
school-girl in the royal presence, and a precocious one in her
absence_.)
ETHEL (_brightly_). Good-evening. Angela’s still dressing. We’re
early, so we’re just going into the garden. (_Which explains the
whole thing._)
MRS. FAITHFULL. Good-evening, Ethel. Good-evening, Captain Holt.
ROBERT. Good-evening. (_To_ IMOGEN) How are _you_, Miss Faithfull?
(IMOGEN _smiles shyly_.)
MRS. FAITHFULL. Very well, thank you, Captain Holt.
ETHEL (_to_ IMOGEN). What a sweet dress, dear. (IMOGEN _looks
modest_.)
MRS. FAITHFULL. Pink suits us. We always try to keep to pink.
ANGELA (_off_). Is that you, Mrs. Faithfull? Do you want to take
anything off, or would you rather have a cocktail?
MRS. FAITHFULL. I will just come up for a moment, I think. (_To_
IMOGEN) You can keep that shawl on, dear, for the present. It suits
you. (_She goes up the stairs._)
ANGELA (_off_). Robert, give Imogen a cigar or a drink or something.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_firmly_). No, thank you, Captain Holt. (_She goes
into_ ANGELA’S _room_.)
ETHEL (_to_ IMOGEN). Come into the garden with us. It’s cooler there.
ROBERT (_with glass_). Sure you won’t?
IMOGEN (_to_ ETHEL). Have _you_ had one?
ETHEL. No, I don’t think just yet, perhaps.
IMOGEN. Oh! (_She takes the drink._) Then I will. And Mother will
count and think it’s your glass. (_Drinking_) I don’t like the taste
_very_ much, do you? I suppose you get used to it. I say, aren’t you
excited about the Prince? Do you think he’s a real Prince? Do you
think he’s in love with Angela? (_She drinks again._) I don’t think I
like this very much.
ROBERT (_holding out his hand_). I shouldn’t drink it if you don’t
like it.
IMOGEN (_before letting go of the glass_). Would _you_ leave half of
yours, Mrs. Holt?
ETHEL. I might. I do sometimes.
IMOGEN. Oh, then that’s all right. (_To_ ROBERT) Thank you. (_To_
ETHEL) Do we curtsey?
ETHEL (_who hadn’t thought of this_). Oh, no! I don’t----(_Panic._)
IMOGEN. I’ve been practising. Up in my room. (_She gives us
one._) It looks jolly, doesn’t it? I’ve been doing it in front of
the glass--mostly in a nightie. (_She gives us another, not so
successful._) It’s easier in a nightie.
ETHEL. Oh, but Robert has just been explaining. Neo-Slavonia is
only----
ROBERT. A sort of buffer-state.
IMOGEN. Mother says you just call him Prince Michael. I like “Sire”
better, don’t you? You’ve never met him, have you? I believe he’s
awfully good-looking.
ROBERT. It isn’t like an English Prince, you know, Miss Faithfull.
You know, in Europe, “Prince” is just a title like Duke or Count.
That is to say----
ETHEL. Oh, is that so, Robert?
IMOGEN. Let’s go into the garden, shall we? I won’t smoke a
cigarette, but if _you_ would, Mrs. Holt, and blow the smoke in my
hair, Mother will think I’ve been smoking, and then you’ll be able to
tell her afterwards that I haven’t.
ETHEL (_her arm round_ IMOGEN). Come on, you funny girl. (_They go
out_, ROBERT _still holding forth_.)
ROBERT (_following_). This Prince Michael, you know, is probably not
of the Royal Family--such as it is. A distant connection, perhaps,
but----
[_They are gone._
(MRS. FAITHFULL _and_ ANGELA _appear in the gallery_.)
ANGELA (_as they come downstairs_). Have a cocktail, won’t you?
MRS. FAITHFULL. Thank you.
(_She comes down_; ANGELA _after her, still undressed, still
smoking_.)
ANGELA. Help yourself.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_helping herself_). He talks English, of course?
ANGELA. Oh, yes.
MRS. FAITHFULL. That’s a comfort. About how old, would you say?
ANGELA. Thirty-five. Forty.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, as old as that? Good-looking?
ANGELA. All right.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Who else are coming?
ANGELA. Dr. Ainslie.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_disapproving_). Oh!
ANGELA. Jennifer.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_disapproving in a different way_). Ah!... There’s
something about her which would appeal to a foreigner, don’t you
think?
ANGELA. Why to a foreigner, particularly?
MRS. FAITHFULL. Her figure is a little--foreign, don’t you think?
ANGELA (_indifferently_). Is it?
MRS. FAITHFULL. What sort of stays does she wear--if any? In my young
days when stays _were_ stays, you either had a ridge across the back
or you hadn’t. Nowadays, there’s nothing to tell you whether they
wear them or they don’t.
ANGELA. We’ll ask her at dinner to-night.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Not in front of Imogen, dear, if you don’t mind.
ANGELA. Doesn’t she know about them?
MRS. FAITHFULL. She’s looking sweet to-night, don’t you think? I’m
sure the Prince will think so. A little English wild rose. And have
_you_ a pretty dress for us?
ANGELA. Same old blue.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_relieved_). Ah!... But it suits you very well, dear.
ANGELA. It’s had long enough to get used to me.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Still, if the Prince has never seen it----
BATTERSBY (_off_). Angela!
ANGELA. Hallo!
BATTERSBY. May I wear my old coat and a soft shirt?
ANGELA. Why ever not?
BATTERSBY. Holt will have a white waistcoat, I suppose?
ANGELA (_to_ MRS. FAITHFULL). Had he?
MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, yes! (_Loudly_) Yes, Mr. Battersby.
BATTERSBY. Oh, is that you, Mrs. Faithfull? Sorry I’m not ready.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_a little primly_). It’s quite all right, thank you.
BATTERSBY. Well, then, Angela, if Holt has a white waistcoat, and
I have a soft shirt, and Ainslie has an ordinary tail-coat with a
stethoscope in it, the Prince is bound to be all right, _whatever_ he
wears.
ANGELA. The perfect host.
BATTERSBY (_loudly_). What?
ANGELA. Soft shirt, darling.
BATTERSBY. Good! Shan’t be a moment, Mrs. Faithfull.
MRS. FAITHFULL. That’s all right, thank you. Angela is looking
after me.... I always think Mr. Battersby looks so artistic in his
velvet coat.... Of course this is quite an informal visit of Prince
Michael’s.
ANGELA. Naturally.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Did you see much of him at Monte?
ANGELA. We met him.
MRS. FAITHFULL. And he said, could he come and see you when he was in
England?
ANGELA. He did say something about it, I believe.
MRS. FAITHFULL. They often say it, but they don’t always come.
ANGELA (_sympathetically_). Don’t they?
MRS. FAITHFULL. Well, of course, I don’t encourage it for Imogen. Not
abroad. You never know Who _is_ Who.
ANGELA. As long as they’re amusing----
MRS. FAITHFULL. The amusing ones are never Who. You can depend on
that.
ANGELA. Then we’re in for a dull evening.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, a Prince is different. Prince Michael----(_Very
carelessly_) We just call him Prince Michael, I suppose. An informal
visit, naturally. I told Imogen, yes--he is sure to be interesting.
(_Vaguely_) All Europe just now, I think. New groupings of
nationalities. One so rarely hears the real truth. I am told that we
are much nearer to another world-war than we think. The Prince must
tell us. I suppose Neo-Slavonia _is_ pro-Ally?
ANGELA. Are there any allies now? They’re fond of the English, I
believe.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, well, that’s a good thing.
(_They are interrupted by_ JENNIFER.)
JENNIFER (_at the open door_). French mustard. Don’t tell me I ought
to have gone to the back door with it.
ANGELA. Oh, thanks. (_She puts the mustard on the table, and calls
out._) Emily!
JENNIFER (_to_ MRS. FAITHFULL). Good-evening, dear. What a charming
dress! (_To_ ANGELA) May I go back and change mine?
MRS. FAITHFULL (_pleased_). We must do what we can when there are so
many pretty young ones round us.
JENNIFER (_with a charming, modest laugh_). Oh, how sweet----(_The
laugh stops suddenly. In which group is she included? She says
solemnly_) Yes. We must.
ANGELA (_indicating cocktail_). Have one?
JENNIFER. My dear, I daren’t.
ANGELA. You _are_ absurd.
EMILY (_coming in_). Yes, miss?
ANGELA (_nodding at it_). Mustard.
[EMILY _takes it and goes out_.
JENNIFER (_resigned_). I suppose I shan’t see _that_ again.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Angela was just telling me that the Neo-Slavonians
are very fond of the English.
JENNIFER. Yes, Gladstone or somebody said something in 1874 which
they have never quite forgotten ... but which I have.
ANGELA. What sort of thing?
JENNIFER. Legitimate aspirations ... which _although_ ... _yet_ ...
in the not far-distant future----_You_ know how they talk.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_nodding profoundly_). It is curious to think that if
Mr. Gladstone had never said--whatever exactly it was--fifty years
ago, Prince Michael mightn’t have been dining here to-night.
JENNIFER. And if Mr. Faithfull had never said “I love you”
twenty-five years ago, Imogen mightn’t have been dining here to-night.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_stiffly_). That doesn’t strike me as so curious.
JENNIFER. Still, it is interesting. Angela, darling, if you don’t get
dressed, nobody will be dining here to-night.
ANGELA (_lounging off_). I’m just ready. (_She goes up._) The others
are in the garden.
JENNIFER. I saw a pretty pink butterfly on the lawn. I suppose that
was Imogen.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_absently_). Yes, we always wear pink in the evening.
JENNIFER (_suddenly_). Isn’t it funny that there aren’t any pink
butterflies? I’d never thought of it before. Reds and yellows and
blues and browns and purples, but no pinks. I wonder why?
MRS. FAITHFULL (_who doesn’t wonder why_). We shall know one day, I
daresay.
JENNIFER. I’d rather know now, because I’m sure to forget later
on. There will be so many questions to ask when we get to Heaven.
(_Childishly_) What’s your first one? I’ll tell you what mine is. I
shall say, “Now, _what_ about all those stars? What were they there
for?”
(MRS. FAITHFULL _feels uncomfortably that there is nothing
about this in the Church of England Services, and gets back to
butterflies_.)
MRS. FAITHFULL. The General must have seen many beautiful butterflies
in India.
JENNIFER. He didn’t talk about them.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_coming to the point_). What did happen at Monte, do
you know?
JENNIFER (_at a loss_). Monty?
MRS. FAITHFULL. Between Angela and the Prince.
JENNIFER. Oh--Monte! I always call it Carlo.... Did anything happen?
MRS. FAITHFULL. She evidently made a great impression. Of course
nothing could ever----Still, in these democratic days, I
suppose----She hasn’t said anything to _you_?
JENNIFER. She told me not to be vulgar when I hinted that----
MRS. FAITHFULL (_stiffly_). There is a vulgar way and another way, no
doubt, of making these enquiries.
JENNIFER (_cheerfully_). Yes, mine was the vulgar way. (_With an
air_) But, after all, are we not women? The moment they meet, shall
we not know if “soft eyes look love to eyes which speak again”?
MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, one always knows, of course.
JENNIFER (_romantically_).
“And she was only seventeen,
Nor child, nor woman, but between--
And oh! the love light in her een!”
But if the light be not there, I shall wish _Imogen_ luck, and I
don’t care how vulgar anybody calls me.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_deprecating, but pleased_). Oh, Imogen is only a
baby.
JENNIFER. As old as Angela.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_firmly_). Not in the sight of Heaven.
JENNIFER (_to herself_). That will be another thing to ask about when
I get there.... (_To_ MRS. FAITHFULL) Of course we must remember that
the Prince’s prospects are not necessarily confined to Wych Trentham.
He may decide to marry _out_ of the village.
(DR. AINSLIE _is at the door. At 50 he has a sense of humour
which the ladies call “so satirical”; and, in his own words,
he can “stand anything but shams,” by which he means Religion,
Royalty and other politenesses much esteemed in Wych Trentham.
Some people call him a cynic, without quite knowing what it
means, and they all say that “it is a great pity he never
married.”_)
AINSLIE. Do I come in, or do I go to the front door and get announced
in style?
JENNIFER. Which do you generally do?
AINSLIE (_sarcastically_). I don’t generally have the honour of
meeting a Prince. Good-evening, Mrs. Faithfull.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_coldly_). Good-evening.
AINSLIE. Outwardly calm, but with beating hearts, and murmuring a few
French phrases to ourselves, we await the arrival of His Highness.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_to_ JENNIFER). Is Imogen outside, dear? I think I’ll
go to her.
AINSLIE (_making way for her_). She is the one in pink. (MRS.
FAITHFULL _goes out haughtily_.) That woman doesn’t like me.
JENNIFER (_consolingly_). But the next doctor is a long way off.
AINSLIE. Oh, professionally, I have no anxiety. But she doesn’t like
me. Do you know why?
JENNIFER. Your diffident manner?
AINSLIE. I told her that she was bringing Imogen up badly.
JENNIFER. Speaking as a doctor, or as a--bachelor?
AINSLIE. As a substitute for the Vicar. (_Indicating the drinks_) Are
these for me?
JENNIFER. Some of them. (_He goes to the table, and holds up one._)
No, thank you.
AINSLIE (_drinking_). I said: “You are robbing Imogen of her youth.”
Look at all the other jolly little girls you see about. They drink,
and they smoke, and they swear, and they read improper books, and
they’re very clever and cynical, and we say, “Bless their dear little
hearts! Youth, youth! I was as young as that once.” I tell you,
Jennifer, it brings tears into my eyes sometimes, to see them so
young and so pleased with themselves, and to think that they will
have to grow up. But Imogen will marry and settle down before she has
had any youth at all.
JENNIFER (_smiling_). I fancy that Imogen is deeper than you think.
When she is away from her mother----
AINSLIE. Deep! But that’s what I’m saying! She’s as deep as you or
I. She has no business to be deep at her age. Deep! She’s probably
romantic, and all sorts of nice elderly things like that. I daresay
she’s told herself stories about this ridiculous Prince of yours.
Just as _you_ have. (_He drinks and says firmly_) I don’t know about
anybody else, but I do not propose to call him “Sir.”
JENNIFER. “Nobody asked you, Sir, she said.... Sir, she said.”...
Sir, _she_ said--unlike the doctor of Wych Trentham.
AINSLIE. _And_ I shall talk English.
JENNIFER (_disappointedly_). Oh!... Couldn’t you say a few words in
medical Latin now and then?
AINSLIE. That reminds me. Is there an Established Church in
Neo-Slavonia?
JENNIFER. Good gracious, what a question to ask a lone widow woman
suddenly!
AINSLIE. It’s a new country, so it may still be free from the
shackles of ecclesiasticism.
JENNIFER. Will this be the general trend of the conversation this
evening? Because, if so, I should like to go back for my cigarette
cards.
AINSLIE (_warming to it_). No country with an Established Church has
any claim to be considered civilised. But the fools won’t see it.
JENNIFER (_soothingly_). They never do, do they? I don’t believe they
try. (_Very soothingly_) Shall I put your glass down for you, or hold
your hobby-horse while you dismount?
AINSLIE (_with a laugh_). All right, I’ll spare you the rest. (_He
pats her hand affectionately._)
(ANGELA _comes down, dressed at last_.)
ANGELA. Hallo!
AINSLIE (_shaking hands_). Good-evening. Produce your Prince.
ANGELA. Isn’t he here?
AINSLIE. He’s looking for the red carpet. Have you got a red carpet?
I came in through the garden. The village band ought to be playing
the Neo-Slavonian National Anthem. Why isn’t it? This party is being
run very badly.
(BATTERSBY _comes down from his bedroom, as the others return
from the garden_.)
BATTERSBY. Hallo, Doctor. (_He beckons him on one side._) I say,
we’re a cigar short. You’d rather have a pipe, wouldn’t you?
AINSLIE. Even if I wouldn’t, I should smoke it to-night, as an
assertion of my Republican principles.
BATTERSBY. Excellent. Could you also assert your medical principles,
and tell Holt that any one of the four big cigars on the top of the
box would undoubtedly be fatal to him?
AINSLIE. Do I speak as one who knows Holt’s constitution, or as one
who knows the cigars?
BATTERSBY. I don’t mind which way you put it, as long as you frighten
him.
(ANGELA _and_ JENNIFER _have been greeting the others_. AINSLIE
_now joins them_.)
ANGELA. Well, we may as well sit down. I don’t know how long he’s
going to be. (_To_ MRS. FAITHFULL) Come along.
(_They sit on the sofa together._ ETHEL _and_ IMOGEN, _assisted
by the men, find seats_. JENNIFER _stands by the open door,
where she is joined by_ BATTERSBY.)
MRS. FAITHFULL. He’s driving over, I suppose.
ANGELA. I suppose so.
(_There is an awkward silence._)
ETHEL (_breaking it_). One, two, three.... I was just counting,
making sure we weren’t going to be thirteen.
AINSLIE. Why? (_To_ ANGELA) Have you got only twelve plates?
ETHEL. I don’t care what you say, Dr. Ainslie, there _is_ something
in it.
AINSLIE. Folly.
ROBERT (_seriously_). I’ve known some funny things happen, Ainslie.
In the war.
AINSLIE. Even in a war nothing would happen which could be so funny
as the superstitious man’s Theory of the Universe. Particularly if he
also professed to be a religious man.
ANGELA. Well, nothing funny is going to happen to-night, because
we’re only ten.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_looking round the room_). Ten?
ANGELA. There’s a sort of secretary person coming with him. Name of
Oliver.
MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh! Hasn’t he any other name?
ANGELA. James.
MRS. FAITHFULL (_at a loss_). Oh!
AINSLIE. J. Oliver or O. James? Or doesn’t he mind?
ANGELA. J. Oliver. He’s driving him over, much to the disappointment
of the cook, who hoped for a real chauffeur.
AINSLIE. With the latest royal scandal to communicate.
(_There is another awkward silence._)
ETHEL (_breaking it_). Mr. Oliver’s a soldier, I suppose. (_To_
ROBERT) I wonder if you’ll know him.
ROBERT. There was an Oliver in the Middlesex Regiment--Second
Battalion.
(_Another silence. But_ ETHEL _is determined to make the party
go_.)
ETHEL. Was he nice?
ROBERT. Oh, all right. I hardly knew him.
(_Silence._)
ETHEL (_trying again_). I wonder if that’s the one.
ROBERT. Hardly likely, I should think.
(_Silence._)
ETHEL (_a last effort_). Oh, I don’t know, he might be.
(_The conversation, which never promised much, has now abandoned
hope. There is another long silence._)
MRS. FAITHFULL } {I wonder if there’s any chance----
}(_simultaneously_).{
ROBERT } {You don’t know if he plays----
ROBERT } {
}(_simultaneously_).{I beg your pardon.
MRS. FAITHFULL } {
(_Each waits for the other._)
ROBERT. Please!
MRS. FAITHFULL. I was only wondering how long he was to be in the
neighbourhood. Did he say anything about that?
ANGELA. No.
AINSLIE. It depends how charming we are to-night.
(_Everybody waits for_ ROBERT.)
ETHEL (_after a pause_). What were _you_ going to say, dear?
ROBERT. Nothing. I wondered if we might rope him in for the match on
Saturday.
ETHEL. He wouldn’t play cricket, would he? It’s such an English game,
isn’t it?
ROBERT. I just wondered. He was at an English school, wasn’t he?
ANGELA. I think so.
ETHEL. Oh! I didn’t know. That makes a difference, doesn’t it?
(_Another silence._)
BATTERSBY (_from the window, where he has been talking to_ JENNIFER).
I don’t believe he’s coming, dear.
ANGELA (_calmly_). Then he’ll miss a very good dinner.
AINSLIE. Good!
MRS. FAITHFULL (_the authority_). Naturally Royalty must arrive last.
ETHEL. I suppose so. (_To_ ROBERT) Oh, I meant to ask you, Robert,
what happened when that German Prince dined in your Mess? (_Hurriedly
to the others_) Before the war, of course.
JENNIFER (_at the door_). S’sh.
(_She takes a step into the garden. They all listen._)
MRS. FAITHFULL. I think I hear his car.
JENNIFER (_looking in_). He comes!
(_She disappears, but they are not noticing her. All, save_
ANGELA, _have become self-conscious. There is a strained silence.
They feel at their clothes to make sure they are all right._
MRS. FAITHFULL _touches up_ IMOGEN. ANGELA, _at ease, is still
smoking_.)
EMILY (_announcing_). Prince Michael Robolski, Mr. Oliver.
(_They come in. The_ PRINCE _is a man of 40, with an upturned
moustache, pleasant-looking, active in body and mind. He speaks
with a very slight foreign accent, and wears a coloured ribbon
in the lapel of his coat._ OLIVER _is a very young Englishman,
smooth, round-faced, and rather obviously new to his job_.)
ANGELA (_getting up gracefully_). Hallo! Nice to see you again.
PRINCE (_bending over her hand_). Mademoiselle! But this is
delightful! May I present my good friend who takes care of me, Mr.
Oliver?
ANGELA (_to_ OLIVER). How do you do? (_They shake hands._)
BATTERSBY (_coming forward_). Very glad to see you again, Prince
Michael.
PRINCE (_shaking hands with him_). But how kind of you to have me in
your house.
BATTERSBY (_hand out to_ OLIVER). How do you do? Find the way all
right?
OLIVER. Oh yes, rather, thank you, sir.
ANGELA (_to the_ PRINCE). Now then, come along.... This is Mrs.
Faithfull.
PRINCE (_holding out his hand_). Madame!
MRS. FAITHFULL (_curtseying_). How do you do?
ANGELA. And Miss Faithfull.
MRS. FAITHFULL. May I present my little girl, Imogen, to Your
Highness?
PRINCE (_holding out his hand, and smiling_). How do you do, Miss
Imogen?
(IMOGEN _nearly swoons_.)
MRS. FAITHFULL. Imogen, dear! I am afraid, Prince Michael, that my
little girl is rather shy.
PRINCE (_charmingly_). But we are all friends here, are we not?
(_He takes her hand._)
IMOGEN (_in a faint whisper_). How do you do?
(MRS. FAITHFULL _administers first aid_.)
ANGELA. Dr. Ainslie.
PRINCE (_smiling_). The Champion of the Established Church?
ANGELA. He’s a Republican, really.
AINSLIE. Angela has been telling tales out of school.
PRINCE (_holding out his hand_). Still we shake hands, do we not?
AINSLIE (_shaking it, and smiling_). Without prejudice.
PRINCE. Oh, but perfectly. (_To_ ANGELA) You see, I remember what you
tell me. (_He comes to the_ HOLTS.) And this would be--you tell me
of them----The soldier with the pretty wife----(_To_ ETHEL) Pardon,
madame, but she did say so. And now I see for myself.
ANGELA. Captain and Mrs. Holt.
PRINCE. Holt! But of course.
(_They shake hands._)
ETHEL (_blushing_). How do you do?
ROBERT (_bravely, like a soldier_). How do you do, sir?
(OLIVER _has been following with_ BATTERSBY.)
ANGELA. But where’s Jennifer?
(_They all look round in bewilderment._)
PRINCE. That would be Madame Boulager, the General’s widow.... And
that’s all Princes are good for in these times, is it not so, Doctor?
Remembering.
ANGELA. Well, come and have a drink.
PRINCE. Mademoiselle thinks of everything. (_He takes a cocktail, and
looks round the room._) So this is where my friends the Battersbys
live?
ANGELA. You like it?
PRINCE. How can I not like it? It is yourselves. I bow to the flowers
as I come through the garden: “Miss Angela, we meet again.” I shake
hands with the front door, and say, “Battersby, how well you are
looking.” (_Indicating the gallery_) Mademoiselle stands up there
sometimes. (ANGELA _nods_.) And looks down on the little children
playing below. I can see her. (_Raising his glass to the room_) I
drink to you. (_He drinks._) And Mademoiselle is here also. (_To
his cocktail_) “How do you do, Miss Angela?” (_He picks up a second
glass._) But you must drink too.
EMILY (_announcing_). Mrs. Bulger!
(JENNIFER _sweeps superbly in_.)
JENNIFER (_to_ ANGELA, _who comes to meet her_). Darling, I’m so
sorry I’m late. Do forgive me! (_She kisses her._)
ANGELA (_smiling and releasing herself_). Come along. Prince Michael,
this is my friend, Jennifer.
(JENNIFER’S _smile changes suddenly into an expression of
amazement. She stares at the_ PRINCE, _who smiles pleasantly back
at her. Then with an effort she gains control of herself._)
JENNIFER (_slowly_). How do you do, Prince Michael?
PRINCE (_with a friendly smile_). How do you do? (_He has a glass in
each hand, and he looks whimsically from one to the other of them._)
You will forgive me?
JENNIFER (_with a sudden laugh_). I think I’ll have one too.
(_He gives her one. They drink, their eyes on each other._)
EMILY. Dinner is served.