On the terrace at the Marine Hotel. It is a square flagged platform,
with a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone
coping on the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff.
The head waiter of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon
table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his
left, in the corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to
the beach.
When he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to his
left a solitary guest, a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair of
iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three
wasps on it, reading the Standard, with his umbrella up to defend him
from the sun, which, in August and at less than an hour after noon, is
toasting his protended insteps. Just opposite him, at the hotel side of
the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern.
Access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of
its facade, reached by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised
pavement. Nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by
a little trellis porch. The table at which the waiter is occupied is a
long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at
each side and one at the end next the hotel. Against the parapet another
table is prepared as a buffet to serve from.
The waiter is a remarkable person in his way. A silky old man,
white-haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that
in his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and
imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of
the actual. He has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been
extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of
the vanity of success, are untouched by envy.
The gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. He wears
his London frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table
beside the sugar bowl. The excellent condition and quality of these
garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading
the Standard, and the Times at his elbow overlaying the local paper,
all testify to his respectability. He is about fifty, clean shaven, and
close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as
if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to
let them have their way. He has large expansive ears, cod colored eyes,
and a brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in
his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never
succeeded in making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious. Still,
he is by no means to be laughed at. There is no sign of stupidity or
infirmity of will about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere
at sight as a man of more than average professional capacity and
responsibility. Just at present he is enjoying the weather and the sea
too much to be out of patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his
papers and is at present reduced to the advertisements, which are not
sufficiently succulent to induce him to persevere with them.
THE GENTLEMAN (yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job). Waiter!
WAITER. Sir? (coming down C.)
THE GENTLEMAN. Are you quite sure Mrs. Clandon is coming back before
lunch?
WAITER. Quite sure, sir. She expects you at a quarter to one, sir. (The
gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter's voice, looks at him with a
lazy smile. It is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives
sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with
the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing
them, nor committing any other vulgarism. He looks at his watch as he
continues) Not that yet, sir, is it? 12:43, sir. Only two minutes more
to wait, sir. Nice morning, sir?
THE GENTLEMAN. Yes: very fresh after London.
WAITER. Yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. Very nice family, Mrs.
Clandon's, sir.
THE GENTLEMAN. You like them, do you?
WAITER. Yes, sir. They have a free way with them that is very taking,
sir, very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and gentleman.
THE GENTLEMAN. Miss Dorothea and Mr. Philip, I suppose.
WAITER. Yes, sir. The young lady, in giving an order, or the like
of that, will say, "Remember, William, we came to this hotel on
your account, having heard what a perfect waiter you are." The young
gentleman will tell me that I remind him strongly of his father (the
gentleman starts at this) and that he expects me to act by him as such.
(Soothing, sunny cadence.) Oh, very pleasant, sir, very affable and
pleasant indeed!
THE GENTLEMAN. You like his father! (He laughs at the notion.)
WAITER. Oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. Of
course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the
resemblance, too, sir.
THE GENTLEMAN. Did she?
WAITER. No, sir. She thought me like the bust of Shakespear in Stratford
Church, sir. That is why she calls me William, sir. My real name is
Walter, sir. (He turns to go back to the table, and sees Mrs. Clandon
coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps.) Here is Mrs.
Clandon, sir. (To Mrs. Clandon, in an unobtrusively confidential tone)
Gentleman for you, ma'am.
MRS. CLANDON. We shall have two more gentlemen at lunch, William.
WAITER. Right, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. (He withdraws into the hotel.
Mrs. Clandon comes forward looking round for her visitor, but passes
over the gentleman without any sign of recognition.)
THE GENTLEMAN (peering at her quaintly from under the umbrella). Don't
you know me?
MRS. CLANDON (incredulously, looking hard at him) Are you Finch McComas?
McCOMAS. Can't you guess? (He shuts the umbrella; puts it aside; and
jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be inspected.)
MRS. CLANDON. I believe you are. (She gives him her hand. The shake that
ensues is that of old friends after a long separation.) Where's your
beard?
McCOMAS (with humorous solemnity). Would you employ a solicitor with a
beard?
MRS. CLANDON (pointing to the silk hat on the table). Is that your hat?
McCOMAS. Would you employ a solicitor with a sombrero?
MRS. CLANDON. I have thought of you all these eighteen years with the
beard and the sombrero. (She sits down on the garden seat. McComas takes
his chair again.) Do you go to the meetings of the Dialectical Society
still?
McCOMAS (gravely). I do not frequent meetings now.
MRS. CLANDON. Finch: I see what has happened. You have become
respectable.
McCOMAS. Haven't you?
MRS. CLANDON. Not a bit.
McCOMAS. You hold to your old opinions still?
MRS. CLANDON. As firmly as ever.
McCOMAS. Bless me! And you are still ready to make speeches in public,
in spite of your sex (Mrs. Clandon nods); to insist on a married
woman's right to her own separate property (she nods again); to champion
Darwin's view of the origin of species and John Stuart Mill's essay on
Liberty (nod); to read Huxley, Tyndall and George Eliot (three nods);
and to demand University degrees, the opening of the professions, and
the parliamentary franchise for women as well as men?
MRS. CLANDON (resolutely). Yes: I have not gone back one inch; and I
have educated Gloria to take up my work where I left it. That is what
has brought me back to England: I felt that I had no right to bury her
alive in Madeira--my St. Helena, Finch. I suppose she will be howled at
as I was; but she is prepared for that.
McCOMAS. Howled at! My dear good lady: there is nothing in any of those
views now-a-days to prevent her from marrying a bishop. You reproached
me just now for having become respectable. You were wrong: I hold to
our old opinions as strongly as ever. I don't go to church; and I don't
pretend I do. I call myself what I am: a Philosophic Radical, standing
for liberty and the rights of the individual, as I learnt to do from
my master Herbert Spencer. Am I howled at? No: I'm indulged as an old
fogey. I'm out of everything, because I've refused to bow the knee to
Socialism.
MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Socialism.
McCOMAS. Yes, Socialism. That's what Miss Gloria will be up to her ears
in before the end of the month if you let her loose here.
MRS. CLANDON (emphatically). But I can prove to her that Socialism is a
fallacy.
McCOMAS (touchingly). It is by proving that, Mrs. Clandon, that I have
lost all my young disciples. Be careful what you do: let her go her own
way. (With some bitterness.) We're old-fashioned: the world thinks it
has left us behind. There is only one place in all England where your
opinions would still pass as advanced.
MRS. CLANDON (scornfully unconvinced). The Church, perhaps?
McCOMAS. No, the theatre. And now to business! Why have you made me come
down here?
MRS. CLANDON. Well, partly because I wanted to see you--
McCOMAS (with good-humored irony). Thanks.
MRS. CLANDON. --and partly because I want you to explain everything
to the children. They know nothing; and now that we have come back
to England, it is impossible to leave them in ignorance any longer.
(Agitated.) Finch: I cannot bring myself to tell them. I-- (She is
interrupted by the twins and Gloria. Dolly comes tearing up the steps,
racing Philip, who combines a terrific speed with unhurried propriety of
bearing which, however, costs him the race, as Dolly reaches her mother
first and almost upsets the garden seat by the precipitancy of her
arrival.)
DOLLY (breathless). It's all right, mamma. The dentist is coming; and
he's bringing his old man.
MRS. CLANDON. Dolly, dear: don't you see Mr. McComas? (Mr. McComas
rises, smilingly.)
DOLLY (her face falling with the most disparagingly obvious
disappointment). This! Where are the flowing locks?
PHILIP (seconding her warmly). Where the beard?--the cloak?--the poetic
exterior?
DOLLY. Oh, Mr. McComas, you've gone and spoiled yourself. Why didn't you
wait till we'd seen you?
McCOMAS (taken aback, but rallying his humor to meet the emergency).
Because eighteen years is too long for a solicitor to go without having
his hair cut.
GLORIA (at the other side of McComas). How do you do, Mr. McComas? (He
turns; and she takes his hand and presses it, with a frank straight look
into his eyes.) We are glad to meet you at last.
McCOMAS. Miss Gloria, I presume? (Gloria smiles assent, and releases his
hand after a final pressure. She then retires behind the garden seat,
leaning over the back beside Mrs. Clandon.) And this young gentleman?
PHILIP. I was christened in a comparatively prosaic mood. My name is--
DOLLY (completing his sentence for him declamatorily). "Norval. On the
Grampian hills"--
PHILIP (declaiming gravely). "My father feeds his flock, a frugal
swain"--
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dear, dear children: don't be silly.
Everything is so new to them here, Finch, that they are in the wildest
spirits. They think every Englishman they meet is a joke.
DOLLY. Well, so he is: it's not our fault.
PHILIP. My knowledge of human nature is fairly extensive, Mr. McComas;
but I find it impossible to take the inhabitants of this island
seriously.
McCOMAS. I presume, sir, you are Master Philip (offering his hand)?
PHILIP (taking McComas's hand and looking solemnly at him). I was Master
Philip--was so for many years; just as you were once Master Finch. (He
gives his hand a single shake and drops it; then turns away, exclaiming
meditatively) How strange it is to look back on our boyhood! (McComas
stares after him, not at all pleased.)
DOLLY (to Mrs. Clandon). Has Finch had a drink?
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dearest: Mr. McComas will lunch with us.
DOLLY. Have you ordered for seven? Don't forget the old gentleman.
MRS. CLANDON. I have not forgotten him, dear. What is his name?
DOLLY. Chalkstones. He'll be here at half past one. (To McComas.) Are we
like what you expected?
MRS. CLANDON (changing her tone to a more earnest one). Dolly: Mr.
McComas has something more serious than that to tell you. Children: I
have asked my old friend to answer the question you asked this morning.
He is your father's friend as well as mine: and he will tell you the
story more fairly than I could. (Turning her head from them to Gloria.)
Gloria: are you satisfied?
GLORIA (gravely attentive). Mr. McComas is very kind.
McCOMAS (nervously). Not at all, my dear young lady: not at all. At the
same time, this is rather sudden. I was hardly prepared--er--
DOLLY (suspiciously). Oh, we don't want anything prepared.
PHILIP (exhorting him). Tell us the truth.
DOLLY (emphatically). Bald headed.
McCOMAS (nettled). I hope you intend to take what I have to say
seriously.
PHILIP (with profound mock gravity). I hope it will deserve it, Mr.
McComas. My knowledge of human nature teaches me not to expect too much.
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil--
PHILIP. Yes, mother, all right. I beg your pardon, Mr. McComas: don't
mind us.
DOLLY (in conciliation). We mean well.
PHILIP. Shut up, both.
(Dolly holds her lips. McComas takes a chair from the luncheon table;
places it between the little table and the garden seat with Dolly on his
right and Philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the air
of a man about to begin a long communication. The Clandons match him
expectantly.)
McCOMAS. Ahem! Your father--
DOLLY (interrupting). How old is he?
PHILIP. Sh!
MRS. CLANDON (softly). Dear Dolly: don't let us interrupt Mr. McComas.
McCOMAS (emphatically). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Thank you. (To Dolly.)
Your father is fifty-seven.
DOLLY (with a bound, startled and excited). Fifty-seven! Where does he
live?
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dolly, Dolly!
McCOMAS (stopping her). Let me answer that, Mrs. Clandon. The answer
will surprise you considerably. He lives in this town. (Mrs.
Clandon rises. She and Gloria look at one another in the greatest
consternation.)
DOLLY (with conviction). I knew it! Phil: Chalkstones is our father.
McCOMAS. Chalkstones!
DOLLY. Oh, Crampstones, or whatever it is. He said I was like his
mother. I knew he must mean his daughter.
PHILIP (very seriously). Mr. McComas: I desire to consider your feelings
in every possible way: but I warn you that if you stretch the long arm
of coincidence to the length of telling me that Mr. Crampton of this
town is my father, I shall decline to entertain the information for a
moment.
McCOMAS. And pray why?
PHILIP. Because I have seen the gentleman; and he is entirely unfit
to be my father, or Dolly's father, or Gloria's father, or my mother's
husband.
McCOMAS. Oh, indeed! Well, sir, let me tell you that whether you like it
or not, he is your father, and your sister' father, and Mrs. Clandon's
husband. Now! What have you to say to that!
DOLLY (whimpering). You needn't be so cross. Crampton isn't your father.
PHILIP. Mr. McComas: your conduct is heartless. Here you find a family
enjoying the unspeakable peace and freedom of being orphans. We have
never seen the face of a relative--never known a claim except the claim
of freely chosen friendship. And now you wish to thrust into the most
intimate relationship with us a man whom we don't know--
DOLLY (vehemently). An awful old man! (reproachfully) And you began as
if you had quite a nice father for us.
McCOMAS (angrily). How do you know that he is not nice? And what right
have you to choose your own father? (raising his voice.) Let me tell
you, Miss Clandon, that you are too young to--
DOLLY (interrupting him suddenly and eagerly). Stop, I forgot! Has he
any money?
McCOMAS. He has a great deal of money.
DOLLY (delighted). Oh, what did I always say, Phil?
PHILIP. Dolly: we have perhaps been condemning the old man too hastily.
Proceed, Mr. McComas.
McCOMAS. I shall not proceed, sir. I am too hurt, too shocked, to
proceed.
MRS. CLANDON (urgently). Finch: do you realize what is happening? Do you
understand that my children have invited that man to lunch, and that he
will be here in a few moments?
McCOMAS (completely upset). What! do you mean--am I to understand--is
it--
PHILIP (impressively). Steady, Finch. Think it out slowly and carefully.
He's coming--coming to lunch.
GLORIA. Which of us is to tell him the truth? Have you thought of that?
MRS. CLANDON. Finch: you must tell him.
DOLLY Oh, Finch is no good at telling things. Look at the mess he has
made of telling us.
McCOMAS. I have not been allowed to speak. I protest against this.
DOLLY (taking his arm coaxingly). Dear Finch: don't be cross.
MRS. CLANDON. Gloria: let us go in. He may arrive at any moment.
GLORIA (proudly). Do not stir, mother. I shall not stir. We must not run
away.
MRS. CLANDON (delicately rebuking her). My dear: we cannot sit down to
lunch just as we are. We shall come back again. We must have no bravado.
(Gloria winces, and goes into the hotel without a word.) Come, Dolly.
(As she goes into the hotel door, the waiter comes out with plates,
etc., for two additional covers on a tray.)
WAITER. Gentlemen come yet, ma'am?
MRS. CLANDON. Two more to come yet, thank you. They will be here,
immediately. (She goes into the hotel. The waiter takes his tray to the
service table.)
PHILIP. I have an idea. Mr. McComas: this communication should be made,
should it not, by a man of infinite tact?
McCOMAS. It will require tact, certainly.
PHILIP Good! Dolly: whose tact were you noticing only this morning?
DOLLY (seizing the idea with rapture). Oh, yes, I declare! William!
PHILIP. The very man! (Calling) William!
WAITER. Coming, sir.
McCOMAS (horrified). The waiter! Stop, stop! I will not permit this. I--
WAITER (presenting himself between Philip and McComas). Yes, sir.
(McComas's complexion fades into stone grey; and all movement and
expression desert his eyes. He sits down stupefied.)
PHILIP. William: you remember my request to you to regard me as your
son?
WAITER (with respectful indulgence). Yes, sir. Anything you please, sir.
PHILIP. William: at the very outset of your career as my father, a rival
has appeared on the scene.
WAITER. Your real father, sir? Well, that was to be expected, sooner or
later, sir, wasn't it? (Turning with a happy smile to McComas.) Is it
you, sir?
McCOMAS (renerved by indignation). Certainly not. My children know how
to behave themselves.
PHILIP. No, William: this gentleman was very nearly my father: he wooed
my mother, but wooed her in vain.
McCOMAS (outraged). Well, of all the--
PHILIP. Sh! Consequently, he is only our solicitor. Do you know one
Crampton, of this town?
WAITER. Cock-eyed Crampton, sir, of the Crooked Billet, is it?
PHILIP. I don't know. Finch: does he keep a public house?
McCOMAS (rising scandalized). No, no, no. Your father, sir, is a
well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here.
WAITER (impressed). Oh, beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. A son of Mr.
Crampton's! Dear me!
PHILIP. Mr. Crampton is coming to lunch with us.
WAITER (puzzled). Yes, sir. (Diplomatically.) Don't usually lunch with
his family, perhaps, sir?
PHILIP (impressively). William: he does not know that we are his family.
He has not seen us for eighteen years. He won't know us. (To emphasize
the communication he seats himself on the iron table with a spring, and
looks at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs swinging.)
DOLLY. We want you to break the news to him, William.
WAITER. But I should think he'd guess when he sees your mother, miss.
(Philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. He contemplates
the waiter raptly.)
DOLLY (dazzled). I never thought of that.
PHILIP. Nor I. (Coming off the table and turning reproachfully on
McComas.) Nor you.
DOLLY. And you a solicitor!
PHILIP. Finch: Your professional incompetence is appalling. William:
your sagacity puts us all to shame.
DOLLY You really are like Shakespear, William.
WAITER. Not at all, sir. Don't mention it, miss. Most happy, I'm
sure, sir. (Goes back modestly to the luncheon table and lays the two
additional covers, one at the end next the steps, and the other so as to
make a third on the side furthest from the balustrade.)
PHILIP (abruptly). Finch: come and wash your hands. (Seizes his arm and
leads him toward the hotel.)
McCOMAS. I am thoroughly vexed and hurt, Mr. Clandon--
PHILIP (interrupting him). You will get used to us. Come, Dolly.
(McComas shakes him off and marches into the hotel. Philip follows with
unruffled composure.)
DOLLY (turning for a moment on the steps as she follows them). Keep your
wits about you, William. There will be fire-works.
WAITER. Right, miss. You may depend on me, miss. (She goes into the
hotel.)
(Valentine comes lightly up the steps from the beach, followed doggedly
by Crampton. Valentine carries a walking stick. Crampton, either
because he is old and chilly, or with some idea of extenuating the
unfashionableness of his reefer jacket, wears a light overcoat. He stops
at the chair left by McComas in the middle of the terrace, and steadies
himself for a moment by placing his hand on the back of it.)
CRAMPTON. Those steps make me giddy. (He passes his hand over his
forehead.) I have not got over that infernal gas yet.
(He goes to the iron chair, so that he can lean his elbows on the little
table to prop his head as he sits. He soon recovers, and begins to
unbutton his overcoat. Meanwhile Valentine interviews the waiter.)
VALENTINE. Waiter!
WAITER (coming forward between them). Yes, sir.
VALENTINE. Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon.
WAITER (with a sweet smile of welcome). Yes, sir. We're expecting you,
sir. That is your table, sir. Mrs. Clandon will be down presently, sir.
The young lady and young gentleman were just talking about your friend,
sir.
VALENTINE. Indeed!
WAITER (smoothly melodious). Yes, sire. Great flow of spirits, sir. A
vein of pleasantry, as you might say, sir. (Quickly, to Crampton, who
has risen to get the overcoat off.) Beg pardon, sir, but if you'll allow
me (helping him to get the overcoat off and taking it from him). Thank
you, sir. (Crampton sits down again; and the waiter resumes the broken
melody.) The young gentleman's latest is that you're his father, sir.
CRAMPTON. What!
WAITER. Only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. Yesterday, I was to be
his father. To-day, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he tried to
put it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father--not seen
you for eighteen years, he said.
CRAMPTON (startled). Eighteen years!
WAITER. Yes, sir. (With gentle archness.) But I was up to his tricks,
sir. I saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there, thinking
what new joke he'd have with me. Yes, sir: that's the sort he is: very
pleasant, ve--ry off hand and affable indeed, sir. (Again changing his
tempo to say to Valentine, who is putting his stick down against the
corner of the garden seat) If you'll allow me, sir? (Taking Valentine's
stick.) Thank you, sir. (Valentine strolls up to the luncheon table and
looks at the menu. The waiter turns to Crampton and resumes his lay.)
Even the solicitor took up the joke, although he was in a manner of
speaking in my confidence about the young gentleman, sir. Yes, sir, I
assure you, sir. You would never imagine what respectable professional
gentlemen from London will do on an outing, when the sea air takes them,
sir.
CRAMPTON. Oh, there's a solicitor with them, is there?
WAITER. The family solicitor, sir--yes, sir. Name of McComas, sir. (He
goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious of
the bomblike effect the name has produced on Crampton.)
CRAMPTON (rising in angry alarm). McComas! (Calls to Valentine.)
Valentine! (Again, fiercely.) Valentine!! (Valentine turns.) This is a
plant, a conspiracy. This is my family--my children--my infernal wife.
VALENTINE (coolly). On, indeed! Interesting meeting! (He resumes his
study of the menu.)
CRAMPTON. Meeting! Not for me. Let me out of this. (Calling to the
waiter.) Give me that coat.
WAITER. Yes, sir. (He comes back, puts Valentine's stick carefully down
against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and holds
it for Crampton to put on.) I seem to have done the young gentleman an
injustice, sir, haven't I, sir.
CRAMPTON. Rrrh! (He stops on the point of putting his arms into the
sleeves, and turns to Valentine with sudden suspicion.) Valentine: you
are in this. You made this plot. You--
VALENTINE (decisively). Bosh! (He throws the menu down and goes round
the table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet.)
CRAMPTON (angrily). What d'ye-- (McComas, followed by Philip and Dolly,
comes out. He vacillates for a moment on seeing Crampton.)
WAITER (softly--interrupting Crampton). Steady, sir. Here they come,
sir. (He takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the coat
across his arm. McComas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely down
and crosses to Crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands
behind him. McComas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in
the majesty of a spotless conscience.)
WAITER (aside, as he passes Philip on his way out). I've broke it to
him, sir.
PHILIP. Invaluable William! (He passes on to the table.)
DOLLY (aside to the waiter). How did he take it?
WAITER (aside to her). Startled at first, miss; but resigned--very
resigned, indeed, miss. (He takes the stick and coat into the hotel.)
McCOMAS (having stared Crampton out of countenance). So here you are,
Mr. Crampton.
CRAMPTON. Yes, here--caught in a trap--a mean trap. Are those my
children?
PHILIP (with deadly politeness). Is this our father, Mr. McComas?
McCOMAS. Yes--er-- (He loses countenance himself and stops.)
DOLLY (conventionally). Pleased to meet you again. (She wanders
idly round the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with
Valentine on the way.)
PHILIP. Allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your
wine. (He takes the wine list from the table. His polite attention, and
Dolly's unconcerned indifference, leave Crampton on the footing of
the casual acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist's. The
consciousness of it goes through the father with so keen a pang that
he trembles all over; his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at
his son, who, just conscious enough of his own callousness to intensely
enjoy the humor and adroitness of it, proceeds pleasantly.) Finch: some
crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh?
McCOMAS (firmly). Apollinaris only. I prefer to take nothing heating.
(He walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting temptation
behind him.)
PHILIP. Valentine--?
VALENTINE. Would Lager be considered vulgar?
PHILIP. Probably. We'll order some. Dolly takes it. (Turning to Crampton
with cheerful politeness.) And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we do for
you?
CRAMPTON. What d'ye mean, boy?
PHILIP. Boy! (Very solemnly.) Whose fault is it that I am a boy?
(Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely
pretends to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness.)
DOLLY (looking over Crampton's right shoulder). The whisky's on the last
page but one.
CRAMPTON. Let me alone, child.
DOLLY. Child! No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you mustn't
call me child. (She slips her arm through Philip's; and the two stand
looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.)
CRAMPTON (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even by
their playing with him). McComas: we are--ha!--going to have a pleasant
meal.
McCOMAS (pusillanimously). There is no reason why it should not be
pleasant. (He looks abjectly gloomy.)
PHILIP. Finch's face is a feast in itself. (Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come
from the hotel. Mrs. Clandon advances with courageous self-possession
and marked dignity of manner. She stops at the foot of the steps to
address Valentine, who is in her path. Gloria also stops, looking at
Crampton with a certain repulsion.)
MRS. CLANDON. Glad to see you again, Mr. Valentine. (He smiles. She
passes on and confronts Crampton, intending to address him with perfect
composure; but his aspect shakes her. She stops suddenly and says
anxiously, with a touch of remorse.) Fergus: you are greatly changed.
CRAMPTON (grimly). I daresay. A man does change in eighteen years.
MRS. CLANDON (troubled). I--I did not mean that. I hope your health is
good.
CRAMPTON. Thank you. No: it's not my health. It's my happiness: that's
the change you meant, I think. (Breaking out suddenly.) Look at her,
McComas! Look at her; and look at me! (He utters a half laugh, half
sob.)
PHILIP. Sh! (Pointing to the hotel entrance, where the waiter has just
appeared.) Order before William!
DOLLY (touching Crampton's arm warningly with her finger). Ahem! (The
waiter goes to the service table and beckons to the kitchen entrance,
whence issue a young waiter with soup plates, and a cook, in white apron
and cap, with the soup tureen. The young waiter remains and serves: the
cook goes out, and reappears from time to time bringing in the courses.
He carves, but does not serve. The waiter comes to the end of the
luncheon table next the steps.)
MRS. CLANDON (as they all assemble about the table). I think you have
all met one another already to-day. Oh, no, excuse me. (Introducing) Mr.
Valentine: Mr. McComas. (She goes to the end of the table nearest the
hotel.) Fergus: will you take the head of the table, please.
CRAMPTON. Ha! (Bitterly.) The head of the table!
WAITER (holding the chair for him with inoffensive encouragement). This
end, sir. (Crampton submits, and takes his seat.) Thank you, sir.
MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Valentine: will you take that side (indicating the
side nearest the parapet) with Gloria? (Valentine and Gloria take their
places, Gloria next Crampton and Valentine next Mrs. Clandon.) Finch:
I must put you on this side, between Dolly and Phil. You must protect
yourself as best you can. (The three take the remaining side of the
table, Dolly next her mother, Phil next his father, and McComas between
them. Soup is served.)
WAITER (to Crampton). Thick or clear, sir?
CRAMPTON (to Mrs. Clandon). Does nobody ask a blessing in this
household?
PHILIP (interposing smartly). Let us first settle what we are about to
receive. William!
WAITER. Yes, sir. (He glides swiftly round the table to Phil's left
elbow. On his way he whispers to the young waiter) Thick.
PHILIP. Two small Lagers for the children as usual, William; and one
large for this gentleman (indicating Valentine). Large Apollinaris for
Mr. McComas.
WAITER. Yes, sir.
DOLLY. Have a six of Irish in it, Finch?
McCOMAS (scandalized). No--no, thank you.
PHILIP. Number 413 for my mother and Miss Gloria as before; and--
(turning enquiringly to Crampton) Eh?
CRAMPTON (scowling and about to reply offensively). I--
WAITER (striking in mellifluously). All right, sir. We know what Mr.
Crampton likes here, sir. (He goes into the hotel.)
PHILIP (looking gravely at his father). You frequent bars. Bad habit!
(The cook, accompanied by a waiter with a supply of hot plates, brings
in the fish from the kitchen to the service table, and begins slicing
it.)
CRAMPTON. You have learnt your lesson from your mother, I see.
MRS. CLANDON. Phil: will you please remember that your jokes are apt to
irritate people who are not accustomed to us, and that your father is
our guest to-day.
CRAMPTON (bitterly). Yes, a guest at the head of my own table. (The soup
plates are removed.)
DOLLY (sympathetically). Yes: it's embarrassing, isn't it? It's just as
bad for us, you know.
PHILIP. Sh! Dolly: we are both wanting in tact. (To Crampton.) We mean
well, Mr. Crampton; but we are not yet strong in the filial line.
(The waiter returns from the hotel with the drinks.) William: come and
restore good feeling.
WAITER (cheerfully). Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Small Lager for you, sir.
(To Crampton.) Seltzer and Irish, sir. (To McComas.) Apollinaris, sir.
(To Dolly.) Small Lager, miss. (To Mrs. Clandon, pouring out wine.) 413,
madam. (To Valentine.) Large Lager for you, sir. (To Gloria.) 413, miss.
DOLLY (drinking). To the family!
PHILIP. (drinking). Hearth and Home! (Fish is served.)
McCOMAS (with an obviously forced attempt at cheerful domesticity). We
are getting on very nicely after all.
DOLLY (critically). After all! After all what, Finch?
CRAMPTON (sarcastically). He means that you are getting on very nicely
in spite of the presence of your father. Do I take your point rightly,
Mr. McComas?
McCOMAS (disconcerted). No, no. I only said "after all" to round off the
sentence. I--er--er--er---
WAITER (tactfully). Turbot, sir?
McCOMAS (intensely grateful for the interruption). Thank you, waiter:
thank you.
WAITER (sotto voce). Don't mention it, sir. (He returns to the service
table.)
CRAMPTON (to Phil). Have you thought of choosing a profession yet?
PHILIP. I am keeping my mind open on that subject. William!
WAITER. Yes, sir.
PHILIP. How long do you think it would take me to learn to be a really
smart waiter?
WAITER. Can't be learnt, sir. It's in the character, sir.
(Confidentially to Valentine, who is looking about for something.) Bread
for the lady, sir? yes, sir. (He serves bread to Gloria, and resumes at
his former pitch.) Very few are born to it, sir.
PHILIP. You don't happen to have such a thing as a son, yourself, have
you?
WAITER. Yes, sir: oh, yes, sir. (To Gloria, again dropping his voice.)
A little more fish, miss? you won't care for the joint in the middle of
the day.
GLORIA. No, thank you. (The fish plates are removed.)
DOLLY. Is your son a waiter, too, William?
WAITER (serving Gloria with fowl). Oh, no, miss, he's too impetuous.
He's at the Bar.
McCOMAS (patronizingly). A potman, eh?
WAITER (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment
softened by time). No, sir: the other bar--your profession, sir. A Q.C.,
sir.
McCOMAS (embarrassed). I'm sure I beg your pardon.
WAITER. Not at all, sir. Very natural mistake, I'm sure, sir. I've often
wished he was a potman, sir. Would have been off my hands ever so much
sooner, sir. (Aside to Valentine, who is again in difficulties.) Salt at
your elbow, sir. (Resuming.) Yes, sir: had to support him until he was
thirty-seven, sir. But doing well now, sir: very satisfactory indeed,
sir. Nothing less than fifty guineas, sir.
McCOMAS. Democracy, Crampton!--modern democracy!
WAITER (calmly). No, sir, not democracy: only education, sir.
Scholarships, sir. Cambridge Local, sir. Sidney Sussex College, sir.
(Dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) Stone ginger,
miss? Right, miss. (To McComas.) Very good thing for him, sir: he never
had any turn for real work, sir. (He goes into the hotel, leaving the
company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.)
VALENTINE. Which of us dare give that man an order again!
DOLLY. I hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer.
CRAMPTON (doggedly). While he's a waiter it's his business to wait. If
you had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held his
tongue.
DOLLY. What a loss that would have been! Perhaps he'll give us an
introduction to his son and get us into London society. (The waiter
reappears with the ginger-beer.)
CRAMPTON (growling contemptuously). London society! London society!!
You're not fit for any society, child.
DOLLY (losing her temper). Now look here, Mr. Crampton. If you think--
WAITER (softly, at her elbow). Stone ginger, miss.
DOLLY (taken aback, recovers her good humor after a long breath and says
sweetly). Thank you, dear William. You were just in time. (She drinks.)
McCOMAS (making a fresh effort to lead the conversation into
dispassionate regions). If I may be allowed to change the subject, Miss
Clandon, what is the established religion in Madeira?
GLORIA. I suppose the Portuguese religion. I never inquired.
DOLLY. The servants come in Lent and kneel down before you and confess
all the things they've done: and you have to pretend to forgive them. Do
they do that in England, William?
WAITER. Not usually, miss. They may in some parts: but it has not come
under my notice, miss. (Catching Mrs. Clandon's eye as the young waiter
offers her the salad bowl.) You like it without dressing, ma'am: yes,
ma'am, I have some for you. (To his young colleague, motioning him to
serve Gloria.) This side, Jo. (He takes a special portion of salad from
the service table and puts it beside Mrs. Clandon's plate. In doing so
he observes that Dolly is making a wry face.) Only a bit of watercress,
miss, got in by mistake. (He takes her salad away.) Thank you, miss.
(To the young waiter, admonishing him to serve Dolly afresh.) Jo.
(Resuming.) Mostly members of the Church of England, miss.
DOLLY. Members of the Church of England! What's the subscription?
CRAMPTON (rising violently amid general consternation). You see how my
children have been brought up, McComas. You see it; you hear it. I call
all of you to witness-- (He becomes inarticulate, and is about to strike
his fist recklessly on the table when the waiter considerately takes
away his plate.)
MRS. CLANDON (firmly). Sit down, Fergus. There is no occasion at all
for this outburst. You must remember that Dolly is just like a foreigner
here. Pray sit down.
CRAMPTON (subsiding unwillingly). I doubt whether I ought to sit here
and countenance all this. I doubt it.
WAITER. Cheese, sir; or would you like a cold sweet?
CRAMPTON (take aback). What? Oh!--cheese, cheese.
DOLLY. Bring a box of cigarettes, William.
WAITER. All ready, miss. (He takes a box of cigarettes from the service
table and places them before Dolly, who selects one and prepares to
smoke. He then returns to his table for a box of vestas.)
CRAMPTON (staring aghast at Dolly). Does she smoke?
DOLLY (out of patience). Really, Mr. Crampton, I'm afraid I'm spoiling
your lunch. I'll go and have my cigarette on the beach. (She leaves
the table with petulant suddenness and goes down the steps. The waiter
attempts to give her the matches; but she is gone before he can reach
her.)
CRAMPTON (furiously). Margaret: call that girl back. Call her back, I
say.
McCOMAS (trying to make peace). Come, Crampton: never mind. She's her
father's daughter: that's all.
MRS. CLANDON (with deep resentment). I hope not, Finch. (She rises: they
all rise a little.) Mr. Valentine: will you excuse me: I am afraid Dolly
is hurt and put out by what has passed. I must go to her.
CRAMPTON. To take her part against me, you mean.
MRS. CLANDON (ignoring him). Gloria: will you take my place whilst I am
away, dear. (She crosses to the steps. Crampton's eyes follow her with
bitter hatred. The rest watch her in embarrassed silence, feeling the
incident to be a very painful one.)
WAITER (intercepting her at the top of the steps and offering her a box
of vestas). Young lady forgot the matches, ma'am. If you would be so
good, ma'am.
MRS. CLANDON (surprised into grateful politeness by the witchery of his
sweet and cheerful tones). Thank you very much. (She takes the matches
and goes down to the beach. The waiter shepherds his assistant along
with him into the hotel by the kitchen entrance, leaving the luncheon
party to themselves.)
CRAMPTON (throwing himself back in his chair). There's a mother for you,
McComas! There's a mother for you!
GLORIA (steadfastly). Yes: a good mother.
CRAMPTON. And a bad father? That's what you mean, eh?
VALENTINE (rising indignantly and addressing Gloria). Miss Clandon: I--
CRAMPTON (turning on him). That girl's name is Crampton, Mr. Valentine,
not Clandon. Do you wish to join them in insulting me?
VALENTINE (ignoring him). I'm overwhelmed, Miss Clandon. It's all my
fault: I brought him here: I'm responsible for him. And I'm ashamed of
him.
CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean?
GLORIA (rising coldly). No harm has been done, Mr. Valentine. We have
all been a little childish, I am afraid. Our party has been a failure:
let us break it up and have done with it. (She puts her chair aside
and turns to the steps, adding, with slighting composure, as she passes
Crampton.) Good-bye, father.
(She descends the steps with cold, disgusted indifference. They all look
after her, and so do not notice the return of the waiter from the hotel,
laden with Crampton's coat, Valentine's stick, a couple of shawls and
parasols, a white canvas umbrella, and some camp stools.)
CRAMPTON (to himself, staring after Gloria with a ghastly expression).
Father! Father!! (He strikes his fist violently on the table.) Now--
WAITER (offering the coat). This is yours, sir, I think, sir. (Crampton
glares at him; then snatches it rudely and comes down the terrace
towards the garden seat, struggling with the coat in his angry efforts
to put it on. McComas rises and goes to his assistance; then takes
his hat and umbrella from the little iron table, and turns towards the
steps. Meanwhile the waiter, after thanking Crampton with unruffled
sweetness for taking the coat, offers some of his burden to Phil.) The
ladies' sunshades, sir. Nasty glare off the sea to-day, sir: very trying
to the complexion, sir. I shall carry down the camp stools myself, sir.
PHILIP. You are old, Father William; but you are the most considerate of
men. No: keep the sunshades and give me the camp stools (taking them).
WAITER (with flattering gratitude). Thank you, sir.
PHILIP. Finch: share with me (giving him a couple). Come along. (They go
down the steps together.)
VALENTINE (to the waiter). Leave me something to bring down--one of
these. (Offering to take a sunshade.)
WAITER (discreetly). That's the younger lady's, sir. (Valentine lets
it go.) Thank you, sir. If you'll allow me, sir, I think you had better
have this. (He puts down the sunshades on Crampton's chair, and
produces from the tail pocket of his dress coat, a book with a lady's
handkerchief between the leaves, marking the page.) The eldest young
lady is reading it at present. (Valentine takes it eagerly.) Thank you,
sir. Schopenhauer, sir, you see. (He takes up the sunshades again.) Very
interesting author, sir: especially on the subject of ladies, sir. (He
goes down the steps. Valentine, about to follow him, recollects Crampton
and changes his mind.)
VALENTINE (coming rather excitedly to Crampton). Now look here,
Crampton: are you at all ashamed of yourself?
CRAMPTON (pugnaciously). Ashamed of myself! What for?
VALENTINE. For behaving like a bear. What will your daughter think of me
for having brought you here?
CRAMPTON. I was not thinking of what my daughter was thinking of you.
VALENTINE. No, you were thinking of yourself. You're a perfect maniac.
CRAMPTON (heartrent). She told you what I am--a father--a father robbed
of his children. What are the hearts of this generation like? Am I to
come here after all these years--to see what my children are for
the first time! to hear their voices!--and carry it all off like a
fashionable visitor; drop in to lunch; be Mr. Crampton--M i s t e
r Crampton! What right have they to talk to me like that? I'm their
father: do they deny that? I'm a man, with the feelings of our common
humanity: have I no rights, no claims? In all these years who have I
had round me? Servants, clerks, business acquaintances. I've had respect
from them--aye, kindness. Would one of them have spoken to me as that
girl spoke?--would one of them have laughed at me as that boy was
laughing at me all the time? (Frantically.) My own children! M i s t e r
Crampton! My--
VALENTINE. Come, come: they're only children. The only one of them
that's worth anything called you father.
CRAMPTON (wildly). Yes: "good-bye, father." Oh, yes: she got at my
feelings--with a stab!
VALENTINE (taking this in very bad part). Now look here, Crampton: you
just let her alone: she's treated you very well. I had a much worse time
of it at lunch than you.
CRAMPTON. You!
VALENTINE (with growing impetuosity). Yes: I. I sat next to her; and
I never said a single thing to her the whole time--couldn't think of a
blessed word. And not a word did she say to me.
CRAMPTON. Well?
VALENTINE. Well? Well??? (Tackling him very seriously and talking
faster and faster.) Crampton: do you know what's been the matter with me
to-day? You don't suppose, do you, that I'm in the habit of playing such
tricks on my patients as I played on you?
CRAMPTON. I hope not.
VALENTINE. The explanation is that I'm stark mad, or rather that I've
never been in my real senses before. I'm capable of anything: I've grown
up at last: I'm a Man; and it's your daughter that's made a man of me.
CRAMPTON (incredulously). Are you in love with my daughter?
VALENTINE (his words now coming in a perfect torrent). Love! Nonsense:
it's something far above and beyond that. It's life, it's faith, it's
strength, certainty, paradise--
CRAMPTON (interrupting him with acrid contempt). Rubbish, man! What have
you to keep a wife on? You can't marry her.
VALENTINE. Who wants to marry her? I'll kiss her hands; I'll kneel at
her feet; I'll live for her; I'll die for her; and that'll be enough for
me. Look at her book! See! (He kisses the handkerchief.) If you offered
me all your money for this excuse for going down to the beach and
speaking to her again, I'd only laugh at you. (He rushes buoyantly off
to the steps, where he bounces right into the arms of the waiter, who
is coming up form the beach. The two save themselves from falling by
clutching one another tightly round the waist and whirling one another
around.)
WAITER (delicately). Steady, sir, steady.
VALENTINE (shocked at his own violence). I beg your pardon.
WAITER. Not at all, sir, not at all. Very natural, sir, I'm sure, sir,
at your age. The lady has sent me for her book, sir. Might I take the
liberty of asking you to let her have it at once, sir?
VALENTINE. With pleasure. And if you will allow me to present you with a
professional man's earnings for six weeks-- (offering him Dolly's crown
piece.)
WAITER (as if the sum were beyond his utmost expectations). Thank you,
sir: much obliged. (Valentine dashes down the steps.) Very high-spirited
young gentleman, sir: very manly and straight set up.
CRAMPTON (in grumbling disparagement). And making his fortune in a
hurry, no doubt. I know what his six weeks' earnings come to. (He
crosses the terrace to the iron table, and sits down.)
WAITER (philosophically). Well, sir, you never can tell. That's a
principle in life with me, sir, if you'll excuse my having such a thing,
sir. (Delicately sinking the philosopher in the waiter for a moment.)
Perhaps you haven't noticed that you hadn't touched that seltzer and
Irish, sir, when the party broke up. (He takes the tumbler from the
luncheon table, and sets if before Crampton.) Yes, sir, you never can
tell. There was my son, sir! who ever thought that he would rise to wear
a silk gown, sir? And yet to-day, sir, nothing less than fifty guineas,
sir. What a lesson, sir!
CRAMPTON. Well, I hope he is grateful to you, and recognizes what he
owes you.
WAITER. We get on together very well, very well indeed, sir, considering
the difference in our stations. (With another of his irresistible
transitions.) A small lump of sugar, sir, will take the flatness out of
the seltzer without noticeably sweetening the drink, sir. Allow me,
sir. (He drops a lump of sugar into the tumbler.) But as I say to him,
where's the difference after all? If I must put on a dress coat to show
what I am, sir, he must put on a wig and gown to show what he is. If
my income is mostly tips, and there's a pretence that I don't get them,
why, his income is mostly fees, sir; and I understand there's a pretence
that he don't get them! If he likes society, and his profession brings
him into contact with all ranks, so does mine, too, sir. If it's a
little against a barrister to have a waiter for his father, sir, it's
a little against a waiter to have a barrister for a son: many people
consider it a great liberty, sir, I assure you, sir. Can I get you
anything else, sir?
CRAMPTON. No, thank you. (With bitter humility.) I suppose that's no
objection to my sitting here for a while: I can't disturb the party on
the beach here.
WAITER (with emotion). Very kind of you, sir, to put it as if it was not
a compliment and an honour to us, Mr. Crampton, very kind indeed. The
more you are at home here, sir, the better for us.
CRAMPTON (in poignant irony). Home!
WAITER (reflectively). Well, yes, sir: that's a way of looking at it,
too, sir. I have always said that the great advantage of a hotel is that
it's a refuge from home life, sir.
CRAMPTON. I missed that advantage to-day, I think.
WAITER. You did, sir, you did. Dear me! It's the unexpected that always
happens, isn't it? (Shaking his head.) You never can tell, sir: you
never can tell. (He goes into the hotel.)
CRAMPTON (his eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable face
on his hands). Home! Home!! (He drops his arms on the table and bows his
head on them, but presently hears someone approaching and hastily sits
bolt upright. It is Gloria, who has come up the steps alone, with her
sunshade and her book in her hands. He looks defiantly at her, with
the brutal obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of his eyes
contradicting each other pathetically. She comes to the corner of the
garden seat and stands with her back to it, leaning against the end of
it, and looking down at him as if wondering at his weakness: too curious
about him to be cold, but supremely indifferent to their kinship.) Well?
GLORIA. I want to speak with you for a moment.
CRAMPTON (looking steadily at her). Indeed? That's surprising. You meet
your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to
him for a moment! That's touching: isn't it? (He rests his head on his
hands, and looks down and away from her, in gloomy reflection.)
GLORIA. All that is what seems to me so nonsensical, so uncalled for.
What do you expect us to feel for you--to do for you? What is it you
want? Why are you less civil to us than other people are? You are
evidently not very fond of us--why should you be? But surely we can meet
without quarrelling.
CRAMPTON (a dreadful grey shade passing over his face). Do you realize
that I am your father?
GLORIA. Perfectly.
CRAMPTON. Do you know what is due to me as your father?
GLORIA. For instance---?
CRAMPTON (rising as if to combat a monster). For instance! For
instance!! For instance, duty, affection, respect, obedience--
GLORIA (quitting her careless leaning attitude and confronting him
promptly and proudly). I obey nothing but my sense of what is right.
I respect nothing that is not noble. That is my duty. (She adds, less
firmly) As to affection, it is not within my control. I am not sure
that I quite know what affection means. (She turns away with an evident
distaste for that part of the subject, and goes to the luncheon table
for a comfortable chair, putting down her book and sunshade.)
CRAMPTON (following her with his eyes). Do you really mean what you are
saying?
GLORIA (turning on him quickly and severely). Excuse me: that is an
uncivil question. I am speaking seriously to you; and I expect you to
take me seriously. (She takes one of the luncheon chairs; turns it away
from the table; and sits down a little wearily, saying) Can you not
discuss this matter coolly and rationally?
CRAMPTON. Coolly and rationally! No, I can't. Do you understand that? I
can't.
GLORIA (emphatically). No. That I c a n n o t understand. I have no
sympathy with--
CRAMPTON (shrinking nervously). Stop! Don't say anything more yet; you
don't know what you're doing. Do you want to drive me mad? (She frowns,
finding such petulance intolerable. He adds hastily) No: I'm not angry:
indeed I'm not. Wait, wait: give me a little time to think. (He
stands for a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in his
perplexity; then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and
sits down beside her, saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and
patient) Now, I think I have it. At least I'll try.
GLORIA (firmly). You see! Everything comes right if we only think it
resolutely out.
CRAMPTON (in sudden dread). No: don't think. I want you to feel: that's
the only thing that can help us. Listen! Do you--but first--I forgot.
What's your name? I mean you pet name. They can't very well call you
Sophronia.
GLORIA (with astonished disgust). Sophronia! My name is Gloria. I am
always called by it.
CRAMPTON (his temper rising again). Your name is Sophronia, girl: you
were called after your aunt Sophronia, my sister: she gave you your
first Bible with your name written in it.
GLORIA. Then my mother gave me a new name.
CRAMPTON (angrily). She had no right to do it. I will not allow this.
GLORIA. You had no right to give me your sister's name. I don't know
her.
CRAMPTON. You're talking nonsense. There are bounds to what I will put
up with. I will not have it. Do you hear that?
GLORIA (rising warningly). Are you resolved to quarrel?
CRAMPTON (terrified, pleading). No, no: sit down. Sit down, won't you?
(She looks at him, keeping him in suspense. He forces himself to utter
the obnoxious name.) Gloria. (She marks her satisfaction with a slight
tightening of the lips, and sits down.) There! You see I only want to
shew you that I am your father, my--my dear child. (The endearment is
so plaintively inept that she smiles in spite of herself, and resigns
herself to indulge him a little.) Listen now. What I want to ask you is
this. Don't you remember me at all? You were only a tiny child when you
were taken away from me; but you took plenty of notice of things. Can't
you remember someone whom you loved, or (shyly) at least liked in a
childish way? Come! someone who let you stay in his study and look at
his toy boats, as you thought them? (He looks anxiously into her face
for some response, and continues less hopefully and more urgently)
Someone who let you do as you liked there and never said a word to you
except to tell you that you must sit still and not speak? Someone who
was something that no one else was to you--who was your father.
GLORIA (unmoved). If you describe things to me, no doubt I shall
presently imagine that I remember them. But I really remember nothing.
CRAMPTON (wistfully). Has your mother never told you anything about me?
GLORIA. She has never mentioned your name to me. (He groans
involuntarily. She looks at him rather contemptuously and continues)
Except once; and then she did remind me of something I had forgotten.
CRAMPTON (looking up hopefully). What was that?
GLORIA (mercilessly). The whip you bought to beat me with.
CRAMPTON (gnashing his teeth). Oh! To bring that up against me! To turn
from me! When you need never have known. (Under a grinding, agonized
breath.) Curse her!
GLORIA (springing up). You wretch! (With intense emphasis.) You wretch!!
You dare curse my mother!
CRAMPTON. Stop; or you'll be sorry afterwards. I'm your father.
GLORIA. How I hate the name! How I love the name of mother! You had
better go.
CRAMPTON. I--I'm choking. You want to kill me. Some--I-- (His voice
stifles: he is almost in a fit.)
GLORIA (going up to the balustrade with cool, quick resourcefulness, and
calling over to the beach). Mr. Valentine!
VALENTINE (answering from below). Yes.
GLORIA. Come here a moment, please. Mr. Crampton wants you. (She returns
to the table and pours out a glass of water.)
CRAMPTON (recovering his speech). No: let me alone. I don't want him.
I'm all right, I tell you. I need neither his help nor yours. (He rises
and pulls himself together.) As you say, I had better go. (He puts on
his hat.) Is that your last word?
GLORIA. I hope so. (He looks stubbornly at her for a moment; nods
grimly, as if he agreed to that; and goes into the hotel. She looks at
him with equal steadiness until he disappears, when she makes a gesture
of relief, and turns to speak to Valentine, who comes running up the
steps.)
VALENTINE (panting). What's the matter? (Looking round.) Where's
Crampton?
GLORIA. Gone. (Valentine's face lights up with sudden joy, dread,
and mischief. He has just realized that he is alone with Gloria. She
continues indifferently) I thought he was ill; but he recovered himself.
He wouldn't wait for you. I am sorry. (She goes for her book and
parasol.)
VALENTINE. So much the better. He gets on my nerves after a while.
(Pretending to forget himself.) How could that man have so beautiful a
daughter!
GLORIA (taken aback for a moment; then answering him with polite but
intentional contempt). That seems to be an attempt at what is called a
pretty speech. Let me say at once, Mr. Valentine, that pretty speeches
make very sickly conversation. Pray let us be friends, if we are to be
friends, in a sensible and wholesome way. I have no intention of getting
married; and unless you are content to accept that state of things, we
had much better not cultivate each other's acquaintance.
VALENTINE (cautiously). I see. May I ask just this one question? Is
your objection an objection to marriage as an institution, or merely an
objection to marrying me personally?
GLORIA. I do not know you well enough, Mr. Valentine, to have any
opinion on the subject of your personal merits. (She turns away from him
with infinite indifference, and sits down with her book on the garden
seat.) I do not think the conditions of marriage at present are such as
any self-respecting woman can accept.
VALENTINE (instantly changing his tone for one of cordial sincerity, as
if he frankly accepted her terms and was delighted and reassured by her
principles). Oh, then that's a point of sympathy between us already. I
quite agree with you: the conditions are most unfair. (He takes off his
hat and throws it gaily on the iron table.) No: what I want is to get
rid of all that nonsense. (He sits down beside her, so naturally that
she does not think of objecting, and proceeds, with enthusiasm) Don't
you think it a horrible thing that a man and a woman can hardly know one
another without being supposed to have designs of that kind? As if there
were no other interests--no other subjects of conversation--as if women
were capable of nothing better!
GLORIA (interested). Ah, now you are beginning to talk humanly and
sensibly, Mr. Valentine.
VALENTINE (with a gleam in his eye at the success of his hunter's
guile). Of course!--two intelligent people like us. Isn't it pleasant,
in this stupid, convention-ridden world, to meet with someone on the
same plane--someone with an unprejudiced, enlightened mind?
GLORIA (earnestly). I hope to meet many such people in England.
VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm! There are a good many people here-- nearly
forty millions. They're not all consumptive members of the highly
educated classes like the people in Madeira.
GLORIA (now full of her subject). Oh, everybody is stupid and prejudiced
in Madeira--weak, sentimental creatures! I hate weakness; and I hate
sentiment.
VALENTINE. That's what makes you so inspiring.
GLORIA (with a slight laugh). Am I inspiring?
VALENTINE Yes. Strength's infectious.
GLORIA. Weakness is, I know.
VALENTINE (with conviction). Y o u're strong. Do you know that you
changed the world for me this morning? I was in the dumps, thinking of
my unpaid rent, frightened about the future. When you came in, I was
dazzled. (Her brow clouds a little. He goes on quickly.) That was silly,
of course; but really and truly something happened to me. Explain it
how you will, my blood got-- (he hesitates, trying to think of a
sufficiently unimpassioned word) --oxygenated: my muscles braced; my
mind cleared; my courage rose. That's odd, isn't it? considering that I
am not at all a sentimental man.
GLORIA (uneasily, rising). Let us go back to the beach.
VALENTINE (darkly--looking up at her). What! you feel it, too?
GLORIA. Feel what?
VALENTINE. Dread.
GLORIA. Dread!
VALENTINE. As if something were going to happen. It came over me
suddenly just before you proposed that we should run away to the others.
GLORIA (amazed). That's strange--very strange! I had the same
presentiment.
VALENTINE. How extraordinary! (Rising.) Well: shall we run away?
GLORIA. Run away! Oh, no: that would be childish. (She sits down
again. He resumes his seat beside her, and watches her with a gravely
sympathetic air. She is thoughtful and a little troubled as she adds) I
wonder what is the scientific explanation of those fancies that cross us
occasionally!
VALENTINE. Ah, I wonder! It's a curiously helpless sensation: isn't it?
GLORIA (rebelling against the word). Helpless?
VALENTINE. Yes. As if Nature, after allowing us to belong to ourselves
and do what we judged right and reasonable for all these years, were
suddenly lifting her great hand to take us--her two little children--by
the scruff's of our little necks, and use us, in spite of ourselves, for
her own purposes, in her own way.
GLORIA. Isn't that rather fanciful?
VALENTINE (with a new and startling transition to a tone of utter
recklessness). I don't know. I don't care. (Bursting out reproachfully.)
Oh, Miss Clandon, Miss Clandon: how could you?
GLORIA. What have I done?
VALENTINE. Thrown this enchantment on me. I'm honestly trying to be
sensible--scientific--everything that you wish me to be. But--but-- oh,
don't you see what you have set to work in my imagination?
GLORIA (with indignant, scornful sternness). I hope you are not going to
be so foolish--so vulgar--as to say love.
VALENTINE (with ironical haste to disclaim such a weakness). No, no, no.
Not love: we know better than that. Let's call it chemistry. You can't
deny that there is such a thing as chemical action, chemical affinity,
chemical combination--the most irresistible of all natural forces. Well,
you're attracting me irresistibly--chemically.
GLORIA (contemptuously). Nonsense!
VALENTINE. Of course it's nonsense, you stupid girl. (Gloria recoils
in outraged surprise.) Yes, stupid girl: t h a t's a scientific fact,
anyhow. You're a prig--a feminine prig: that's what you are. (Rising.)
Now I suppose you've done with me for ever. (He goes to the iron table
and takes up his hat.)
GLORIA (with elaborate calm, sitting up like a High-school-mistress
posing to be photographed). That shows how very little you understand my
real character. I am not in the least offended. (He pauses and puts his
hat down again.) I am always willing to be told of my own defects, Mr.
Valentine, by my friends, even when they are as absurdly mistaken about
me as you are. I have many faults--very serious faults--of character and
temper; but if there is one thing that I am not, it is what you call a
prig. (She closes her lips trimly and looks steadily and challengingly
at him as she sits more collectedly than ever.)
VALENTINE (returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her more
emphatically). Oh, yes, you are. My reason tells me so: my knowledge
tells me so: my experience tells me so.
GLORIA. Excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge and
your experience are not infallible. At least I hope not.
VALENTINE. I must believe them. Unless you wish me to believe my eyes,
my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me the
most monstrous lies about you.
GLORIA (the collectedness beginning to relax). Lies!
VALENTINE (obstinately). Yes, lies. (He sits down again beside her.) Do
you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman in the
world?
GLORIA. That is ridiculous, and rather personal.
VALENTINE. Of course it's ridiculous. Well, that's what my eyes tell
me. (Gloria makes a movement of contemptuous protest.) No: I'm not
flattering. I tell you I don't believe it. (She is ashamed to find that
this does not quite please her either.) Do you think that if you were
to turn away in disgust from my weakness, I should sit down here and cry
like a child?
GLORIA (beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly to
keep her voice steady). Why should you, pray?
VALENTINE (with a stir of feeling beginning to agitate his voice).
Of course not: I'm not such an idiot. And yet my heart tells me I
should--my fool of a heart. But I'll argue with my heart and bring it to
reason. If I loved you a thousand times, I'll force myself to look the
truth steadily in the face. After all, it's easy to be sensible: the
facts are the facts. What's this place? it's not heaven: it's the Marine
Hotel. What's the time? it's not eternity: it's about half past one in
the afternoon. What am I? a dentist--a five shilling dentist!
GLORIA. And I am a feminine prig.
VALENTINE. (passionately). No, no: I can't face that: I must have one
illusion left--the illusion about you. I love you. (He turns towards her
as if the impulse to touch her were ungovernable: she rises and stands
on her guard wrathfully. He springs up impatiently and retreats a step.)
Oh, what a fool I am!--an idiot! You don't understand: I might as well
talk to the stones on the beach. (He turns away, discouraged.)
GLORIA (reassured by his withdrawal, and a little remorseful). I am
sorry. I do not mean to be unsympathetic, Mr. Valentine; but what can I
say?
VALENTINE (returning to her with all his recklessness of manner replaced
by an engaging and chivalrous respect). You can say nothing, Miss
Clandon. I beg your pardon: it was my own fault, or rather my own bad
luck. You see, it all depended on your naturally liking me. (She is
about to speak: he stops her deprecatingly.) Oh, I know you mustn't tell
me whether you like me or not; but--
GLORIA (her principles up in arms at once). Must not! Why not? I am a
free woman: why should I not tell you?
VALENTINE (pleading in terror, and retreating). Don't. I'm afraid to
hear.
GLORIA (no longer scornful). You need not be afraid. I think you are
sentimental, and a little foolish; but I like you.
VALENTINE (dropping into the iron chair as if crushed). Then it's all
over. (He becomes the picture of despair.)
GLORIA (puzzled, approaching him). But why?
VALENTINE. Because liking is not enough. Now that I think down into it
seriously, I don't know whether I like you or not.
GLORIA (looking down at him with wondering concern). I'm sorry.
VALENTINE (in an agony of restrained passion). Oh, don't pity me. Your
voice is tearing my heart to pieces. Let me alone, Gloria. You go down
into the very depths of me, troubling and stirring me--I can't struggle
with it--I can't tell you--
GLORIA (breaking down suddenly). Oh, stop telling me what you feel: I
can't bear it.
VALENTINE (springing up triumphantly, the agonized voice now solid,
ringing, and jubilant). Ah, it's come at last--my moment of courage. (He
seizes her hands: she looks at him in terror.) Our moment of courage!
(He draws her to him; kisses her with impetuous strength; and laughs
boyishly.) Now you've done it, Gloria. It's all over: we're in love with
one another. (She can only gasp at him.) But what a dragon you were! And
how hideously afraid I was!
PHILIP'S VOICE (calling from the beach). Valentine!
DOLLY'S VOICE. Mr. Valentine!
VALENTINE. Good-bye. Forgive me. (He rapidly kisses her hands, and runs
away to the steps, where he meets Mrs. Clandon, ascending. Gloria, quite
lost, can only start after him.)
MRS. CLANDON. The children want you, Mr. Valentine. (She looks anxiously
around.) Is he gone?
VALENTINE (puzzled). He? (Recollecting.) Oh, Crampton. Gone this long
time, Mrs. Clandon. (He runs off buoyantly down the steps.)
GLORIA (sinking upon the seat). Mother!
MRS. CLANDON (hurrying to her in alarm). What is it, dear?
GLORIA (with heartfelt, appealing reproach). Why didn't you educate me
properly?
MRS. CLANDON (amazed). My child: I did my best.
GLORIA. Oh, you taught me nothing--nothing.
MRS. CLANDON. What is the matter with you?
GLORIA (with the most intense expression). Only shame--shame-- shame.
(Blushing unendurably, she covers her face with her hands and turns away
from her mother.)
END OF ACT II.