Abbey. I'm all for quiet funerals, too; but really this was an
exceptional case, and I think if you'd seen it you'd have been glad they
did decide on the Abbey. Oh, you've no idea how impressive it was! The
Abbey is always so fine, isn't it? And it was crammed. You never saw
such a multitude of distinguished people. I mean really
distinguished--all in black, except, of course, the uniforms. Royalties,
ambassadors, representatives from all the academies all over Europe.
Rodin was there!! The whole of artistic London came. I don't mean only
painters, but poets, novelists, sculptors, and musicians. The art
students had a corner to themselves. And you should have seen the crowds
outside. All traffic was stopped up as far as Trafalgar Square. I've had
some difficulty in getting here. The sun was shining through the stained
glass. And the music was magnificent. And then when the coffin was
carried down the nave--well, there was only one wreath on the pall--just
one--a white crown. All the other wreaths were piled near the
screen--scores and scores of them--the effect was tremendous. I nearly
cried. A lot of people did cry. (Genuinely moved.) There was that
great genius lying there. He'd never done anything except put paint on
canvas, and yet--and yet.... Well, it made you feel somehow that England
does care for art after all.
CARVE. (After a pause.) And whom have we to thank for this beautiful
national manifestation of sympathy with art?
HONORIA. How do you mean?
CARVE. (With an attempt at cold irony, but yet in a voice imperfectly
controlled.) Did your brother relent and graciously permit Lady Leonard
Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or was it due solely to the
influence of the newspapers written by people of refined culture like
the man who gave his opinion the other day that I had got 'em? Or
perhaps you yourself settled it with your esteemed uncle over a cup of
tea?
HONORIA. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can see that you're artistic
yourself, and artists are generally very sarcastic about the British
public. I know I am.... Now, don't you paint?
CARVE. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I used to--a little.
HONORIA. I was sure of it. Well, you can be as sarcastic as you like,
but do you know what I was thinking during the service? I was thinking
if only he could have seen it--if only Ilam Carve could have seen
it--instead of lying cold in that coffin under that wreath,
he'd--(Hesitating.)
CARVE. (Interrupting her, in a different, resolved tone.) Miss Looe, I
suppose you're on very confidential terms with your uncle.
HONORIA. Naturally. Why?
CARVE. Will you give him a message from me. He'll do perhaps better than
anybody.
HONORIA. With pleasure.
CARVE. (Moved.) It is something important--very important indeed. In
fact--
(JANET goes into bedroom, but keeping near the doorway does not
actually disappear.)
HONORIA. (Soothingly, and a little frightened.) Now, please, Mr.
Shawn! Please don't frighten us as you did the other day. Please do try
and keep calm!
CARVE. I--(He suddenly stands up and then falls back again into
chair.)
(JANET returns quickly to the room)
HONORIA. (Alarmed, to JANET.) I'm afraid he isn't quite well yet.
CARVE. No, I can't tell you. At least, not now. Thanks very much for
calling. (Rises brusquely and walks towards the bedroom door.)
JANET. (To HONORIA.) He's not really strong enough to see visitors.
HONORIA. (Going to door and trying to be confidential.) What is it?
JANET. (With tranquillity.) Oh, influenza. Sometimes it takes 'em in
the head and sometimes in the stomach. It's taken him in the head.
HONORIA. Charming man! I don't suppose there's the least likelihood of
it--he's evidently very well off--but if he should be wanting a
situation similar to his last, I'm sure my uncle----
JANET. (Positively and curtly.) I don't think so.
HONORIA. Of course you know him very well?
JANET. Well, it's like this. I'm his cousin. We aren't exactly engaged
to be married----
HONORIA. (In a changed tone.) Oh, I see! Good afternoon.
JANET. Good afternoon.
(Exit HONORIA.)
CARVE. (Who has hesitatingly wandered back towards centre; in a quite
different tone now that he is alone again with JANET.) What's this
about being engaged to be married?
JANET. (Smiling.) I was telling her we weren't engaged to be married.
That's true, I suppose?
CARVE. But are we cousins?
JANET. Yes. I've got my reputation to think about. I don't want to
coddle it, but there's no harm in just keeping an eye on it.
CARVE. I see. (Sits down.)
JANET. If nothing comes of all this--
CARVE. All what?
JANET. All this illness and nursing and sitting up at nights,--then I'm
just your cousin, and no harm done.
CARVE. But do you mean to say you'd--
JANET. (Stopping-him.) Not so fast! (Pause. She continues
reflectively.) Do you know what struck me while her ladyship was
telling you about all the grand doings at the funeral--What good has it
ever done him to be celebrated and make a big splash in the world? Was
he any happier for it? From all I can hear he was always trying to hide
just as if the police were after him. He never had the slightest notion
of comfort, and so you needn't tell me! And there's another thing--you
needn't tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl or other,
because I know he was. A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything
else--morning, noon, and night. It stands to reason--and they can say
what they like--I know. And now he's dead--probably because he'd no
notion of looking after himself, and it's been in all the papers how
wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very likely sat up half the
night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with
fashionable folk--and do you know what all those fashionable folk are
thinking about just now--tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whisky and soda.
CARVE. But you mustn't forget that he was really very successful
indeed.... Just look at the money he made, for instance.
JANET. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him he'd never have left
two hundred thousand of them behind him--him with no family. No, he was
no better than a fool with money. Couldn't even spend it.
CARVE. He had the supreme satisfaction of doing what he enjoyed doing
better than anybody else could do it.
JANET. And what was that?
CARVE. Painting.
JANET. (Casually.) Oh! and couldn't he have had that without running
about all over Europe? He might just as well have been a commercial
traveller. Take my word for it, Mr. Shawn, there's nothing like a
comfortable home and a quiet life--and the less you're in the newspapers
the better.
CARVE. (Thoughtfully.) Do you know--a good deal of what you say
applies to me.
JANET. And you now! As we're on the subject--before we go any
further--you're a bachelor of forty-five, same as him. What have you
been doing with yourself lately?
CARVE. Doing with myself?
JANET. Well, I think I ought to ask because when I was stealing (with a
little nervous laugh) the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel
bill, I came across a lady's photograph. I couldn't help coming across
it. Seeing how things are, I think I ought to ask.
CARVE. Oh, that! It must be a photograph of the lady he was engaged
to. He broke it off, you know. That was why we came to London in such a
hurry.
JANET. Then it is true--what the newspaper reporter said? (CARVE
nods.) One of the aristocracy--(CARVE nods.) Who was she?
CARVE. Lady Alice Rowfant.
JANET. What was it doing in your pocket?
CARVE. I don't know. Everything got mixed up. Clothes, papers,
everything.
JANET. Sure?
CARVE. Of course! Look here, do you suppose Lady Alice Rowfant is
anything to me?
JANET. She isn't?
CARVE. No.
JANET. Honestly? (Looking at him closely.)
CARVE. Honestly.
JANET. (With obvious relief.) Well, that's all right then! Now will
you drink this milk, please.
CARVE. I just wanted to tell you----
JANET. Will you drink this milk? (Pours out a glassful for him.)
(CARVE addresses himself to the milk.)
(JANET begins to put on her things.)
CARVE. But I say, what are you doing?
JANET. I'm going home.
CARVE. What? Now?
JANET. At once.
CARVE. But you can't leave me like this. I'm very ill.
JANET. Oh no, you aren't. You're very much better. Anyone can see that.
All you've got to do is to return to bed and stick to slops.
CARVE. And when shall you come back?
JANET. You might come down to see me one day at Putney.
CARVE. I shall be delighted to. But before that, won't you come here?
JANET. (After a pause.) I'll try and come the day after to-morrow.
CARVE. Why not to-morrow?
JANET. Well, a couple of days without me'll do you no harm. It's a
mistake to be in a hurry when you've got all your life in front of you.
CARVE. (After a pause.) Listen--have some tea before you go.
JANET. No. (Holds out her hand, smiling.) Good afternoon. Now do go to
bed.
CARVE. I haven't begun to thank you.
JANET. No--and I hope you won't begin.
CARVE. You're so sudden.
JANET. It's sudden or nothing.
CARVE. (Holding her hand.) I say--what can you see in me?
JANET. Well, if it comes to that--what can you see in me? (Withdrawing
her hand.)
CARVE. I--I don't know what it is.... Something.... (Lightly.) I
dunno! Everything!
JANET. That's too much. Good-bye! I'll come about this time the day
after to-morrow.
CARVE. Supposing I have a relapse?
JANET. (At door.) You won't if you do as I tell you.
CARVE. But supposing I do?
JANET. Well, you can always telegraph, can't you?
(Exit.)
(CARVE, after finishing milk, suddenly gets up and searches on
writing table: he then goes to the telephone.)
CARVE. (Into telephone.) Please send me up a telegraph form.
CURTAIN.
ACT III
SCENE I
Parlour in Janet's house in Putney. A perfectly ordinary suburban
interior of a small house; but comfortable. Table in centre. Door, R.,
up stage, leading to hall. Door, L., down stage, leading to kitchen
and back premises.
TIME.--Morning in early autumn. Rather more than two years have
elapsed.
Discovered--CARVE reading newspaper at breakfast-table. JANET
in an apron is hovering busily near him.
JANET. (Putting cigarettes and matches down beside CARVE.) Want
anything else, dear? (No answer from CARVE.) Because I must set about
my morning's work. (CARVE continues to read.) Albert, are you sure you
don't want anything else?
(As he still gives her no sign of attention, she snatches the
paper away from him, and throws it on the floor.)
CARVE. (Not having moved his eyes.) The pattern of this jug is really
not so bad.... Yes, my soul?
JANET. I've asked you I don't know how many times whether you want
anything else, because I must set about my morning's work.
CARVE. Is there any more coffee?
JANET. Yes, plenty.
CARVE. Hot?
JANET. Yes.
CARVE. Then I don't want any. Got any bacon?
JANET. No, but I can cook a slice in a minute.
CARVE. (With an affectation of martyrdom.) Doesn't matter.
JANET. Oh yes, I will. (Moving away.)
CARVE. (Drawing her to him by her apron.) Can't you see he's teasing
you?
JANET. She's got no time in the morning for being teased.
(She takes a cigarette, lights it and immediately puts it in his
mouth.)
CARVE. And now you're going to leave me?
JANET. Sure you're all right? (He nods.) Quite sure you're happy?
CARVE. Jane--
JANET. I wish you wouldn't call me Jane.
CARVE. But I will call you Jane. Jane, why do you ask me if I'm sure I'm
happy? When a man has first-class food and first-class love, together
with a genuine French bed, really waterproof boots, a constant supply of
hot water in the bathroom, enough money to buy cigarettes and sixpenny
editions, the freedom to do what he likes all day and every
day--and--let me see, what else--a complete absence of domestic
servants--then either that man is happy or he is a silly cuckoo!
JANET. You aren't getting tired--
CARVE. My sweet child, what's the matter with you?
JANET. Nothing, nothing. Only to-day's the second anniversary of our
wedding--and you've--you've said nothing about it.
CARVE. (After a shocked paused.) And I forgot it last year, didn't I?
I shall be forgetting my dinner next.
JANET. Oh no, you won't!
CARVE. And yet all last week I was thinking about this most important
day, and telling myself I must remember it.
JANET. Very easy to say that. But how can you prove it?
CARVE. Well, it does just happen that the proof is behind the sideboard.
JANET. A present?
CARVE. A present. It was all ready and waiting five days ago.
JANET. (Drawing a framed picture from behind the sideboard, and trying
to hide her disappointment, but not quite succeeding.) Oh! A picture!
Who is it? (Examines it with her nose close to it.)
CARVE. No, no. You can't take a picture like snuff! Get away from it.
(He jumps up, snatches the picture from her, and exposes it on a chair
at the other side of the room.) Now! (He sits down again.)
JANET. Yes, it doesn't look quite so queer like that. Those are my
cooking sleeves, and that seems a bit like my kitchen--that's my best
copper pan! Is the young woman meant to be me?
CARVE. Well, not to beat about the bush, yes.
JANET. I don't consider it very flattering.
CARVE. How many times have you told me you hate flattery?
JANET. (Running to him.) Now he's hurt. Oh, he's hurt. (Kissing
him.) It's a beautiful picture, and the frame's lovely! And she's so
glad he didn't forget.
CARVE. It is pretty good. In fact it's devilish good. It's one of the
best things I ever did in my life. Old Carve would have got eight
hundred for that like a shot.
JANET. (Sceptically.) Would he? It's wonderful how wonderful people
are when they're dead.
CARVE. And now will she let him finish reading his paper?
JANET. (Handing him the paper, then putting her head close to his and
looking at the paper.) What was it he was reading that made him so deaf
he couldn't hear his wife when she spoke to him?
CARVE. This.
JANET. (Reading.) "Ilam Carve's princely bequest. The International
Gallery of Art. Foundation stone laying. Eloquent speech by Lord
Rosebery." Oh! So they've begun it at last?
CARVE. Yes, they've begun it at last.
JANET. Well, if you ask me, I should have thought he could have found
something better to do with his money.
CARVE. As for example?
JANET. Well, I should have thought there were more than enough picture
galleries as it is. Who wants 'em? Even when they're free, people won't
go into them unless it's a wet day. I've never been in a free picture
gallery yet that wasn't as empty as a church. Stands to reason! It isn't
even a cinematograph. When I see rows of people in Trafalgar Square
waiting to get into the National Gallery, then I shall begin to think
it's about time we had some more galleries. If I'd been Ilam Carve----
CARVE. Well, what should you have done, witch?
JANET. I should have left a bit more to you, for one thing.
CARVE. I don't want more. If he'd left me eight hundred a year instead
of eighty, I shouldn't be any happier. That's just what I've learnt
since I took lodgings in your delightful wigwam, Jane--money and fame
have no connection whatever with happiness.
JANET. Money has, when you haven't got enough.
CARVE. But I have. You won't hear of me paying more than half the
household expenses, and you say they're never more than thirty shillings
a week. Half thirty--fifteen. Look at the balance it leaves me.
JANET. And supposing I had to ask you to pay more?
CARVE. (In a serious sympathetic tone, startled.) Anything wrong?
JANET. Well, there's nothing wrong, as it were--yet----
CARVE. Jane, I do believe you've been hiding something from me.
JANET. (With difficulty pulls a letter from her pocket.) No--
CARVE. I've felt it for several days.
JANET. You just haven't then. Because I only got it this morning. Here,
you may as well read it. (Handing him the letter.) It's about the
brewery.
CARVE. (Reading.) "Mrs. Albert Shawn. Sir or Madam."--Why are
shareholders never supposed to have any particular sex?--"Sir or Madam.
Cohoon's Brewery, Ltd.,--I am directed by the shareholders' provisional
committee of investigation to request your attendance at an informal
meeting of shareholders to be held in room 2009 Winchester House on
Friday the 20th inst. at noon. If you cannot be present, will you kindly
write stating whether or not you will be prepared to support the
committee of investigation at the annual meeting. In view of the
probability that the directors' report will be unfavourable, and the
ordinary dividend either passed or much reduced, the committee wishes to
be thoroughly prepared and armed. Believe me, Sir or Madam." Oh! So
that's it, is it?
JANET. Yes. My father said to me before he died, "Keep the money in
beer, Janet"; he said, "Beer'll never fail in this country." And there
you are!
(She goes to fireplace, opens coal scuttle, takes out a piece of
paper ready placed within, and sticks it on the handle so as to
keep her hands from being soiled as she replenishes the fire.)
CARVE. (Lightly.) Oh, well! We must wait and see what happens.
JANET. Supposing the dividend doesn't happen?
CARVE. I never worry about money.
JANET. But we shall want to eat once or twice pretty nearly every day, I
suppose?
CARVE. Personally, I am quite satisfied with a plain but perfect table.
JANET. You needn't tell me what you are satisfied with. You're satisfied
with the very best at one shilling and sixpence a pound.
CARVE. I can place eighty pounds per annum at your absolute disposal.
That alone will pay for over a thousand best cuts.
JANET. Yes, and what about your clothes and my clothes, and the rates
and taxes, and bus-fares, and holidays, and your cigarettes, and doctor,
and errand boys' Christmas-boxes, and gas, and coal, and repairs?
Repairs! A hundred and eighty is more like what we want.
CARVE. And yet you have several times taken your Bible oath that my
half-share of it all came to less than forty pounds.
JANET. Well--er--I was thinking of food. (She begins to collect the
breakfast things.)
CARVE. Jane, you have been a deceitful thing. But never mind. I will
draw a veil over this sinful past. Let us assume that beer goes all to
pieces, and that you never get another cent out of Cohoon's. Well, as
you need a hundred and eighty a year, I will give you a hundred and
eighty a year.
JANET. And where shall you get the extra hundred?
CARVE. I shall earn it.
JANET. No, you don't. I won't have you taking any more situations.
CARVE. I shall earn it here.
JANET. How?
CARVE. Painting!
JANET. (Stopping her work and coming towards him, half-caressing and
half-chiding.) I don't mind this painting business. Don't think I
object to it in the least. There's a strong smell with it now and then,
but it does keep you quiet in the attic while I'm cleaning the house,
and that's something. And then going out making sketches you get
exercise and fresh air. Being with Ilam Carve so long, I expect you
picked up the habit as it were, and I'm sure I don't want you to drop
it. I love to see you enjoying yourself. But you don't suppose people'll
buy these things (pointing vaguely to picture on chair), do you?
No; there's far too many amateur artists about for that!
CARVE. If I wanted, I could take a cab and sell that in Bond Street
inside sixty minutes at my own price. Only I don't want.
JANET. Now, just listen to me. You remember that picture you did of
Putney Bridge with the saloon entrance of the Reindeer Public House
showing in the corner? It was one of the first you did here.
CARVE. Yes, I was looking for it the other day, and I couldn't find it.
JANET. I'm not surprised. Because it's sold.
CARVE. Sold? (Excited.) What in the name of----
JANET. (Soothing him.) Now--now! Do you remember you said Ilam Carve
would have got £1000 for a thing just like that?
CARVE. So he would. It was absolutely characteristic.
JANET. Well, I said to myself, "He seems mighty sure of himself.
Supposing it's me that's wrong?" So one day I quietly took that picture
round to Bostock's, the second-hand furniture man, you know,--he was a
friend of father's,--and I asked him what he'd give me for it. He
wouldn't take it at any price. Not at any price. Then I asked him if
he'd keep it in his shop and sell it for me on commission. Well, it
stuck in Bostock's shop--in his window and out of his window--for twelve
months and more, and then one day the landlord of the Reindeer saw it
and he bought it for six shillings, because his public-house was in it.
He was half-drunk. Mr. Bostock charged me eighteenpence commission, and
I bought you two neckties with the four and six, and I said nothing
because I didn't want your feelings to be hurt. And that reminds me,
last week but one they took the landlord of the Reindeer off to the
lunatic asylum.... So, you see!
CARVE. (Serious, preoccupied.) And where's the picture now?
JANET. I shouldn't be surprised if it's in the private bar of the
Reindeer.
CARVE. I must get hold of it.
JANET. Albert, you aren't vexed, are you?
CARVE. (Forcing himself to adopt a light tone.) How could I be vexed
with two neckties to the good? But don't do it again, Jane. I shall go
round to the Reindeer this morning and have a drink. If that picture
ever found its way to a Bond Street expert's, the consequences might be
awkward--devilish awkward. Because it's dated, you see.
JANET. No, I don't see. I shouldn't have said a word about it, only I
wanted to save you from being disappointed later on.
CARVE. (In a new casual tone.) Just get me my cash-box, will you?
(JANET at once produces the cash-box from a drawer.)
JANET. And what now? I'm not broke yet, you great silly. (Laughs, but
is rather intimidated by CARVE'S air.)
CARVE. (Having unlocked box and taken a bag from it.) You see that?
(He showers gold out of it.) Well, count it!
JANET. Gracious! Ten--fifteen--eighteen--twenty?--two--four--twenty-six
pounds. These your savings?
CARVE. That's what I've earned with painting, just at odd times.
JANET. Really? (CARVE nods.) You could knock me down with a feather!
CARVE. I'll tell you. You know the framemaker's next to Salmon and
Gluckstein's. I buy my colours and canvases and things there. They cost
money. I owed the chap two pounds once, and one morning, in the shop,
when I was opening my box to put some new tubes in, he saw one of my
pictures all wet. He offered of his own accord to take it for what I
owed him. I wouldn't let him have it. But I was rather hard up, so I
said I'd do him another instead, and I did him one in a different style
and not half as good, and of course he liked it even better. Since then,
I've done him quite a few. It isn't that I've needed the money; but it's
a margin, and colours and frames, etc. come to a dickens of a lot in a
year.
JANET. (Staggered.) And whatever does he do with them?
CARVE. With the pictures? Don't know. I've never seen one in his window.
I haven't been selling him any lately.
JANET. Why?
CARVE. Oh, I didn't feel like it. And the things were getting too good.
But, of course, I can start again any time.
JANET. (Still staggered.) Two pounds a piece? (CARVE nods.) Would he
give you two pounds for that? (Pointing to portrait.)
CARVE. You bet he would.
JANET. Why! Two pounds would keep us for the best part of a week. How
long does it take you to do one?
(Noise of motor car outside.)
CARVE. Oh, three or four hours. I work pretty quickly.
JANET. Well, it's like a fairy tale. Two pounds! I don't know whether
I'm standing on my head or my heels!
(Violent ringing at front door bell.)
CARVE. There's one of your tradesmen.
JANET. It isn't. They know better than come to my front door. They know
I won't have it.
(Exit, throwing off apron.)
(CARVE examines the portrait of his wife with evident pleasure.)
CARVE. (To himself.) That 'ud make 'em sit up in Bond Street. (Laughs
grimly.)
(Voices off. Re-enter JANET, followed by EBAG carrying a
picture.)
JANET. Well, it never rains but it pours. Here's a gentleman in a motor
car wants to know if you've got any pictures for sale. (She calmly
conceals her apron.)
EBAG. (With diplomatic caution and much deference.) Good-morning.
CARVE. (Whose entire demeanour has suddenly changed into hostility.)
Good-morning.
EBAG. I've been buying some very delightful little things of yours from
a man that calls himself a picture-dealer and frame-maker (ironically)
in the High Street here. I persuaded him--not without difficulty--to
give me your address. And I've ventured to call just to see if by
chance you have anything for sale.
CARVE. By chance I haven't!
EBAG. Nothing at all?
CARVE. Not a square inch.
EBAG. (Catching sight of Janet's portrait.) Pardon me. May I look?
JANET. Oh, do!
EBAG. A brilliant likeness.
JANET. Who of?
EBAG. Why, madam--yourself? The attitude is extraordinarily expressive.
And if I may say so (glancing at CARVE) the placing of the high
lights--those white sleevelets--what d'you call them?
JANET. Why! Those are my cooking-sleeves!
EBAG. (Quietly.) Yes--well--it's genius--mere genius.
JANET. (Looking at picture afresh) It is rather pretty when you come
to look at it.
EBAG. It is a masterpiece, madam. (To CARVE.) Then I may not make an
offer for it?
CARVE. No.
JANET. Excuse me, Albert. Why shouldn't the gentleman make an offer for
it?
EBAG. (Quickly seizing an opportunity) If you cared to consider, say,
five hundred pounds.
JANET. Five hundred p----
EBAG. I came down quite prepared to spend--and to pay cash. (Fingers
his pocket-book.)
JANET. (Sitting down.) And if it isn't a rude question--do you
generally go about with five hundred pounds in your pocket, as it were?
EBAG. (Raising his hands.) In my business, madam--
CARVE. It's not for sale. (Turns it round.)
JANET. (Vivaciously.) Oh yes, it is. Somebody in this house must
think about the future. (Cajolingly.) If this gentleman can show me
five hundred pounds it's for sale. After all, it's my picture. And you
can do me another one. I'd much sooner be done without the
cooking-sleeves. (Entreating.) Albert!
CARVE. (Shy, nervous, and tongue-tied.) Well!
JANET. (Endearingly.) That's right! That's all right!
EBAG. (Putting down notes.) If you will kindly count these--
JANET. (Taking the notes.) Nay, I'm too dizzy to count them. (As if
giving up any attempt to realize the situation.) It fairly beats me! I
never did understand this art business, and I never shall....(To
EBAG.) Why are you so interested in my portrait? You've never seen me
before.
EBAG. Madam, your portrait happens to be one of the very finest modern
paintings I ever saw. (To CARVE.) I have a picture here as to which I
should like to ask your opinion. (Exposing picture.) I bought it ten
years ago.
CARVE. (After seeing picture.) Janet, would you mind leaving us a
minute.
JANET. (Triumphant with her money.) Not a bit.
(Exit, L.)
EBAG. (Bowing to JANET. Then to CARVE.) It's signed "Ilam Carve."
Should you say it's a genuine Carve?
CARVE. (More and more disturbed.) Yes.
EBAG. Where was it painted?
CARVE. Why do you ask me?
EBAG. (Quietly dramatic.) Because you painted it. (Pause. He
approaches CARVE.) Master----
CARVE. What's that?
EBAG. Master!
(Pause.)
CARVE. (Impulsively.) Look here! I never could stick being called
"master"! It's worse even than "maître." Have a cigarette? How did you
find out who I was?
EBAG. (Pointing to Janet's portrait.) Isn't that proof enough?
CARVE. Yes, but you knew before you saw that.
EBAG. (After lighting-cigarette.) I did. I knew from the very first
picture I bought from our friend the "picture-dealer and frame-maker" in
the early part of last year.
CARVE. But I'd completely altered my style. I altered it on purpose.
EBAG. (Shaking his head.) My dear sir, there was once a well-known man
who stood six feet ten inches high. He shaved off his beard and dyed his
hair, and invented a very ingenious costume, and went to a Fancy Dress
Ball as Tom Thumb. Strange to say, his disguise was penetrated
immediately.
CARVE. Who are you?
EBAG. My name is Ebag--New Bond Street.
CARVE. What! You're my old dealer!
EBAG. And I'm delighted at last to make your acquaintance, sir. It
wasn't until I'd bought several of those small canvases from the Putney
man that I began to inquire closely into their origin. As a general rule
it's a mistake for a dealer to be too curious. But my curiosity got the
better of me. And when I found out that the pictures were being produced
week by week, fresh, then I knew I was on the edge of some mystery.
CARVE. (Awkwardly.) The fact is, perhaps, I ought to explain.
EBAG. Pardon me. I ask nothing. It isn't my affair. I felt certain,
solely from the evidence of what I was buying, that the great painter
who was supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and whose somewhat
premature funeral I attended, must be alive and painting vigorously. I
wanted the assurance from your lips. I have it. The rest does not
concern me--at any rate, for the moment.
CARVE. I'll say this--you know a picture when you see it.
EBAG. (Proudly.) I am an expert, nothing else.
CARVE. All right! Well, I'll only ask you to persevere in your
discretion. As you say, it isn't your affair. Thank goodness, I didn't
put a date on any of these things. I won't sell any more. I'd take an
oath never to paint again, only I know I should go and break it next
week. I shall rely on this famous discretion of yours to say
nothing--nothing whatever.
EBAG. I'm afraid it's too late.
CARVE. How too late?
EBAG. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to state publicly that you are
Ilam Carve, and that there must have been--er--some misapprehension,
somewhere, over that funeral.
CARVE. (Aghast.) Publicly? Why?
EBAG. It's like this, I've been selling those pictures to Texel in New
York. You remember, he's always been one of your principal collectors.
He's getting old, and he's half-blind, but he still buys. Now, I rely on
my judgment, and I guaranteed those pictures to be genuine Carves.
Well, somebody over there must have had suspicions.
CARVE. What does that matter? There isn't a date on any of them.
EBAG. Just so. But in one of those pictures there's most distinctly a
taxi-cab. It isn't a private motor car. It's a taxi.
CARVE. And if there is? No law against painting a taxi, I hope!
EBAG. (Again quietly dramatic.) No. But at the date of your funeral
there wasn't a single taxi on the streets of London.
CARVE. The devil!
EBAG. Exactly. Texel is bringing an action against me for
misrepresentation. I shall have to ask you to give evidence and say who
you are.
CARVE. (Angrily.) But I won't give evidence! You've brought this on
yourself. How much did you sell those little pictures for?
EBAG. Oh, an average of between four and five hundred.
CARVE. And what did you pay for them? I ask you, what did you pay for
them?
EBAG. (Smoothly.) Four pounds a piece. The fact is--I did rather well
out of them.
CARVE. Damned Jew!
EBAG. (Smoothly.) Damned--possibly. Jew--most decidedly. But in this
particular instance I behaved just like a Christian. I paid a little
less than I was asked, and sold for the highest I could get. I am
perfectly innocent, and my reputation is at stake.
CARVE. I don't care.
EBAG. But I do. It's the reputation of the greatest expert in Europe.
And I shall have to insist on you going into the witness-box.
CARVE. (Horrified.) Me in the witness-box! Me cross-examined! No.
That's always been my nightmare!
EBAG. Nevertheless--
CARVE. Please go. (Commandingly.) Please go.
(EBAG, intimidated by CARVE'S demeanour, picks up his pictures
to depart.)
EBAG. (At door.) Your wife will perhaps be good enough to post me a
receipt for that trifle. (Very respectfully.) Good-morning.
(Exit, R.)
(CARVE goes to door, L., and opens it. JANET is standing
behind it.)
(Enter JANET.)
CARVE. You've been listening?
JANET. (Counting her banknotes.) Well, naturally! (Putting notes in
her purse.)
CARVE. Here's a perfect Hades of a mess.
JANET. And it all comes of this painting. Art as it's called. (She
finds her apron and puts it on.)
CARVE. (With an air of discovery.) Your faculty for keeping calm
really is most singular.
JANET. Somebody has to keep calm.
(Voice off: "Butcher.")
CARVE. Anybody would say you didn't care a cent whether I'm Ilam Carve
or whether I'm somebody else.
JANET. What does it matter to me who you are, so long as you're you?
Men are so unpractical. You can be the Shah of Persia if you like--I
don't mind.
CARVE. But aren't you convinced now?
(Voice off: "Butcher.")
JANET. (With an enigmatic smile at CARVE.) Coming! Coming!
(Exit.)
(The stage is darkened to indicate the passage of several
months.)
SCENE 2
TIME.--Before daylight on a morning in February. Fire burning in grate.
Also a speck of gas. Otherwise it is dark.
CARVE is discovered reposing-in an easy-chair. Enter JANET with
a candle.
JANET. (Stiffly.) So you've not been to sleep either?
CARVE. (Stiffly.) Oh yes; had an excellent night in this chair.
JANET. (Going to fire.) Now, you're only boasting. If you've had such
an excellent night (imitating him), who's kept up such an excellent
fire?
CARVE. (Lamely.) Well, of course I looked after it now and then. I
didn't want to perish in my solitude.
JANET. Then why didn't you come to bed, great baby?
CARVE. (Sitting up with solemnity.) Janet, we are a pair of great
babies to have quarrelled like that,--especially at bedtime.
JANET. (Simply.) Quarrelled?
CARVE. Well, didn't we?
JANET. I didn't. I agreed with everything you said.
CARVE. What did you agree with? I should like to know.
JANET. You said I didn't really believe after all that you are Ilam
Carve, and I assured you in the most soothing manner that I did believe
you are Ilam Carve!
CARVE. And do you call that agreeing with me? I know perfectly well from
your tone that in spite of all my explanations and reiterations during
the last three months you don't believe I'm Ilam Carve. You only say
you do in order to soothe me. I hate being soothed. You're as convinced
as ever that Ebag is a rascal, and that I've got a bee in my bonnet.
JANET. But what does it matter?
CARVE. (Cold and hard.) Well, I like that!
JANET. (Weeping.) It's not my fault if I don't believe you're Ilam
Carve. I would if I could, but I can't! You're very cruel.
CARVE. (Jumping up and embracing her.) Hush, hush! There!
(Cajolingly.) Who's being an infant now?
JANET. I don't pretend to understand this art.
CARVE. I hope you never will. One of the chief charms of existence in
your wigwam, my child, is that I never hear any confounded chatter about
art. Now--are we pals?
JANET. (Smiling reconciliation.) Darling, do turn the gas up.
CARVE. (Obeying, struck by her attire.) Why--what are you dressed
like that for?
JANET. I was thinking of going away.
(Exit, L.)
(She re-enters immediately with kettle and puts it on fire.)
CARVE. Going away?
JANET. (Smiling.) Now do listen, darling. Let's go away. We can't stop
here. This Ebag case is getting more and more on your nerves, and on
mine too. I'm sure that's what's the matter with us. What it'll be next
week when the trial comes on, I don't know--upon my soul I don't. It's
all very well for you to refuse to see callers and never go out. But I
can tell you one thing--we shall have those newspaper people on the roof
in a day or two, and looking down the chimney to see how I lay the fire.
Lawyers are nothing to them. Do you know--no you don't, because I didn't
want you to be upset--last night's milk was brought by a
journalist--with a camera. They're beginning to bribe the tradesmen. I
tremble to think what will be in this morning's papers.
CARVE. (Trying to make light of it.) Oh, nothing will upset me now.
But you might let me know at once if the editor of the Spectator calls
round with the bread.
JANET. And I'll tell you another thing. That Mr. Horning--you know the
breathless man on the Evening Courier that came to the Grand
Babylon--he's taken lodgings opposite--arrived last night.
CARVE. Oh, for a machine gun--one simple little machine gun!
(Exit JANET, L.)
She immediately returns with a tray containing bread, etc., and a
toasting-fork.
JANET. So I thought if we just vanished--
CARVE. It's too late--I've had the subpoena. If I hooked it, everybody
would say I was an adventurer.
JANET. We could come back for the trial.
CARVE. We should be followed.
JANET. Not if we start now.
CARVE. Now?
JANET. Yes, now! The back door. Before it gets light.
CARVE. Creep away in the dark! No! I'll go through with the thing.
JANET. Well, I shall travel alone, then. Here's my bunch of keys. I'll
just explain to you where everything is. I daresay Mrs. Simpson will
come in and clean up. She's not bad, as charwomen go.
CARVE. Jane!
JANET. Well!
CARVE. You're taking an unfair advantage of me.
JANET. (Putting tea leaves in teapot.) What if I am?
CARVE. You're only a woman after all.... And I'd thought so highly of
you!
JANET. (Sweetly.) Then you'll come. Better brush yourself up first.
CARVE. What time is it?
JANET. (Looking at clock.) Seven o'clock.
CARVE. Where do you mean to drag me to?
JANET. Well, what about this Continent of yours that I've heard so much
of?
CARVE. There's a train from Victoria at 8.30.
JANET. Very well then. We'll have another breakfast at Victoria.
CARVE. And the cab?
JANET. There isn't going to be any cab--nor luggage--rousing the whole
street! (CARVE goes to window.) For goodness' sake don't draw those
curtains--with the gas flaring up!
CARVE. Why not?
JANET. (Conspiratorial.) Supposing there's some journalist on the
watch outside!
CARVE. I wanted to look at the weather.
JANET. Well, go to the front door, and mind you open it quietly.
(Exit CARVE, R.)
(JANET pours water on tea.)
(Exit, L.)
(Re-enter CARVE quickly.)
CARVE. I say, here's a curate pushed himself in at the front door!
(Re-enter JANET, L.)
JANET. No, he's come in at the back.
CARVE. But I tell you he's here!
(Enter JAMES SHAWN, L. Then enter JOHN SHAWN, R. Pause.)
JAMES. Now let me entreat everybody to remain perfectly calm.
JANET. Oh, don't worry about that. Nothing startles us now. A few
curates more or less....
CARVE. (Sinking into chair.) I suppose this is the very newest
journalism. Would you mind me asking a question?
JAMES. What is it?
(JANET makes the tea.)
CARVE. Why did you wait till the door was opened? Seems a pity to stand
on ceremony. Why not have broken a window or so and climbed right in?
JAMES. John, is mother there?
JOHN. (At door, R.) Mother, how often shall I have to ask you to keep
close to me?
(Enter MRS. SHAWN, R.)
MRS. S. I'm all of a tremble.
JOHN. (Firmly.) Come now, you mustn't give way. This is he (pointing
to CARVE). Do you recognise him as our father? (JANET, who is cutting
a slice of bread, stops and looks from one to the other.)
MRS. S. (To CARVE.) Albert, don't you know me? To think that next
Tuesday it'll be six and twenty years since you walked out o' the house
casual like and--and--(Stops from emotion.)
CARVE. Go on. Go on.... To think that I was once shy!
JANET. (To MRS. SHAWN.) Here, you'd better come and sit a bit nearer
the fire. (Very kindly.) Come along now!
MRS. S. (Obeying.) Thank you, m'm.
JANET. (To JOHN.) And which of you boys was it that had the idea of
keeping a middle-aged woman perishing on a doorstep before daylight in
February?
JOHN. How else could we--
JAMES. (Interrupting him.) Excuse me, John.
JOHN. (Subsiding.) I beg your pardon, James.
JAMES. (To JANET.) All questions should be addressed to me. My brother
John is here solely to take charge of our mother. We have done our
best, by careful forethought, to ensure that this painful interview
shall be as brief and as dignified as possible.
JANET. And couldn't you think of anything cleverer than to give your
poor mother her death of cold for a start?
JAMES. How else could we have arranged it? I myself rang at your door
for a quarter of an hour yesterday afternoon.
JANET. We never heard you.
JAMES. Strange!
JANET. No, it isn't. We took the bell off three days ago.
JAMES. I was told that it was impossible to effect an entrance in the
ordinary way. Hence, we had to use craft. I argued that food must come
into the house, and that it probably came in early.
JANET. Well, it's a good thing for you I happened to hear the cat
mewing, or you might have had another couple of hours in my back yard.
You're the eldest, I suppose.
JAMES. We are twins.
JANET. Really!
CARVE. As you say--really!
JAMES. I am the older, but the difference between us is not
considerable.
JOHN. Now, mother, please don't cry.
JANET. (Having poured out a cup of tea, holds it before MRS. SHAWN.)
Sugar? (MRS. SHAWN signifies an affirmative--JANET drops sugar into
cup, which MRS. SHAWN takes.) You'll drink it easier if you lift your
veil.
JAMES. Now, mother--you are sure you recognise this gentleman?
MRS. S. (Not very positively.) Yes--yes. It's a rare long while....
JAMES. He is your husband and our father?
MRS. S. (More positively.) Yes. And sorry I am to say it. (JANET eyes
her carefully.)
JAMES. I think that suffices. (To JANET.) Madam, you are in a most
unfortunate position. You supposed yourself to be a married woman,
whereas you are nothing of the kind. I needn't say that as the victim of
a heartless bigamist you have our deepest....
JANET. (Handing him a slice of bread on toasting-fork.) Just toast
this for your mother, will you, and mind the bars. I'll get another cup
or two. (Goes to sideboard and gets crockery.)
CARVE. And so these are my two sons! They show little emotion in
beholding the author of their being for the first time. As for me, I
hardly recognise them.
MRS. S. And is it likely, seeing they were born six months after you
deserted me, Albert?
CARVE. I see. If it isn't indiscreet, am I a grandfather?
JAMES. (Toasting.) No, sir.
CARVE. I only wanted to know the worst. Silly joke about the fertility
of curates--you've met with it, no doubt!
JAMES. Your tone is simply lamentable, sir.
JANET. (To JAMES.) Mind! You can do the other side. Now, take care;
the fire's very hot. (In the same mild tone to MRS. SHAWN.) Twenty-six
years, you say?
MRS. S. Yes. Albert was twenty-two then, weren't you, Albert?
CARVE. Undoubtedly.
JANET. And how did you come to find us out at last?
MRS. S. It was through an advertisement put in the paper by that Mr.
Texel--him that's in this law case--offering a reward for information
about a Mr. Albert Shawn who'd been valet to that artist man that died.
JANET. Oh! So Mr. Texel has been advertising, has he? (Giving a cup of
tea to JOHN SHAWN.)
MRS. S. Yes, for anybody that knew Albert Shawn when he was young.
"Albert Shawn," I says, "that's my husband's name." I'd been told he'd
gone off in service with a painter or something of that kind. I married
him as a valet.
JANET. (Pouring out tea.) A valet?
MRS. S. A valet, ma'am.... And the struggle I've had to bring up my
children. (Whimpering.)
JAMES. Now, mother!
JANET. (Stopping JAMES.) That will do now! Give it me. (Taking toast
and fork.) Here's some tea. Now don't pretend you've never seen a cup
of tea before--you a curate!
(JAMES accepts tea.)
MRS. S. Yes, they would go into the church, both of them! I don't know
how we've managed it, but managed it we have, surplices and all. And
very happy they were, I'm sure. And now there's this dreadful scandal.
Oh, Albert, you might at least have changed your name! I--I----
(Partially breaks down.)
JOHN. Mother, I beg----(MRS. SHAWN breaks down entirely.) Mother, I
absolutely insist. You know you promised not to speak at all except in
answer to questions.
JAMES. I think, mother, you really might try----
JOHN. Leave her to me! Now, mother!
(Loud double knock off.)
JANET. (To JOHN SHAWN.) There's the post! Just go and bring me the
letters in, will you? (JOHN hesitates?) You'll find them scattered
about the floor in the hall. Don't miss any.
(Exit JOHN SHAWN, R.)
(MRS. SHAWN recovers.)
JAMES. And what do you propose to do, madam?
JANET. (Who has been soothing MRS. SHAWN.) Me? What about?
JAMES. About this--this bigamy.
JANET. Oh, nothing. What are you thinking of doing?
(Re-enter JOHN SHAWN with post, which CARVE takes and begins
to read.)
JAMES. Well, I suppose you're aware that bigamy is a criminal offence?
JANET. There's a police-station in the Upper Richmond Road. Better call
there. It'll be so nice for you two, when you're flourishing about in
the pulpit, to think of your father in prison--won't it now?
JAMES. We, of course, should not prosecute. If you are prepared to go on
living with this gentleman as though nothing had happened--
JANET. Oh, I don't mind.
JAMES. Well, then, I doubt if we should interfere. But Mr. Texel's
lawyers are already in communication with the police.
JANET. (Stiffly.) I see. (An awkward pause during which everybody
except CARVE, who is reading his post, looks at everybody else.)
Well, then, I think that's about all, isn't it? (A shorter pause.)
Good-morning. (She bows to the curates, and shakes hands with MRS.
SHAWN.) (To MRS. SHAWN.) Now do take care of yourself.
MRS. S. (Weakly.) Thank you.
JOHN. Good-morning. Mother, take my arm, please.
JAMES. Good-morning.
JANET. Albert, they're going.
CARVE. (Looking up absently and only half rising, perfunctorily and
quickly) Good-morning. Good-morning. (Sits down.)
JANET. (To JAMES SHAWN, who is hovering near door L, uncertain of his
way out.) This way, this time!
(Exeunt the SHAWNS followed by JANET.)
(CARVE rises and draws curtains of window apart)
(Re-enter JANET.)
JANET. (Cheerfully) Oh, it's quite light! (Turns out gas.)
CARVE. (Gazing at her.) Incomparable woman!
JANET. So it's true after all!
CARVE. What?
JANET. All that rigmarole about you being Ilam Carve?
CARVE. You're beginning to come round at last?
JANET. Well, I think they were quite honest people--those three. There's
no doubt the poor creature once had a husband who did run off. And it
seems fairly clear his name was Albert Shawn, and he went away as valet
to an artist. But then, on the other hand, if there is one thing certain
in this world, it is that you were never married before you married me.
That I will swear to.
CARVE. And yet she identified me. She was positive.
JANET. Positive? That's just what she wasn't! And didn't you notice the
queer way she looked at you as they went out? As much as to say, "I
wonder now whether it is him--after all?"
CARVE. Then you really think she could be mistaken on such a point?
JANET. Pooh! After twenty-six years. Besides, all men of forty-seven
look more or less alike.... And so I'm the wife of Ilam Carve that's
supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey and royalty went to his
funeral! We'll have some tea ourselves. I say, why did you do it?
(Pours out tea.)
CARVE. (Casually.) I don't know. It was to save worry to begin with,
and then it went on by itself and somehow I couldn't stop it.... I don't
know!
JANET. (Endearingly.) Well, I've always told you frankly you've got a
bee in your bonnet. (Drinking tea and turning over the post.) More
letters from these newspaper people! What's this lovely crest on this
envelope?
CARVE. It's from Lord Leonard Alcar. He says if we'll go up and see him
to-morrow afternoon he'll be very much obliged indeed, and he may be
able to be of assistance to us.
JANET. (Deeply impressed.) Lord Leonard Al ... Where's the letter?
(Searches for it hurriedly. As she reads it.) Well I never!
(Reading) "And Mrs. Shawn." I've got nothing to go in.
CARVE. Oh, I shan't go!
JANET. Why not?
CARVE. Well, what about this trip to the Continent?
JANET. Continent fiddlesticks. I've never been asked to go and see a
Lord before....
CARVE. Now listen, Jane. What earthly good can it do? I shan't go.
JANET. I shall. So there! Six Dukes in the family! I wouldn't miss it
for anything.
CURTAIN.
ACT IV
SCENE I
LORD LEONARD ALCAR'S study, Grosvenor Gardens. Door, back centre.
Door, L. JANET'S portrait is conspicuous on a wall.
TIME.--The next afternoon.
LORD LEONARD ALCAR and MR. TEXEL are coming into the room from
door at back.
ALCAR. You still go on collecting, Mr. Texel?
TEXEL. (Uncertain of his steps.) Well, yes. I've been amusing myself
with pictures for pretty nigh forty years. Why should I deprive myself
of this pleasure merely because my eyesight's gone?
ALCAR. Why, indeed! You have the true collecting spirit. Permit me
(directs Texel's hand to chair).
TEXEL. Thanks, I'm on to it (Sitting down.) My sight's going steadily
worse, but there are still a few things that I can make out pretty
clearly, Lord Leonard. Motor omnibuses, cathedrals, English
easy-chairs....
ALCAR. Well, I'm charmed to find you in such good spirits, and really I
feel very grateful to you for accepting my invitation.
TEXEL. Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir. Two old collectors like
us--rivals at Christie's. I wonder how many times I've cabled over
instructions to my agent to smash you at any cost. Delighted to meet
you, Lord Leonard.
ALCAR. We ought to have met earlier, Mr. Texel. Now I've got you here, I
must tell you I've ventured to invite one or two--er--kindred spirits to
meet you.
(Enter SERVANT.)
SERVANT. Mr. Ebag.
(Enter EBAG.)
(Exit SERVANT).
ALCAR. How d'you do, Ebag?
EBAG. My lord.
ALCAR. Let me introduce you to Mr. Texel. Mr. Texel, this is Mr. Ebag.
TEXEL. (Surprised--aside to LORD LEONARD ALCAR.) This one of your
kindred spirits?
EBAG. (Also surprised?) Mr. Texel!
TEXEL. (Holding out his hand towards EBAG, who takes it.) Well, Mr.
Ebag, I've made a special journey to Europe to get a verdict from an
English court that you've done me up for about thirty thousand dollars,
and if I get it I'll do my level best afterwards to see you safe into
prison; but in the meantime I'm very glad to meet you. I feel sure
you're one of the right sort, whatever you are.
EBAG. You flatter me, Mr. Texel. The gladness is mutual.
(Enter SERVANT.)
SERVANT. Mr. Cyrus Carve. Mr. and Mrs. X.
(Enter JANET. She hesitates in doorway. LORD LEONARD ALCAR
goes to meet her.)
JANET. You Lord Alcar?
ALCAR. I am Lord Leonard Alcar?
JANET. My mistake! (They shake hands.) But why does this young man
call me Mrs. X. I told him Carve, plain enough.
ALCAR. Did he? A slip--a slip! You've brought your husband?
JANET. Yes, but not so easily as all that. I'm afraid he's quarrelling
out there with Mr. Cyrus Carve. They get across one another on the
stairs.
ALCAR. Tut-tut. Excuse me one moment.
(Exit hurriedly.)
(Exit SERVANT.)
JANET. Mr. Ebag! So you're here too! Why, it's a family party.
EBAG. (Astounded.) How do you do, Mrs. Shawn? I beg pardon, Mrs.
Carve.
JANET. It seems I'm Mrs. X now--didn't you hear?
EBAG. I expect the servant had received instructions. His lordship has a
great reputation for wit, you know.
JANET. (Looking round.) And what's this room supposed to be?
EBAG. Oh, the study, probably.
JANET. Really! Not what you'd call 'homely,' is it? Rather like being on
the stage.
(Enter LORD LEONARD ALCAR, leading CARVE on his right and
CYRUS on his left. Servant closes door from without.)
ALCAR. Now we're all safely here, and I fancy there will be enough
easy-chairs to go round. Mr. Texel, you already know Mr. Cyrus Carve,
and you will be pleased to meet the talented artist who painted the
pictures which you have been buying from Mr. Ebag. He has most kindly
consented to be called Mr. X for the moment. This is Mrs. X, Mr. Texel.
(They bow--CYRUS shakes hands with TEXEL.)
EBAG. (To CYRUS.) How d'you do?
CYRUS. How d'you do?
CARVE. How d'you do?
ALCAR. (Observing that these three are already acquainted.) Good!
Excellent! Now, Mrs.--er--X, will you have this chair near the fire?
(Fixes chair for her.)
TEXEL. (Indicating JANET, aside to EBAG.) Good looking?
EBAG. (Aside to TEXEL.) Very agreeable little thing!
TEXEL. Excellent! Excellent!
ALCAR. (Interrupting a gesture from CARVE.) You have all done me a
signal favour by coming here. In thanking you, I wonder if I may ask
another favour. May I?
TEXEL. Certainly. Among kindred spirits.
EBAG. Assuredly, my lord.
ALCAR. I would merely request you to control so far as possible any
expression of your astonishment at meeting one another here. That is to
say, any violent expression.
CARVE. (Gaily and carelessly.) Oh, very well! Very well!
(LORD LEONARD ALCAR waves the rest of the company into chairs,
tactfully separating CYRUS and CARVE as much as possible. He remains
standing himself.)
JANET. I suppose what you really want is to stop this funny trial from
coming on.
ALCAR. (Slightly taken aback.) Mrs. X, I congratulate myself on your
presence here. Yes, my ambition is to be peacemaker. Of course a
peacemaker always runs the risk of a broken head, but I shall entrust my
head to your good nature. As a proof that I really mean business, I need
only point out that I haven't invited a single lawyer.
EBAG. (After slight pause.) This is exceedingly good of your lordship.
TEXEL. For myself I'm rather looking forward to next week. I've spared
no expense to get up a first-class show. Half the papers in New York and
Chicago are sending over special correspondents. I've even secured your
champion humorous judge; and altogether I reckon this trial will be
about the greatest judicial proposition the British public's seen in
years. Still, I'm always ready to oblige--and I'll shake hands right
now, on terms--my terms.
ALCAR. We are making progress.
TEXEL. But what I don't understand is--where you come in, Lord
Leonard.
ALCAR. Where I come in?
TEXEL. Well, I don't want to be personal, but is this Hague Conference
merely your hobby, or are you standing in with somebody?
ALCAR. I quite appreciate your delicacy. Let me assure you that, though
it gives me the greatest pleasure to see you all, I have not selected
you as the victims of a hobby. Nor have I anything whatever to gain by
stopping the trial. The reverse. At the trial I should probably have a
seat on the bench next to a delightful actress, and I should enjoy the
case very much indeed. I have no doubt that even now the learned judge
is strenuously preparing his inimitable flashes of humour, and that,
like the rest of the world, I should allow myself to be convulsed by
them. I like to think of four K.C.'s toiling hard for a miserable
hundred guineas a day each. I like to think of the solicitors, good,
honest fellows, striving their best to keep the costs as low as
possible. I even like to think of the jury with their powerful
intellects who, when we are dead and gone, Mr. Texel, will tell their
grandchildren proudly how they decided the famous case of Texel v.
Ebag. Above all, I like to think of the witnesses revelling in their
cross-examination. Nobody will be more sorry than I to miss this grand
spectacle of the greatest possible number of the greatest possible
brains employed for the greatest possible length of time in settling a
question that an average grocer's assistant could settle in five
minutes. I am human. But, I have been approached--I have been
flattered by the suggestion--that I might persuade you two gentlemen to
abandon the trial, and I may whisper to you that the abandonment of the
trial would afford satisfaction in--er--influential quarters.
TEXEL. Then are we up against the British Government? Well, go ahead.
ALCAR. (Protesting with a very courteous air of extreme astonishment.)
My dear Mr. Texel, how can I have been so clumsy as to convey such an
idea? The Government? Not in the least--not in the least. On behalf of
nobody whatever. (Confidentially.) I am merely in a position to inform
you positively that an amicable settlement of the case would be viewed
with satisfaction in influential quarters.
JANET. Well, I can tell you it would be viewed with satisfaction in a
certain street in Putney. But influential quarters--what's it got to do
with them?
ALCAR. I shall be quite frank with you. The dignity of Westminster Abbey
is involved in this case, and nothing in all England is more sacred to
us than Westminster Abbey. One has only to pronounce the word "the
Abbey"--to realize that. We know what a modern trial is; we know what
the modern press is; and, unhappily, we know what the modern bench is.
It is impossible to contemplate with equanimity the prospect of
Westminster Abbey and its solemnities being given up to the tender
mercy of the evening papers and a joking judge surrounded by millinery.
Such an exhibition would be unseemly. It would soil our national
existence. In a word, it would have a bad effect.
CARVE. (Meditatively--bland.) How English! (He gets up and walks
unobtrusively about the room, examining the pictures.)
ALCAR. Undoubtedly. But this is England. It is perhaps a disadvantage
that we are not in Russia nor in Prussia. But we must make the best of
our miserable country. (In a new tone, showing the orator skilled in
changes of voice.) Can't we discuss our little affair in a friendly way
entirely without prejudice? We are together here, among gentlemen--
JANET. I'm afraid you're forgetting me.
ALCAR. (Recovering himself.) Madam, I am convinced that none of us can
be more gentlemanly than yourself.... Can we not find a way of
settlement? (With luxurious enjoyment of the idea.) Imagine the fury
of all those lawyers and journalists when they learn that we--er--if I
may so express it--have done them in the eye!
TEXEL. If I wasn't going to come out on top, I could understand you
worrying about your old Abbey. But I'm taking the part of your Abbey.
When I win it wins, and I'm certain to win.
ALCAR. I do not doubt----
EBAG. (With suave assurance.) But I do.
ALCAR. (Continuing.) I do not doubt your conviction, Mr. Texel. It
merely proves that you have never seen a British Jury exercising itself
upon a question relating to the fine arts. If you had you would not be
certain, for you would know that twelve tradesmen so occupied are
capable of accomplishing the most incredible marvels. Supposing you
don't win--supposing Mr. Ebag wins----
EBAG. As I assuredly shall.
ALCAR. Then we should have the whole world saying, "Well, they haven't
given a national funeral to a really great artist for about a century,
and when at last they do try they only succeed in burying a valet."
CARVE. (Looking round casually.) England all over!
ALCAR. The effect would be lamentable--utterly lamentable. You will
realize that in influential quarters----
TEXEL. But do you reckon this policy of hushing up things ever does any
good?
ALCAR. My dear sir, it is the corner-stone of England's greatness. It is
the policy that has made her what she is!
CARVE. (Looking round again.) True! What she is!
ALCAR. (Turning sharply to CARVE behind him.) Mr. X, your interest
in my picture flatters me immensely----
CARVE. (Interrupting him.) I see you've bought my latest portrait of
my wife.
ALCAR. Yes.
JANET. (Starting up.) What's that? (She goes to inspect picture.)
CARVE. I suppose it would be abusing your hospitality to inquire how
much you paid our excellent dealer for it?
ALCAR. Not in the least. But the fact is we haven't yet settled the
price. The exact price is to depend on the result of our gathering.
JANET. Well, if anybody had told me I should find my own
portrait--cooking-sleeves and all----
(Inarticulate--she returns to her chair.)
ALCAR. And now that we have got so far, Mr. X, I should like to
centralize the attention of this quite friendly gathering on yourself.
CARVE. (Approaching airily.) Really! (He sits.)
ALCAR. There are several questions we might discuss. For example, we
might argue the artistic value of the pictures admittedly the work of
Mr. X. That would probably occupy us for about ten years. Or we might
ask ourselves how it happened that that exceedingly astute dealer, Mr.
Ebag, came to sell as a genuine Ilam Carve, without offering any
explanation, a picture which, on the face of it, was painted some time
after that great painter had received a national funeral in Westminster
Abbey.
EBAG. Sheer carelessness, my lord.
ALCAR. Or we might ask ourselves why a valet should try to pass himself
off as a world-renowned artist. Or, on the other hand, why a
world-renowned artist should pass himself off as a valet.
CARVE. Sheer carelessness, my lord.
ALCAR. But these details of psychology are beside the main point. And
the main point is (to CARVE)--Are you Ilam Carve or are you Albert
Shawn? (To the others.) Surely with a little goodwill and
unembarrassed by the assistance of experts, lawyers, and wigs generally,
we can settle that! And once it is settled the need for a trial ceases.
(CARVE assumes an elaborately uninterested air.) The main point does
not seem to interest you, Mr. X.
CARVE. (Seeming to start.) I beg your pardon. No, not profoundly. Why
should it?
ALCAR. Yet you claim----
CARVE. Excuse me. I claim nothing except to be let alone. Certainly I do
not ask to be accepted as Ilam Carve. I was leading a placid and
agreeable existence in a place called Putney, an ideal existence with a
pearl among women, when my tranquillity was disturbed and my life
transformed into a perfect nightmare by a quarrel between a retail
trades-man (indicating EBAG) and a wholesale ink-dealer (indicating
TEXEL) about one of my pictures. It does not concern me. My role is and
will be passive. If I am forced into the witness-box I shall answer
questions to the worst of my ability, and I shall do no more. I am not
cross. I am not sulking; but I consider that I have a grievance. If I am
here, it is solely because my wife does what she likes with me.
TEXEL. Bravo! This is as good as the trial.
ALCAR. (Good-humouredly.) Will you answer questions here?
CARVE. (Good-humouredly.) It depends.
ALCAR. Do you assert that you are Ilam Carve?
CARVE. I assert nothing.
ALCAR. Are you Ilam Carve?
CARVE. Yes, but I don't want to be.
ALCAR. Might I inquire why you allowed your servant to be buried in your
name?
CARVE. Well, he always did everything for me--a most useful man.... But
I didn't 'allow' him to be buried in my name. On the contrary, I told
various people that I was not dead--but strange to say, nobody would
believe me. My handsome, fascinating cousin here wouldn't even let me
begin to tell him. Even my wife wouldn't believe me, so I gave it up.
(TEXEL does not conceal his enjoyment of the scene.)
CYRUS. (Grimly.) Which wife?
(CARVE twiddles his thumbs.)
ALCAR. But do you mean----
TEXEL. May I interrupt, Lord Leonard? I could listen for hours to this
absolutely stupendous gentleman. A circus is nothing to it. But aren't
we jumping the track? I've got two witnesses. Mr. Cyrus Carve will swear
that your Mr. X is not his cousin. And the original Mrs. Albert Shawn
will swear that he is her husband. That's my case. How is my esteemed
opponent going to answer it?
EBAG. In the first place, have you cross-examined this very original
Mrs. Albert Shawn?
TEXEL. Come. You don't mean to argue that a woman could mistake another
man for her own husband--even after twenty-five years or so?
EBAG. (Smiling apologetically for his freedom.) According to the
divorce reports, they're constantly doing it after one year, to say
nothing of twenty-five.
TEXEL. (Appreciative.) Good! That's good! Well, I may tell you right
here that I had an interview with this gentleman's (indicating CARVE)
ecclesiastical twins only yesterday afternoon, and they assure me that
their mother is positive on the point.
JANET. (Meditatively.) Simpletons!
ALCAR. I beg pardon.
JANET. I daresay they preach very nicely, but out of the pulpit they
don't what I should call shine, poor boys! Anybody could see she wasn't
positive. Why, it wasn't until the old lady dropped in to have a cup of
tea with us that I felt sure my husband's name really was Carve.
ALCAR. Then you hadn't credited his story before?
JANET. Well, it wanted some crediting, didn't it?
CYRUS. (With intention.) You only began to credit it after Mr. Ebag
had called and paid you the sum of £500 in cash.
JANET. (After a slight pause, calmly.) Oh! So you know about that, do
you?
CARVE. (To CYRUS, genially.) Cousin, if you continue in that strain
I shall have to take you out on to the doormat and assault you.
EBAG. I should like to say----
CYRUS. (Interrupting grimly.) Lord Leonard, isn't it time that this
ceased?
TEXEL. (Heartily amused.) But why? I'm enjoying every minute of it.
ALCAR. I should be sorry to interfere with Mr. Texel's amusement, but I
think the moment has now come for me to make a disclosure. When I was
approached as to this affair I consulted Mr. Cyrus Carve first, he being
the sole surviving relative of his cousin. That seemed to me to be the
natural and proper course to adopt. Mr. Cyrus Carve gave me a very
important piece of information, and it is solely on the strength of that
information that I have invited you all to come here this afternoon.
(He looks at CYRUS.)
CYRUS. (Clearing his throat, to EBAG and CARVE.) Of course, you'll
argue that after thirty-five years absence it's a wise man that can
recognize his own cousin. I'm absolutely convinced in my own mind that
you (scorn-fully to CARVE) are not my cousin. But then, you'll tell me
that men have been hung before now on the strength of sworn
identification that proved afterwards to be mistaken. I admit it. I
admit that in theory I may be wrong. (With increased grim sarcasm.) I
admit that in theory the original Mrs. Shawn may be wrong. Everything's
possible, especially with a bully of a K.C. cross-examining you, and a
judge turning you into 'copy' for Punch. But I've got something up my
sleeve that will settle the whole affair instantly, to the absolute
satisfaction of both plaintiff and defendant.
CARVE. My dear fellow, why not have told us this exciting news earlier?
CYRUS. Why not? (Glowering at CARVE.) Because I wanted you to commit
yourself completely beyond any withdrawing. I decided what sort of man
you were the moment I first set eyes on you, and when I heard of this
law case, I said to myself that I'd come forward as a witness, but I
shouldn't give any evidence away in advance. I said to myself I'd show
you up once and for all in full court. However, his lordship prevailed
on me.
CARVE. Well?
CYRUS. When my cousin and I were boys I've seen him with his shirt off.
CARVE. True. And he's seen you with yours off.
CYRUS. Now just here (pointing to left front neck below collar), just
below his collar, my cousin Ilam Carve had two moles close together--one
was hairy and the other wasn't. My cousin was very proud of them.
CARVE. Oh!
CYRUS. (Ferociously sarcastic.) I suppose you'll say you've had them
removed?
CARVE. (Casually.) No. Not precisely.
CYRUS. Can you show them?
CARVE. (Very casually.) Of course.
TEXEL. (Slapping his knee.) Great! Great!
CYRUS. (Staggered but obstinate.) Well, let's have a look at them.
ALCAR. (To JANET.) Then doubtless you are familiar with this double
phenomenon, Mrs. X?
JANET. Yes. But he isn't so proud of his moles now as he used to be when
he was a boy.
ALCAR. Now, gentlemen, you see how beautifully clear the situation is.
By one simple act we shall arrive at a definite and final result, and we
shall have avoided all the noise and scandal of a public trial. Mr. X,
will you oblige us very much by taking your collar off?
JANET. (Jumping up.) Please, there's just one little thing. (To
CARVE.) Wait a moment, dear. (To EBAG.) Mr. Ebag, how many of those
pictures did you sell to Mr. Texel?
EBAG. Fifteen.
JANET. And you made a profit of over four hundred pounds on each?
TEXEL. (Boisterously--laughing to EBAG.) You did?
JANET. Fifteen times four hundred--that makes--how much does it make?
TEXEL. Six thousand, madam. Thirty thousand dollars. Great!
JANET. (To EBAG.) Don't you think we deserve some of that, as it were?
EBAG. Madam, I shall be delighted to pay you five thousand four hundred
pounds. That will be equivalent to charging you a nominal commission of
ten per cent.
JANET. Thank you.
CARVE. I won't touch a penny of their wretched money.
JANET. (Sweetly.) I wouldn't dream of asking you to, dearest. I
shall touch it. Goodness knows what street we shall be in after this
affair--and with my brewery shares gone simply all to pieces! Now,
dearest, you can take it off. (She resumes her seat.)
CARVE. (Lightly.) I'm hanged if I do!
ALCAR. But, my dear Mr. X!
CARVE. (Lightly.) I'm dashed if I take my collar off.
CYRUS. (Triumphant.) Ha! I knew it.
CARVE. Why should I offer my skin to the inspection of two individuals
in whom I haven't the slightest interest? They've quarrelled about me,
but is that a reason why I should undress myself? Let me say again, I've
no desire whatever to prove that I am Ilam Carve.
ALCAR. But surely to oblige us immensely, Mr. X, you will consent to
give just one extra performance of an operation which, in fact, you
accomplish three hundred and sixty-five times every year without any
disastrous results.
CARVE. I don't look at it like that. Already my fellow-citizens,
expressing their conviction that I was a great artist, have buried me in
Westminster Abbey--not because I was a great artist, but because I
left a couple of hundred thousand pounds for a public object. And now my
fellow-citizens, here assembled, want me to convince them that I am a
great artist by taking my collar off. I won't do it. I simply will not
do it. It's too English. If any person wishes to be convinced that I'm
an artist and not a mountebank, let him look at my work (pointing
vaguely to a picture), because that's all the proof that I mean to
offer. If he is blind or shortsighted I regret it, but my neck isn't
going to help him.
TEXEL. Brilliant! Then we shall have the trial after all.
CYRUS. Yes, but your brilliant friend will be on his way to South
America before then.
JANET. (Sweetly to CYRUS.) I assure you it's quite true about those
moles. That's why he wears those collars.
CYRUS. (Grimly.) No doubt.... (Repeating.) Nevertheless he'll be on
his way to South America.
CARVE. (Gaily.) Or Timbuctoo.
CYRUS. (Significantly.) Unless you're stopped.
CARVE. And who's going to stop me? All the laws of this country added
together can't make me take my collar off if I don't want to.
CYRUS. What about arresting you for bigamy? What about Holloway? I fancy
at Holloway they have a short method with people who won't take their
collars off.
CARVE. Well, that will only be another proof that the name of this
island is England. It will be telegraphed to the Continent that in order
to prove to herself that she possessed a great artist, England had to
arrest him for bigamy and shove him into prison.... Characteristic!
Characteristic!
ALCAR. (Who has moved across to JANET.) Mrs. X, can you--
JANET. (Rising to CARVE, winningly.) Now--Ilam. You're only laying
up trouble for yourself, and for me too. Do please think of the trial.
You know how shy you are, and how you tremble at the mere thought of a
witness-box.
CYRUS. I can believe it.
CARVE. (Smiling at JANET.) I've got past shyness. I think it was the
visit of my fine stalwart sons yesterday that cured me of shyness. I
doubt if I shall ever be shy any more.
JANET. (Appealingly.) Dearest, to please me!
CARVE. (Curt now for the first time, with a flash of resentment.) No.
JANET. (After a slight pause; hurt and startled; with absolute
conviction, to LORD LEONARD ALCAR.) It's no use. He's made up his mind.
EBAG. I have an idea that I can persuade--
JANET. (Hotly.) Excuse me. You can't.
EBAG. I have an idea I can. But (hesitates) the fact is, not in the
presence of ladies.
JANET. Oh. If that's all--(walks away in a huff.)
EBAG. (To JANET.) My deepest apologies.
(LORD LEONARD ALCAR shows JANET out)
TEXEL. Well, well! What now?
EBAG. (To CARVE.) You remember Lady Alice Rowfant?
CARVE. (Taken aback.) That doesn't concern you.
EBAG. (Ignoring this answer.) Pardon me if I speak plainly. You were
once engaged to marry Lady Alice Rowfant. But a few days before your
valet died you changed your mind and left her in the lurch in Spain.
Lady Alice Rowfant is now in England. She has been served with a
subpoena to give evidence at the trial. And if the trial comes on she
will have to identify you and tell her story in court. (Pause.) Are
you going to put her to this humiliation?
(CARVE walks about. Then he gives a gesture of surrender.)
CARVE. The artist is always beaten! (With an abrupt movement he pulls
undone the bow of his necktie.)
(The stage is darkened to indicate the passage of a few minutes.)
SCENE 2
(CARVE is attempting to re-tie his necktie. LORD LEONARD ALCAR
is coming away from door back. JANET enters from door, L.)
JANET. (Under emotion, to CARVE.) Then you've done it! (CARVE ignores
her.)
ALCAR. Yes, and I feel like a dentist.
JANET. You've sent them all away.
ALCAR. I thought you'd like me to. Mr. Ebag took charge of Mr. Texel.
Your cousin Cyrus was extremely upset.
JANET. What did she say?
ALCAR. Who say?
JANET. Lady Alice Rowfant, of course. Oh! You needn't pretend! As soon
as Mr. Ebag asked me to go out I knew he'd got her up his sleeve.
(Weeps slightly.)
ALCAR. (Very sympathetically.) My dear young lady, what is the matter?
JANET. (Her utterance disturbed by sobs--indicating CARVE.) He'd do it
for her, but he wouldn't do it for me!
ALCAR. I assure you, Lady Alice Rowfant has not been here.
JANET. Honest?
ALCAR. No. The mere mention of her name was sufficient.
JANET. That's even worse! (Rushing across to CARVE and pettishly
seizing his necktie. CARVE submits.) Here! Let me do it--for goodness
sake! Great clumsy! (Still tearful--to LORD LEONARD ALCAR as she ties
the necktie.) Somehow I don't mind crying in front of you, because
you're so nice and fatherly.
ALCAR. Well, if I'm so fatherly, may I venture on a little advice to you
two? (To CARVE.) You said you didn't want to be Ilam Carve. Don't
be Ilam Carve. Let Ilam Carve continue his theoretical repose in the
Abbey and you continue to be somebody else. It will save a vast amount
of trouble, and nobody will be a penny the worse. Leave
England--unobtrusively. If you feel homesick, arrange to come back
during a general election, and you will be absolutely unnoticed. You
have money. If you need more, I can dispose of as many new pictures as
you like to send.
JANET. I don't want him to paint any more pictures.
ALCAR. But he will.
JANET. I suppose he will. Why is it? As if we hadn't had enough bother
already through this art business!
ALCAR. Yes. But artists are like that, you know.
JANET. (Affectionately reproachful to CARVE.) Child! Look how nicely
I've tied it for you. (Shakes him.) Whatever are you dreaming about?
CARVE. (After glancing in mirror reflectively.) There's only one
question. Last time they buried me in the Abbey,--what will they do with
me next time?
CURTAIN.
WORKS BY ARNOLD BENNETT
NOVELS
A MAN FROM THE NORTH
ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS
LEONORA
A GREAT MAN
SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE
WHOM GOD HATH JOINED
BURIED ALIVE
THE OLD WIVES' TALE
THE GLIMPSE
HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND
CLAYHANGER
THE CARD
HILDA LESSWAYS
FANTASIAS
THE GRAND BABYLON HOTEL
THE GATES OF WRATH
TERESA OF WATLING STREET
THE LOOT OF CITIES
HUGO
THE GHOST
THE CITY OF PLEASURE
SHORT STORIES
TALES OF THE FIVE TOWNS
THE GRIM SMILE OF THE FIVE TOWNS
THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS
BELLES-LETTRES
JOURNALISM FOR WOMEN
FAME AND FICTION
HOW TO BECOME AN AUTHOR
THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR
THE REASONABLE LIFE
HOW TO LIVE ON TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY
THE HUMAN MACHINE
LITERARY TASTE
THE FEAST OF ST. FRIEND
THOSE UNITED STATES
DRAMA
POLITE FARCES
CUPID AND COMMON SENSE
WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS
THE HONEYMOON
MILESTONES (In collaboration with EDWARD KNOBLAUCH)
* * * * *
(In collaboration with EDEN PHILLPOTTS)
THE SINEWS OF WAR: A ROMANCE
THE STATUE: A ROMANCE