The Project Gutenberg EBook of First Plays, by A. A. Milne This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: First Plays Author: A. A. Milne Release Date: August 6, 2009 [EBook #7805] Last Updated: February 6, 2013 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIRST PLAYS *** Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger
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ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P. MARGARET CRAWSHAW (his wife). VIOLA CRAWSHAW (his daughter). RICHARD MERITON, M.P. DENIS CLIFTON.A Two-Act version of this play was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre on April 7, 1917, with the following cast:
Robert Crawshaw—NIGEL PLAYFAIR. Margaret Crawshaw—HELEN HAYE. Viola Crawshaw—PEGGY KURTON. Richard Meriton—MARTIN LEWIS. Denis Clifton—DION BOUCICAULT. Lancelot Dodd—BERTRAM SIEMS.[SCENE.—ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Morning.] [It is a June day before the war in the morning-room of ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference, and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we must leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes.] RICHARD. Three guesses who it is. VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury. RICHARD. No. VIOLA. The Archbishop of York. RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your last guess. VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P. RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the fireplace.) How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.) VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father. RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway. Anything in the paper? VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that— RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out. VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print. RICHARD. It would be. VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick. RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear. VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as father. RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference? VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other day. RICHARD. No, I don't, really. VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law. RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it. VIOLA. Of course not. RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really. VIOLA. Then why does he say it? RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very good friends. He's always asking my advice about things—he doesn't take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it awfully good of him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up. (Seriously) I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"—the girl I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; now—oh, why won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like this. VIOLA, Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would, as they say in novels, show you the door. (Smiling) And I want you this side of the door for a little bit longer. RICHARD (firmly). I shall tell him before I go. VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days. You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor—and father hates poor people. RICHARD (viciously). Damn money! VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual instability. RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes to him and—) Oh, Lord, look out! VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches? RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW comes in.) (CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he undoubtedly is.) CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last? RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at breakfasts? CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother? VIOLA (making for the door). I don't know, father; do you want her? CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her. VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [She goes out.] (RICHARD Picks up "The Times" and sits down again.) CRAWSHAW (sitting down in a business-like way at his desk). Richard, why don't you get something to do? RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast. CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your—ah—work in the House. RICHARD (a trifle cool). I have something to do. CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a directorship or something in the City. RICHARD. I hate the City. CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke. RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me. CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing personal. (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere with his private friendships. RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day. [Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.] MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all right. RICHARD. Excellent, thank you. MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert? CRAWSHAW. (obviously uncomfortable). Yes—er—h'rm—Richard—er—what are your—er—plans? RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw? MARGARET. Of course not. (TO ROBERT) Are you, dear? CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can leave Richard here with the paper. RICHARD. No, no; I'm going. CRAWSHAW (going to the door with him). I have some particular business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult you in the matter afterwards. RICHARD. Right! [He goes out.] CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for you. MARGARET (sitting down). Yes, Robert? CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. (He reads it) "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of £50,000." MARGARET. Robert! CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached—namely, that you should take the name of—Wurzel-Flummery." MARGARET. Robert! CRAWSHAW.﹃I have the honour to be, your obedient servant, Denis Clifton.﹄(He folds the letter up and puts it away.) MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the money?— CRAWSHAW (calmly). I have not the slightest idea, Margaret. Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis Clifton to come and see me. MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy! CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery! MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so much more—more Cabinety. CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street—I don't know what that sounds like. MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear. They can't really expect us to change our name to—Wurzley-Fothergill. CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery. MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk the solicitor round—this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't matter to him what we call ourselves. Write him one of your letters, dear. CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret. MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.—Mr.— CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton. MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with the name of Wurzley-Fothergill— CRAWSHAW. Wurzel—oh, well, never mind. MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too absurd, when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect you to call yourself Wurzley-Fothergill. CRAWSHAW (impatiently). Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr. Clifton has left me the money on condition that I change my name. If I don't take the name, I don't take the money. MARGARET. But is that legal? CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on succeeding to some property. MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you changed it to Talbot. CRAWSHAW (to himself). Wurzel-Flummery! MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it was very nice of him, but if you didn't know him—Why do you think he did, dear? CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he had—ah—followed my career, and was—ah—interested in it, and being a man with no relations, felt that he could—ah—safely leave this money to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or the name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the name—ah—perpetuated, perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the history of our country, and—ah—made this will accordingly. In a way it is a kind of—ah—sacred trust. MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear? CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think about, my duty to my country. MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't it? CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view of riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly as anybody. MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we could have that second car and the house in Curzon Street? CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the income-tax—and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just now— MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery it would count as earned income. CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even if it is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in recognition of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But Parliament takes a different view. I do not for a moment say that fifty thousand pounds would not be welcome. Fifty pounds is certainly not to be sneezed at— MARGARET. I should think not, indeed! CRAWSHAW (unconsciously rising from his chair). And without this preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this trust, and I would endeavour, Mr. Speaker—(He sits down again suddenly.) I would, Margaret, to, carry it out to the best of my poor ability. But—Wurtzel-Flummery! MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used to the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five years. It is surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only signed my name Margaret Debenham once after I was married. CRAWSHAW (kindly). The cases are rather different, Margaret. Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day when she will change her name, cannot have this feeling for the—ah—honour of his name, which every man—ah—feels. Such a feeling is naturally more present in my own case since I have been privileged to make the name of Crawshaw in some degree—ah—well-known, I might almost say famous. MARGARET (wistfully). I used to be called﹃the beautiful Miss Debenham of Leamington.﹄Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw. CRAWSHAW (getting up and walking over to the fireplace). In a way it would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in politics to get your name before the public.﹃Whoever is this man Wurzel-Flummery?﹄people will say. MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty thousand pounds is fifty thousand pounds. CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it. But—well, all I say is that a gentleman would have left it without any conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed his wish that I should take the name, without going so far as to enforce it. Then I could have looked at the matter all round in an impartial spirit. MARGARET (pursuing her thoughts). The linen is marked R. M. C. now. Of course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F. would do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.? CRAWSHAW. What? Oh—yes, there will be a good deal of that to attend to. (Going up to her) I think, Margaret, I had better talk to Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the money, but—well, I should like to have his opinion. MARGARET (getting up). Do you think he would be very sympathetic, dear? He makes jokes about serious things—like bishops and hunting just as if they weren't at all serious. CRAWSHAW. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new—ah—point of view. I do not hold myself in the least bound to act on anything he says. I regard him as a constituent, Margaret. MARGARET. Then I will send him to you. CRAWSHAW (putting his hands on her shoulders). Margaret, what do you really feel about it? MARGARET. Just whatever you feel, Robert. CRAWSHAW (kissing her). Thank you, Margaret; you are a good wife to me. [She goes out] (CRAWSHAW goes to his desk and selects a "Who's Who" from a little pile of reference-books on it. He walks round to his chair, sits down in it and begins to turn the pages, murmuring names beginning with "C" to himself as he gets near the place. When he finds it, he murmurs﹃Clifton—that's funny,﹄and closes the book. Evidently the publishers have failed him.) [Enter RICHARD.] RICHARD. Well, what's the news? (He goes to his old seat on the fender.) Been left a fortune? CRAWSHAW (simply). Yes.... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. I never met him and I know nothing about him. RICHARD (surprised). Not really? Well, I congratulate you. (He sighs.) To them that hath—But what on earth do you want my advice about? CRAWSHAW. There is a slight condition attached. RICHARD. Oho! CRAWSHAW. The condition is that with this money—fifty thousand pounds—I take the name of—ah—Wurzel-Flummery. RICHARD (jumping up). What! CRAWSHAW (sulkily). I said it quite distinctly—Wurzel-Flummery. (RICHARD in an awed silence walks over to the desk and stands looking down at the unhappy CRAWSHAW. He throws out his left hand as if introducing him.) RICHARD (reverently). Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M. P., one of the most prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. Oh, you...oh!... oh, how too heavenly! (He goes back to his seat, looks up and catches CRAWSHAW'S eye, and breaks down altogether.) CRAWSHAW (rising with dignity). Shall we discuss it seriously, or shall we leave it? RICHARD. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery seriously? "Mr. Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen words seconded the motion."... "'Sir,' went on Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"—Oh, poor Robert! CRAWSHAW (sitting down sulkily). You seem quite certain that I shall take the money. RICHARD. I am quite certain. CRAWSHAW. Would you take it? RICHARD (hesitating). Well—I wonder. CRAWSHAW. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's in a name?" RICHARD. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare—William Shakespeare—said. (Dramatically rising) Who steals my purse with fifty thousand in it—steals trash. (In his natural voice) Trash, Robert: (Dramatically again) But he who filches from me my good name of Crawshaw (lightly) and substitutes the rotten one of Wurzel— CRAWSHAW (annoyed). As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery is a very good old name. I seem to remember some—ah—Hampshire Wurzel-Flummeries. It is a very laudable spirit on the part of a dying man to wish to—ah—perpetuate these old English names. It all seems to me quite natural and straightforward. If I take this money I shall have nothing to be ashamed of. RICHARD. I see.... Look here, may I ask you a few questions? I should like to know just how you feel about the whole business? CRAWSHAW (complacently folding his hands). Go ahead. RICHARD. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you and said,﹃My poor man, here's five pounds for you,﹄what would you do? Tell him to go to the devil, I suppose, wouldn't you? CRAWSHAW (humorously). In more parliamentary language, perhaps, Richard. I should tell him I never took money from strangers. RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you would take it? CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't. RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, then you would? CRAWSHAW (blandly). Ah, I thought you were leading up to that. That, of course, is entirely different. RICHARD. Why? CRAWSHAW. Well—ah—wouldn't you take ten thousand pounds if it were left to you by a stranger? RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would seem different. CRAWSHAW (professionally). Ha-hum! Well—in the first place, when a man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be certain that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot spare. And in the neat place, it is the man's dying wish that you should have the money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To accept becomes almost a sacred duty. RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it from him when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently refuse him a little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter a damn to him what happens to his money after he's dead, and therefore you can take it without feeling any gratitude at all. CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that. RICHARD (smiling). I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert. CRAWSHAW No doubt you can twist it about so that— RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point. Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your hair down the middle, shave off your moustache, and wear only one whisker—if he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike your appearance, took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and alter yourself—of course you'd pocket the money and go straight to your barber's? CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive. RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left you five pounds in his will?—well, then twenty pounds? a hundred pounds?—a thousand pounds?—fifty thousand pounds?—(Jumping up excitedly) It's only a question of price—fifty thousand pounds, Robert—a pink tie with purple spots, hair across the back, trousers with a patch in the fall myself Wurzel-Flummery—any old thing you like, you can't insult me—anything you like, gentlemen, for fifty thousand pounds. (Lowering his voice) Only you must leave it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty—a sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. (He sinks back into the sofa and relights his pipe.) CRAWSHAW. (rising with dignity). It is evidently useless to prolong this conversation. RICHARD (waving him dorm again). No, no, Robert; I've finished. I just took the other side—and I got carried away. I ought to have been at the Bar. CRAWSHAW. You take such extraordinary views of things. You must look facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern world, and we are modern people living in it. Take the matter-of-fact view. You may like or dislike the name of—ah—Wurzel-Flummery, but you can't get away from the fact that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at. RICHARD (wistfully). I don't know why people shouldn't sneeze at money sometimes. I should like to start a society for sneezing at fifty thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in a small way, of course; we'd begin by sneezing at five pounds—and work up. The trouble is that we're all inoculated in our cradles against that kind of cold. CRAWSHAW (pleasantly). You will have your little joke. But you know as well as I do that it is only a joke. There can be no serious reason why I should not take this money. And I—ah—gather that you don't think it will affect my career? RICHARD (carelessly). Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get you into all the comic papers. [MARGARET comes in at this moment, to the relief of CRAWSHAW, who is not quite certain if he is being flattered or insulted again.] MARGARET. Well, have you told him? RICHARD (making way for her on the sofa). I have heard the news, Mrs. Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion that he should have no difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery as famous as he has already made that of Crawshaw. At any rate I hope he will. MARGARET. How nice of you! CRAWSHAW. Well, it's settled, then. (Looking at his watch) This solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after all, we can manage something about—Ah, Viola, did you want your mother? [Enter VIOLA.] VIOLA. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's Richard, so it can't be very serious. RICHARD. What a reputation! CRAWSHAW. Well, it's over now. MARGARET. Viola had better know, hadn't she? CRAWSHAW. She'll have to know some time, of course. VIOLA (sitting done firmly on the sofa). Of course she will. So you'd better tell her now. I knew there was something exciting going on this morning. CRAWSHAW (embarrassed). Hum—ha—(To MARGARET) Perhaps you'd better tell her, dear. MARGARET (simply and naturally). Father has come into some property, Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. But your father doesn't think it will matter. VIOLA. How thrilling! What is the name, mother? MARGARET. Your father says it is—dear me, I shall never remember it. CRAWSHAW (mumbling). Wurzel-Flummery. VIOLA (after a pause). Dick, you tell me, if nobody else will. RICHARD. Robert said it just now. VIOLA. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just a—do say it again, father. CRAWSHAW (sulkily but plainly). Wurzel-Flummery. VIOLA (surprised). Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel and like flummery? RICHARD. Exactly, I believe. VIOLA (to herself). Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery—I mean they'd have to look at you, wouldn't they? (Bubbling over) Oh, Dick, what a heavenly name! Who had it first? RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family—that is so, isn't it, Robert? CRAWSHAW (annoyed). I said I thought that I remembered—Margaret, can you find Burke there? (She finds it, and he buries himself in the families of the great.) MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss Wurzel-Flummery. VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand in front of my glass and tell myself who I am. RICHARD. It's all right for you. You know you'll change your name one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before. VIOLA (secretly). H'sh! (She smiles lovingly at him, and then says aloud) Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers,﹃A marriage has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery...﹄and everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl." MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). Have you found it, dear? CRAWSHAW (resentfully). This is the 1912 edition. MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in by then. VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick, what fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman throwing open the door and saying— MAID (announcing). Mr. Denis Clifton. (There is a little natural confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in his summer suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW goes towards him and shakes hands.) CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. (Looking doubtfully at his clothes) Er—it is Mr. Denis Clifton, the solicitor? CLIFTON (cheerfully). It is. I must apologize for not looking the part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions. CRAWSHAW (bewildered). Ah yes, quite so. But you have—ah—full legal authority to act in this matter? CLIFTON.. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that. CRAWSHAW (introducing). My wife—and daughter. (CLIFTON bows gracefully.) My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton. CLIFTON (happily).Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a situation, as we say in the profession. RICHARD (amused by him). In the legal profession? CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession.(Turning to MARGARET) I am a writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have thanked me for submitting my work to them. CRAWSHAW (firmly).I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony Clifton. CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced the profession of a solicitor—(Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW) But you know what these official embraces are. MARGARET. I'm afraid—(She turns to her husband for assistance.) CLIFTON (to RICHARD). Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the Muses. VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely? CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to produce a play, the case would be different. CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor for as long as you wish. (He puts his hat down on a chair with the papers in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily) Mr. Denis Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent make-up, his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into his hat—(He does so.) MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). I think, perhaps, Viola and I— RICHARD (making a move too). We'll leave you to your business, Robert. CLIFTON (holding up his hand). Just one moment if I may. I have a letter for you, Mr. Meriton. RICHARD (surprised). For me? CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity—oh, but I said that before—he took it round to your rooms this morning, but found only painters and decorators there. (He is feeling in his pockets and now brings the letter out.) I brought it along, hoping that Mr. Crawshaw—but of course I never expected anything so delightful as this. (He hands over the letter with a bow.) RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts it in his pocket.) CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? (To MR. CRAWSHAW) One so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own letters are read. I think the habit they have on the stage of reading letters aloud to other is such a very delightful one. (RICHARD, with a smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while CLIFTON is talking.) RICHARD. Good Lord! VIOLA. Dick, what is it? RICHARD (reading). "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of £50,000." VIOLA. Dick! RICHARD.﹃A trifling condition is attached—namely, that you should take the name of—Wurzel-Flummery.﹄(CLIFTON, with his hand on his heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them.) CRAWSHAW (annoyed). Impossible! Why should he leave any money to you? VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful! MARGARET (mildly). I don't remember ever having had a morning quite like this. RICHARD (angrily). Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton? CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the utmost— RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't even argue about it. (Tearing the letter into bits) That's what I think of your money. [He stalks indignantly from the room.] VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him—[She hurries after him.] MARGARET (with dignity). Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you. [She goes out too.] CLIFTON (looking round the room). And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are alone. CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to explain— CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning dressing for it. (He takes papers from his hat and moves to the sofa.) Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning. CRAWSHAW (interested, indicating the papers). The documents in the case? CLIFTON. Oh dear, no just something to carry in the hand. It makes one look more like a solicitor. (Reading the title)﹃Watherston v. Towser—in re Great Missenden Canal Company.﹄My clerk invents the titles; it keeps him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is always coming in. (Frankly) You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first real case, and I only got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My efforts to introduce a little picturesqueness into the dull formalities of the law do not meet with that response that one would have expected. CRAWSHAW (looking at his watch). Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if you could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged to you. CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being entirely frank with you. It will be a pleasure. CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may say that I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as I am to accept this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr. Antony Clifton has seen fit—(modestly) one cannot say why—to bequeath to me, yet the use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be excessively awkward. CLIFTON (cheerfully). Excessively. CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was absolutely essential that the name should go with the money. CLIFTON. Well (thoughtfully), you may have the name without the money if you like. But you must have the name. CRAWSHAW (disappointed). Ah! (Bravely) Of course, I have nothing against the name, a good old Hampshire name— CLIFTON (shocked). My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think—you didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the founders of the clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran— CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not a real name at all? CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because—er—I made it up. CRAWSHAW (outraged). And you have the impudence to propose, sir, that I should take a made-up name? CLIFTON (soothingly). Well, all names are made up some time or other. Somebody had to think of—Adam. CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this trifling with serious subjects. CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really.... You see, my Uncle Antony was a rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to put it in its proper place. The place he put it in was—er—a little below golf and a little above classical concerts. If a man said to him, "Would you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?" he would say—well, it would depend what he was doing. If he were going to have a round at Walton Heath— CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way. CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find many to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was nothing, however contemptible, that a man would not do for money. One day I suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently foolish name attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it. He laughed at the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I said; "leave the same silly name to two people, two well-known people, rival politicians, say, men whose own names are already public property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said.﹃Upon what vile bodies shall we experiment?﹄We decided on you and Mr. Meriton. The next thing was to choose the name. I started on the wrong lines. I began by suggesting names like Porker, Tosh, Bugge, Spiffkins—the obvious sort. My uncle— CRAWSHAW (boiling with indignation). How dare you discuss me with your uncle, Sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way whether I am to be called—ah—Tosh—or—ah—Porker! CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't bear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a humorous name—a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue—a name expressing a sort of humorous contempt—Wurzel-Flummery! I can see now the happy ruminating smile which came so often on my Uncle Antony's face in those latter months. He was thinking of his two Wurzel-Flummerys. I remember him saying once—it was at the Zoo—what a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole Cabinet. A whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummerys; it would have been rather jolly. CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if that was the way you and your uncle used to talk together at his death can only be described as a merciful intervention of Providence. CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere, you know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was his one regret that from the necessities of the case he could not live to enjoy his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it would reach him wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I fancy, that toward the end he became interested in spiritualism. CRAWSHAW (rising solemnly). Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if, as you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like him to hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified solicitor at all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole story of the will and the ridiculous condition attached to it is just the tomfool joke of a man who, by his own admission, wastes most of his time writing unsuccessful farces. And I propose— CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces, comedies—of a whimsical nature. CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole matter to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir. CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr. Crawshaw? CRAWSHAW (startled). What's that? CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand pounds? CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not refuse it. CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there—and the name. Both waiting for you. CRAWSHAW (thumping the table). Then, Sir, I accept them. I feel it my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that you have suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show what I think of your story by accepting the trust which he has bequeathed to me. You will arrange further matters with my solicitor. Good morning, Sir. CLIFTON (to himself as he rises). Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass of water. (To CRAWSHAW) Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I express the parting wish that your future career will add fresh lustre to—my name. (To himself as he goes out) Exit Mr. Denis Clifton with dignity. (But he has left his papers behind him.) (CRAWSHAW, walking indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers and picks them up.) CRAWSHAW (contemptuously).﹃Watherston v. Towser—in re Great Missenden Canal Company﹄Bah! (He tears them up and throws them into the fare. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated there as VIOLA, followed by MERITON, comes in.) VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he? RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola. CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummerys in the House of Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In any case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola. VIOLA (surprised). But how can we get married if he doesn't take the money? CRAWSHAW (hardly understanding). Married? What does this mean, Richard? RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told you before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or two. Viola and I want to get married. CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on? RICHARD (with a smile). Not very much, I'm afraid. VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty thousand pounds. RICHARD (sadly). Oh, Viola, Viola! CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on matters. VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father? CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to entrust my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself that he throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful objection to the name which goes with it. RICHARD (in despair). You don't understand, Robert. CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good enough for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind asking Viola to take your name, but you consider it an insult if you are asked to take myname. RICHARD (miserably to VIOLA). Do you want to be Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery? VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling. RICHARD (beaten). Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But you'll never understand. CRAWSHAW (stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out). Come, come, Richard. (Patting him on the shoulder) I understand perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while ago—it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice our ideals for—ah—others. I shall be very proud to have you for a son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in Parliament together upholding the honour of the—ah—name. And perhaps now that we are to be so closely related, you may come to feel some day that your views could be—ah—more adequately put forward from myside of the House. RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it. CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And you must send that solicitor a line—or perhaps a telephone message would be better. (He goes to the door and turns round just as he is going out.) Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer. [Exit.] RICHARD (holding out his hands to VIOLA). Come here, Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery. VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please, darling. (She comes to him.) RICHARD (shaking his head sadly at her). I don't know what I've done, Viola. (Suddenly) But you're worth it. (He kisses her, and then says in a low voice) And God help me if I ever stop thinking so! [Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very tactfully with his back towards them, humming to himself.] RICHARD. Hullo! CLIFTON (to himself). Now where did I put those papers? (He hums to himself again.) Now where—oh, I beg your pardon! I left some papers behind. VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. (As she goes out, she says to CLIFTON) Good-bye, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice letters. CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Crawshaw. VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds. CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Wurzel-Flummery. VIOLA. (smiling happily). No, not Miss, Mrs. [She goes out.] CLIFTON. (looking in surprise from her to him). You don't mean— RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton. CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! (Thoughtfully to himself) I wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers. RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton! CLIFTON. Why poor? RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said to Crawshaw about money before you came. CLIFTON (thoughtfully). Oh I was it very—(Brightening up) But I expect Uncle Antony heard. (After a pause) Well, I must be getting on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company—a most intricate case, in which my clerk and I—(He has murmured himself across to the fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch his eye. He picks up one of the fragments.) Ah, yes. Well, I shall tell my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had got quite fond of that canal. (He turns to go, but first says to MERITON) So you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton? RICHARD. Yes. CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too? RICHARD. Yes. CLIFTON (to himself as he goes out). They are both taking it. (He stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile.) Good old Uncle Antony—he knew—he knew! (MERITON stands watching him as he goes.)
GERALD FARRINGDON. BOB FARRINGDON (his elder brother). SIR JAMES FARRINGDON (his father). LADY FARRINGDON (his mother). MISS FARRINGDON (his great-aunt). PAMELA CAREY (his betrothed). HENRY WENTWORTH (his friend). THOMAS TODD (his friend). LETTY HERBERT (his friend). MASON (his old nurse).ACT I. At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S in the country. ACT II. A private hotel in Dover Street. Two months later. ACT III. At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. Three months later.
UNCLE JAMES. AUNT EMILY. PHILIP. MARY. MRS. HIGGINS.This play was first produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria Palace Theatre on September 9,1918, with the following cast:
Philip—OWEN NARES. Uncle James—TOM REYNOLDS. Aunt Emily—DOROTHY RADFORD. Mary—ADAH DICK. Mrs. Higgins—RACHEL DE SOLLA.[SCENE.—A room in UNCLE JAMES'S house in the Cromwell Road.] [TIME.—The day after the War.] [Any room in UNCLE JAMES'S house is furnished in heavy mid-Victorian style; this particular morning-room is perhaps solider and more respectable even than the others, from the heavy table in the middle of it to the heavy engravings on the walls. There are two doors to it. The one at the back opens into the hall, the one at the side into the dining-room.] [PHILIP comes from the hall and goes into the dining-room. Apparently he finds nothing there, for he returns to the morning-room, looks about him for a moment and then rings the bell. It is ten o'clock, and he wants his breakfast. He picks up the paper, and sits in a heavy armchair in front of the fire—a pleasant-looking well-built person of twenty-three, with an air of decisiveness about him. MARY, the parlour-maid, comes in.] MARY. Did you ring, Master Philip? PHILIP (absently). Yes; I want some breakfast, please, Mary. MARY (coldly). Breakfast has been cleared away an hour ago. PHILIP. Exactly. That's why I rang. You can boil me a couple of eggs or something. And coffee, not tea. MARY. I'm sure I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say? PHILIP (getting up). Who is Mrs. Higgins? MARY. The cook. And she's not used to being put about like this. PHILIP. Do you think she'll say something? MARY. I don't know what she'll say. PHILIP. You needn't tell me, you know, if you don't want to. Anyway, I don't suppose it will shock me. One gets used to it in the Army. (He smiles pleasantly at her.) MARY. Well, I'll do what I can, sir. But breakfast at eight sharp is the master's rule, just as it used to be before you went away to the war. PHILIP. Before I went away to the war I did a lot of silly things. Don't drag them up now. (More curtly) Two eggs, and if there's a ham bring that along too. (He turns away.) MARY (doubtfully, as she prepares to go). Well, I'm sure I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say. [Exit MARY.] (As she goes out she makes way for AUNT EMILY to come in, a kind-hearted mid-Victorian lady who has never had any desire for the vote.) EMILY. There you are, Philip! Good-morning, dear. Did you sleep well? PHILIP. Rather; splendidly, thanks, Aunt Emily. How are you? (He kisses her.) EMILY. And did you have a good breakfast? Naughty boy to be late for it. I always thought they had to get up so early in the Army. PHILIP. They do. That's why they're so late when they get out of the Army. EMILY: Dear me! I should have thought a habit of four years would have stayed with you. PHILIP. Every morning for four years, as I've shot out of bed, I've said to myself, "Wait! A time will come." (Smiling) That doesn't really give a habit a chance. EMILY. Well, I daresay you wanted your sleep out. I was so afraid that a really cosy bed would keep you awake after all those years in the trenches. PHILIP. Well, one isn't in the trenches all the time. And one gets leave—if one's an officer. EMILY.(reproachfully). You didn't spend much of it with us, Philip. PHILIP (taking her hands). I know; but you did understand, didn't you, dear? EMILY. We're not very gay, and I know you must have wanted gaiety for the little time you had. But I think your Uncle James felt it. After all, dear, you've lived with us for some years, and he isyour guardian. PHILIP. I know. You've been a darling to me always, Aunt Emily. But (awkwardly) Uncle James and I— EMILY. Of course, he is a little difficult to get on with. I'm more used to him. But I'm sure he really is very fond of you, Philip. PHILIP. H'm! I always used to be frightened of him.... I suppose he's just the same. He seemed just the same last night—and he still has breakfast at eight o'clock. Been making pots of money, I suppose? EMILY. He never tells me exactly, but he did speak once about the absurdity of the excess-profits tax. You see, jam is a thing the Army wants. PHILIP. It certainly gets it. EMILY. It was so nice for him, because it made him feel he was doing his bit, helping the poor men in the trenches. [Enter MARY.] MARY. Mrs. Higgins wishes to speak to you, ma'am. (She looks at PHILIP as much as to say, "There you are!") EMILY (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To PHILIP) I think I'd better just see what she wants, Philip. PHILIP (firmly to MARY). Tell Mrs. Higgins to come here. (MARY hesitates and looks at her mistress.) At once, please. [Exit MARY.] EMILY (upset). Philip, dear, I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say— PHILIP. No; nobody seems to. I thought we might really find out for once. EMILY (going towards the door). Perhaps I'd better go— PHILIP (putting his arm round her waist). Oh no, you mustn't. You see, she really wants to see me. EMILY. You? PHILIP. Yes; I ordered breakfast five minutes ago. EMILY. Philip! My poor boy! Why didn't you tell me? and I daresay I could have got it for you. Though I don't know what Mrs. Higgins— (An extremely angry voice is heard outside, and MRS. HIGGINS, stout and aggressive, comes in.) MRS. HIGGINS (truculently). You sent for me, ma'am? EMILY (nervously). Yes—er—I think if you—perhaps— PHILIP (calmly). Isent for you, Mrs. Higgins. I want some breakfast. Didn't Mary tell you? MRS. HIGGINS. Breakfast is at eight o'clock. It always has been as long as I've been in this house, and always will be until I get further orders. PHILIP. Well, you've just got further orders. Two eggs, and if there's a ham— MRS. HIGGINS. Orders. We're talking about orders. From whom in this house do I take orders, may I ask? PHILIP. In this case from me. MRS. HIGGINS (playing her trump-card). In that case, ma'am, I wish to give a month's notice from to-day. Inclusive. PHILIP (quickly, before his aunt can say anything). Certainly. In fact, you'd probably prefer it if my aunt gave you notice, and then you could go at once. We can easily arrange that. (TO AUNT EMILY as he takes out a fountain pen and cheque-book) What do you pay her? EMILY (faintly). Forty-five pounds. PHILIP (writing on his knee). Twelves into forty-five.... (Pleasantly to MRS. HIGGINS, but without looking up) I hope you don't mind a Cox's cheque. Some people do; but this is quite a good one. (Tearing it out) Here you are. MRS. HIGGINS (taken aback). What's this? PHILIP. Your wages instead of notice. Now you can go at once. MRS. HIGGINS. Who said anything about going? PHILIP (surprised). I'm sorry; I thought you did. MRS. HIGGINS. If it's only a bit of breakfast, I don't say but what I mightn't get it, if I'm asked decent. PHILIP (putting back the cheque). Then let me say again,﹃Two eggs, ham and coffee.﹄And Mary can bring the ham up at once, and I'll get going on that. (Turning away) Thanks very much. MRS. HIGGINS. Well, I—well—well! [Exit speechless.] PHILIP (surprised). Is that all she ever says? It isn't much to worry about. EMILY. Philip, how could you! I should have been terrified. PHILIP. Well, you see, I've done your job for two years out there. EMILY. What job? PHILIP. Mess President.... I think I'll go and see about that ham. (He smiles at her and goes out into the dining-room. AUNT EMILY wanders round the room, putting a few things tidy as is her habit, when she is interrupted by the entrance of UNCLE JAMES. JAMES is not a big man, nor an impressive one in his black morning-coat; and his thin straggly beard, now going grey, does not hide a chin of any great power; but he has a severity which passes for strength with the weak.) JAMES. Philip down yet? EMILY. He's just having his breakfast. JAMES (looking at his watch). Ten o'clock. (Snapping it shut and putting it back) Ten o'clock. I say ten o'clock, Emily. EMILY. Yes, dear, I heard you. JAMES. You don't say anything? EMILY (vaguely). I expect he's tired after that long war. JAMES. That's no excuse for not being punctual. I suppose he learnt punctuality in the Army? EMILY. I expect he learnt it, James, but I understood him to say that he'd forgotten it. JAMES. Then the sooner he learns it again the better. I particularly stayed away from the office to-day in order to talk things over with him, and (looking at his watch) here's ten o'clock—past ten—and no sign of him. I'm practically throwing away a day. EMILY. What are you going to talk to him about? JAMES. His future, naturally. I have decided that the best thing he can do is to come into the business at once. EMILY. Are you really going to talk it over with him, James, or are you just going to tell him that he must come? JAMES (surprised). What do you mean? What's the difference? Naturally we shall talk it over first, and—er—naturally he'll fall in with my wishes. EMILY. I suppose he can hardly help himself, poor boy. JAMES. Not until he's twenty-five, anyhow. When he's twenty-five he can have his own money and do what he likes with it. EMILY (timidly). But I think you ought to consult him at little, dear. After all, he has been fighting for us. JAMES (with his back to the fire). Now that's the sort of silly sentiment that there's been much too much of. I object to it strongly. I don't want to boast, but I think I may claim to have done my share. I gave up my nephew to my country, and I—er—suffered from the shortage of potatoes to an extent that you probably didn't realize. Indeed, if it hadn't been for your fortunate discovery about that time that you didn't really like potatoes, I don't know how we should have carried on. And, as I think I've told you before, the excess-profits tax seemed to me a singularly stupid piece of legislation—but I paid it. And I don't go boasting about how much I paid. EMILY (unconvinced). Well, I think that Philip's four years out there have made him more of a man; he doesn't seem somehow like a boy who can be told what to do. I'm sure they've taught him something. JAMES. I've no doubt that they've taught him something about—er—bombs and—er—which end a revolver goes off, and how to form fours. But I don't see that that sort of thing helps him to decide upon the most suitable career for a young man in after-war conditions. EMILY. Well, I can only say you'll find him different. JAMES. I didn't notice any particular difference last night. EMILY. I think you'll find him rather more—I can't quite think of the word, but Mrs. Higgins could tell you what I mean. JAMES. Of course, if he likes to earn his living any other way, he may; but I don t see how he proposes to do it so long as I hold the purse-strings. (Looking at his watch) Perhaps you'd better tell him that I cannot wait any longer. (EMILY opens the door leading into the dining-room and talks through it to PHILIP.) EMILY. Philip, your uncle is waiting to see you before he goes to the office. Will you be long, dear? PHILIP (from the dining-room). Is he in a hurry? JAMES (shortly). Yes. EMILY. He says he is rather, dear. PHILIP. Couldn't he come and talk in here? It wouldn't interfere with my breakfast. JAMES. No. EMILY. He says he'd rather you came to him, darling. PHILIP (resigned). Oh, well. EMILY (to JAMES). He'll be here directly, dear. Just sit down in front of the fire and make yourself comfortable with the paper. He won't keep you long. (She arranges him.) JAMES (taking the paper). The morning is not the time to make oneself comfortable. It's a most dangerous habit. I nearly found myself dropping off in front of the fire just now. I don't like this hanging about, wasting the day. (He opens the paper.) EMILY. You should have had a nice sleep, dear, while you could. We were up so late last night listening to Philip's stories. JAMES. Yes, yes. (He begins a yawn and stifles it hurriedly.) You mustn't neglect your duties, Emily. I've no doubt you have plenty to do. EMILY. All right, James, then I'll leave you. But don't be hard on the boy. JAMES (sleepily). I shall be just, Emily; you can rely upon that. EMILY (going to the door). I don't think that's quite what I meant. [She goes out.] (JAMES, who is now quite comfortable, begins to nod. He wakes up with a start, turns over the paper, and nods again. Soon he is breathing deeply with closed eyes.) *** PHILIP (coming in). Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was a bit late for breakfast. (He takes out his pipe.) Are we going to talk business or what? JAMES (taking out his match). A bit late! I make it just two hours. PHILIP (pleasantly). All right, Uncle James. Call it two hours late. Or twenty-two hours early for tomorrow's breakfast, if you like. (He sits down in a chair on the opposite side of the table from his uncle, and lights his pipe.) JAMES. You smoke now? PHILIP (staggered). I what? JAMES (nodding at his pipe). You smoke? PHILIP. Good heavens! what did you think we did in France? JAMES. Before you start smoking all over the house, I should have thought you would have asked your aunt's permission. (PHILIP looks at him in amazement, and then goes to the door.) PHILIP (calling). Aunt Emily!... Aunt Emily!... Do you mind my smoking in here? AUNT EMILY (from upstairs). Of course not, darling. PHILIP (to JAMES, as he returns to his chair). Of course not, darling. (He puts back his pipe in his mouth.) JAMES. Now, understand once and for all, Philip, while you remain in my house I expect not only punctuality, but also civility and respect. I will not have impertinence. PHILIP (unimpressed). Well, that's what I want to talk to you about, Uncle James. About staying in your house, I mean. JAMES. I don't know what you do mean. PHILIP. Well, we don't get on too well together, and I thought perhaps I'd better take rooms somewhere. You could give me an allowance until I came into my money. Or I suppose you could give me the money now if you really liked. I don't quite know how father left it to me. JAMES (coldly). You come into your money when you are twenty-five. Your father very wisely felt that to trust a large sum to a mere boy of twenty-one was simply putting temptation in his way. Whether I have the power or not to alter his dispositions, I certainly don't propose to do so. PHILIP. If it comes to that, I am twenty-five. JAMES. Indeed? I had an impression that that event took place in about two years' time. When did you become twenty-five, may I ask? PHILIP (quietly). It was on the Somme. We were attacking the next day and my company was in support. We were in a so-called trench on the edge of a wood—a damned rotten place to be, and we got hell. The company commander sent back to ask if we could move. The C.O. said, "Certainly not; hang on." We hung on; doing nothing, you know—just hanging on and waiting for the next day. Of course, the Boche knew all about that. He had it on us nicely.... (Sadly) Dear old Billy! he was one of the best—our company commander, you know. They got him, poor devil! That left mein command of the company. I sent a runner back to ask if I could move. Well, I'd had a bit of a scout on my own and found a sort of trench five hundred yards to the right. Not what you'd call a trench, of course, but compared to that wood—well, it was absolutely Hyde Park. I described the position and asked if I could go there. My man never came back. I waited an hour and sent another man. He went west too. Well, I wasn't going to send a third. It was murder. So I had to decide. We'd lost about half the company by this time, you see. Well, there were three things I could do—hang on, move to this other trench, against orders, or go back myself and explain the situation.... I moved.... And then I went back to the C.O. and told him I'd moved.... And then I went back to the company again.... (Quietly) That was when I became twenty-five.... or thirty-five.... or forty-five. JAMES (recovering himself with an effort). Ah yes, yes. (He coughs awkwardly.) No doubt points like that frequently crop up in the trenches. I am glad that you did well out there, and I'm sure your Colonel would speak kindly of you; but when it comes to choosing a career for you now that you have left the Army, my advice is not altogether to be despised. Your father evidently thought so, or he would not have entrusted you to my care. PHILIP. My father didn't foresee this war. JAMES. Yes, yes, but you make too much of this war. All you young boys seem to think you've come back from France to teach us our business. You'll find that it is you who'll have to learn, not we. PHILIP. I'm quite prepared to learn; in fact, I want to. JAMES. Excellent. Then we can consider that settled. PHILIP. Well, we haven't settled yet what business I'm going to learn. JAMES. I don't think that's very difficult. I propose to take you into my business. You'll start at the bottom of course, but it will be a splendid opening for you. PHILIP (thoughtfully). I see. So you've decided it for me? The jam business. JAMES (sharply). Is there anything to be ashamed of in that? PHILIP. Oh no, nothing at all. Only it doesn't happen to appeal to me. JAMES. If you knew which side your bread was buttered, it would appeal to you very considerably. PHILIP. I'm afraid I can't see the butter for the jam. JAMES. I don't want any silly jokes of that sort. You were glad enough to get it out there, I've no doubt. PHILIP. Oh yes. Perhaps that's why I'm so sick of it now.... No, it's no good, Uncle James; you must think of something else. JAMES (with a sneer). Perhaps you've thought of something else? PHILIP. Well, I had some idea of being an architect— JAMES. You propose to start learning to be an architect at twenty-three? PHILIP (smiling). Well, I couldn't start before, could I? JAMES. Exactly. And now you'll find it's too late. PHILIP. Is it? Aren't there going to be any more architects, or doctors, or solicitors, or barristers? Because we've all lost four years of our lives, are all the professions going to die out? JAMES. And how old do you suppose you'll be before you're earning money as an architect? PHILIP. The usual time, whatever that may be. If I'm four years behind, so is everybody else. JAMES. Well, I think it's high time you began to earn a living at once. PHILIP. Look here, Uncle James, do you really think that you can treat me like a boy who's just left school? Do you think four years at the front have made no difference at all? JAMES. If there had been any difference, I should have expected it to take the form of an increased readiness in obey orders and recognize authority. PHILIP (regretfully). You are evidently determined to have a row. Perhaps I had better tell you once and for all that I refuse to go into the turnip and vegetable marrow business. JAMES (thumping the table angrily). And perhaps I'd better tell you, sir, once and for all, that I don't propose to allow rude rudeness from an impertinent young puppy. PHILIP (reminiscently). I remember annoying our Brigadier once. He was covered with red, had a very red face, about twenty medals, and a cold blue eye. He told me how angry he was for about five minutes while I stood to attention. I'm afraid you aren't nearly impressive, Uncle James. JAMES (rather upset). Oh! (Recovering himself) Fortunately I have other means of impressing you. The power of the purse goes a long way in this world. I propose to use it. PHILIP. I see.... Yes... that's rather awkward, isn't it? JAMES (pleasantly). I think you'll find it very awkward. PHILIP (thoughtfully). Yes. (With an amused laugh JAMES settles down to his paper as if the interview were over.) PHILIP (to himself). I suppose I shall have to think of another argument. (He takes out a revolver from him pocket and fondles it affectionately.) JAMES (looking up suddenly as he is doing this—amazed). What on earth are you doing? PHILIP. Souvenir from France. Do you know, Uncle. James, that this revolver has killed about twenty Germans? JAMES (shortly). Oh! Well, don't go playing about with it here, or you'll be killing Englishmen before you know where you are. PHILIP. Well, you never know. (He raises it leisurely and points it at his uncle.) It's a nice little weapon. JAMES (angrily). Put it down, sir. You ought to have grown out of monkey tricks like that in the Army. You ought to know better than to point an unloaded revolver at anybody. That's the way accidents always happen. PHILIP. Not when you've been on a revolver course and know all about it. Besides, it isloaded. JAMES (very angry because he is frightened suddenly). Put it down at once, sir. (PHILIP turns it away from him and examines it carelessly.) What's the matter with you? Have you gone mad suddenly? PHILIP (mildly). I thought you'd be interested in it. It's shot such a lot of Germans. JAMES. Well, it won't want to shoot any more, and the sooner you get rid of it the better. PHILIP. I wonder. Does it ever occur to you, Uncle James, that there are about a hundred thousand people in England who own revolvers, who are quite accustomed to them and—who have nobody to practise on now? JAMES. No, sir, it certainly doesn't. PHILIP (thoughtfully). I wonder if it will make any difference. You know, one gets so used to potting at people. It's rather difficult to realize suddenly that one oughtn't to. JAMES (getting up). I don't know what the object of this tomfoolery is, if it has one. But you understand that I expect you to come to the office with me to-morrow at nine o'clock. Kindly see that you're punctual. (He turns to go away.) PHILIP (softly). Uncle James. JAMES (over his shoulder). I have no more— PHILIP (in his parade voice). Damn it, sir! stand to attention when you talk to an officer! (JAMES instinctively turns round and stiffens himself.) That's better; you can sit down if you like. (He motions JAMES to his chair with the revolver.) JAMES (going nervously to his chair). What does this bluff mean? PHILIP. It isn't bluff, it's quite serious. (Pointing the revolver at his uncle) Do sit down. JAMES (sitting donor). Threats, eh? PHILIP. Persuasion. JAMES. At the point of the revolver? You settle your arguments by force? Good heavens, sir! this is just the very thing that we were fighting to put down. PHILIP. Wewere fighting! We!We! Uncle, you're a humorist. JAMES, Well, "you," if you prefer it. Although those of us who stayed at home— PHILIP. Yes, never mind about the excess profits now. I can tell you quite well what we fought for. We used force to put down force. That's what I'm doing now. You were going to use force—the force of money—to make me do what you wanted. Now I'm using force to stop it. (He levels the revolver again.) JAMES. You're—you're going to shoot your old uncle? PHILIP. Why not? I've shot lots of old uncles—Landsturmers. JAMES. But those were Germans! It's different shooting Germans. You're in England now. You couldn't have a crime on your conscience like that. PHILIP. Ah, but you mustn't think that after four years of war one has quite the same ideas about the sanctity of human life. How could one? JAMES. You'll find that juries have kept pretty much the same ideas, I fancy. PHILIP. Yes, but revolvers often go off accidentally. You said so yourself. This is going to be the purest accident. Can't you see it in the papers? "The deceased's nephew, who was obviously upset—" JAMES. I suppose you think it's brave to come back from the front and threaten a defenceless man with a revolver? Is that the sort of fair play they teach you in the Army? PHILIP. Good heavens! of course it is. You don't think that you wait until the other side has got just as many guns as you before you attack? You're really rather lucky. Strictly speaking, I ought to have thrown half a dozen bombs at you first. (Taking one out of his pocket) As it happens, I've only got one. JAMES (thoroughly alarmed). Put that back at once. PHILIP (putting down the revolver and taking it in his hands). You hold it in the right hand—so—taking care to keep the lever down. Then you take the pin in the finger—so, and—but perhaps this doesn't interest you? JAMES (edging his chair away). Put it down at once, sir. Good heavens! anything might happen. PHILIP (putting it down and taking up the revolver again). Does it ever occur to you, Uncle James, that there are about three million people in England who know all about bombs, and how to throw them, and— JAMES. It certainly does not occur to me. I should never dream of letting these things occur to me. PHILIP (looking at the bomb regretfully). It's rather against my principles as a soldier, but just to make things a bit more fair—(generously) you shall have it. (He holds it out to him suddenly.) JAMES (shrinking back again). Certainly not, sir. It might go off at any moment. PHILIP (putting it back in his pocket). Oh no; it's quite useless; there's no detonator.... (Sternly) Now, then, let's talk business. JAMES. What do you want me to do? PHILIP. Strictly speaking, you should be holding your hands over your head and saying "Kamerad!" However, I'll let you off that. All I ask from you is that you should be reasonable. JAMES. And if I refuse, you'll shoot me? PHILIP. Well, I don't quite know, Uncle James. I expect we should go through this little scene again to-morrow. You haven't enjoyed it, have you? Well, there's lots more of it to come. We'll rehearse it every day. One day, if you go on being unreasonable, the thing will go off. Of course, you think that I shouldn't have the pluck to fire. But you can't be quite certain. It's a hundred to one that I shan't—only I might. Fear—it's a horrible thing. Elderly men die of it sometimes. JAMES. Pooh! I'm not to be bluffed like that. PHILIP (suddenly). You're quite right; you're not that sort. I made a mistake. (Aiming carefully) I shall have to do it straight off, after all. One—two— JAMES (on his knees, with uplifted hands, in an agony of terror). Philip! Mercy! What are your terms? PHILIP (picking him up by the scruff, and helping him into the chair). Good man, that's the way to talk. I'll get them for you. Make yourself comfortable in front of the fire till I come back. Here's the paper. (He gives his uncle the paper, and goes out into the hall.) *** (JAMES opens his eyes with a start and looks round him in a bewildered way. He rubs his heart, takes out his match and looks at it, and then stares round the room again. The door from the dining-room opens, and PHILIP comes in with a piece of toast in his hand.) PHILIP (his mouth full). You wanted to see me, Uncle James? JAMES (still bewildered). That's all right, my boy, that's all right. What have you been doing? PHILIP (surprised). Breakfast. (Putting the last piece in his mouth) Rather late, I'm afraid. JAMES. That's all right. (He laughs awkwardly.) PHILIP. Anything the matter? You don't look your usual bright self. JAMES. I—er—seem to have dropped asleep in front of the fire. Most unusual thing for me to have done. Most unusual. PHILIP. Let that be a lesson to you not to get up so early. Of course, if you're in the Army you can't help yourself. Thank Heaven I'm out of it, and my own master again. JAMES. Ah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sit down, Philip. (He indicates the chair by the fire.) PHILIP (taking a chair by the table). You have that, uncle; I shall be all right here. JAMES (hastily). No, no; you come here. (He gives PHILIP the armchair and sits by the table himself.) I should be dropping off again. (He laughs awkwardly.) PHILIP. Righto. (He puts his hand to his pocket. UNCLE JAMES shivers and looks at him to horror. PHILIP brings out his pipe, and a sickly grin of relief comes into JAMES'S face.) JAMES. I suppose you smoked a lot in France? PHILIP. Rather! Nothing else to do. It's allowed in here? JAMES (hastily). Yes, yes, of course. (PHILIP lights his pipe.) Well now, Philip, what are you going to do, now you've left the Army? PHILIP (promptly). Burn my uniform and sell my revolver. JAMES (starting at the word "revolver"). Sell your revolver, eh? PHILIP (surprised). Well, I don't want it now, do I? JAMES. No.... Oh no.... Oh, most certainly not, I should say. Oh, I can't see why you should want it at all. (With an uneasy laugh) You're in England now. No need for revolvers here—eh? PHILIP (staring at him). Well, no, I hope not. JAMES (hastily). Quite so. Well now, Philip, what next? We must find a profession for you. PHILIP (yawning). I suppose so. I haven't really thought about it much. JAMES. You never wanted to be an architect? PHILIP (surprised). Architect? (JAMES rubs his head and wonders what made him think of architect.) JAMES. Or anything like that. PHILIP. It's a bit late, isn't it? JAMES. Well, if you're four years behind, so is everybody else. (He feels vaguely that he has heard this argument before.) PHILIP (smiling): To tell the truth, I don't feel I mind much anyway. Anything you like—except a commissionaire. I absolutely refuse to wear uniform again. JAMES. How would you like to come into the business? PHILIP. The jam business? Well, I don't know. You wouldn't want me to salute you in the mornings? JAMES. My dear boy, no! PHILIP. All right, I'll try it if you like. I don't know if I shall be any good—what do you do? JAMES. It's your experience in managing and—er—handling men which I hope will be of value. PHILIP. Oh, I can do that all right. (Stretching himself luxuriously) Uncle James, do you realize that I'm never going to salute again, or wear a uniform, or get wet—really wet, I mean—or examine men's feet, or stand to attention when I'm spoken to, or—oh, lots more things. And best of all, I'm never going to be frightened again. Have you ever known what it is to be afraid—really afraid? JAMES (embarrassed). I—er—well—(He coughs.) PHILIP. No, you couldn't—not really afraid of death, I mean. Well, that's over now. Good lord! I could spend the rest of my life in the British Museum and be happy.... JAMES (getting up). All right, we'll try you in the office. I expect you want a holiday first, though. PHILIP (getting up). My dear uncle, this is holiday. Being in London is holiday. Buying an evening paper—wearing a waistcoat again—running after a bus—anything—it's all holiday. JAMES. All right, then, come along with me now, and I'll introduce you to Mr. Bamford. PHILIP. Right. Who's he? JAMES. Our manager. A little stiff, but a very good fellow. He'll be delighted to hear that you are coming into the firm. PHILIP (smiling). Perhaps I'd better bring my revolver, in case he isn't. JAMES (laughing with forced heartiness as they go together to the door). Ha, ha! A good joke that! Ha, ha, ha! A good joke—but only a joke, of course. Ha, ha! He, he, he! [PHILIP goes out. JAMES, following him, turns at the door, and looks round the room in a bewildered way. Was it a dream, or wasn't it? He will never be quite certain.]
BELINDA TREMAYNE. DELIA (her daughter). HAROLD BAXTER. CLAUDE DEVENISH. JOHN TREMAYNE. BETTY.The action takes place in Belinda's country-house in Devonshire at the end of April. This play was first produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre, London, on April 8, 1918, with the following cast:
Belinda Tremayne—IRENE VANBRUGH. Delia—ISOBEL ELSOM. Harold Baxter—DION BOUCICAULT. Claude Devenish—DENNIS NEILSON-TERRY. John Tremayne—BEN WEBSTER. Betty—ANNE WALDEN.
Life passes by. I do not know its pleasure or its pain— The Spring was here, the Spring is here again, The Spring will die. Life passes by. The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide, The crowd streams in—and I am left outside.... They know; not I.[You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.] MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a melancholy song, dear. DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother. MOTHER. Why are you that, child? DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have. MOTHER. Well, so do we all. DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world? MOTHER. It's all there is in our world. DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor? MOTHER. We have the house—and very little else. DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were really poor— MOTHER. You needn't wish, child. DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next morning, and— MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm peculiar. DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy? MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear. DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and sings again.)
Lads and lasses, what will you sell, What will you sell? Four stout walls and a roof atop, Warm fires gleaming brightly, Well-stored cellar and garnered crop, Money-bags packed tightly; An ordered task in an ordered day, And a sure bed nightly; Years which peacefully pass away, Until Death comes lightly. Lads and lasses, what will you buy? What will you buy? Here is a cap to cover your head, A cap with one red feather; Here is a cloak to make your bed Warm or winter weather; Here is a satchel to store your ware, Strongly lined with leather; And here is a staff to take you there When you go forth together. Lads and lasses, what will you gain, What will you gain? Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees New Spring houses taking; Daffodils in an April breeze Golden curtsies making; Shadows of clouds across the weald From hill to valley breaking, The first faint stir which the woodlands yield When the world is waking. Lads and lasses, this is your gain, This is your gain.(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and happy smile until the song is finished.) TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again. MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion. TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote you Rex—What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say? Via, says Rex, meaning the road; communis is common; omnibus to all, meaning thereby—but perchance I weary you? DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he? TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is he? Is he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he the Cham of Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he were the Cham of Tartary— MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you are and what you want. TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am named by my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These things you will have already noticed. But now I will commit to you it secret, known only to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I am by nature (he disappears and reappears at the middle window), I am still more so when compelled to hold converse with two such ornaments of their sex (he disappears and reappears at the right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I getting any nearer the door? MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see that we must have your tale. TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers; the other has the honour to belong to that sex which—have I said it?—you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission? DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come. MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all. TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know—But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.] DAUGHTER. Mother, something isgoing to happen at last. MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that? [The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.] TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis. DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels. MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir. TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess—a courtesy title bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day—plays upon the fiddle with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke—the title was granted last Candlemas—has a voice of a rare richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal. DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame! SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies. MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir. TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays "cuckoo" with an air.) SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies. TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he maligns me. Have I not a G of surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my G. Now, where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on the pipe.) I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to MOTHER and then to DAUGHTER.) SINGER. Marvellous! MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir. DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid? TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame? MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel more in need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no other talent to match the singing and playing of your friends? FIDDLER. He talks. MOTHER. I had noticed it. TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit like myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn disposition; this—I—(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence. Have I your gracious permission to begin again? MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir. TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame— MOTHER. If you could, sir. TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I—er—go round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business. DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money. TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which you observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to melancholy. DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you? TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for myself I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance will be limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe. MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be glad to hear your friends. (The TALKER bows and turns to his company.) TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note. FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill. SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)
Oh, when the wind is in the North, I take my staff and sally forth; And when it whistles from the East I do not mind it in the least; The warm wind murmurs through the trees Its messages from Southern seas; But after all perhaps the best Is that which whispers from the West. Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill! The staff which helps to carry me, I cut it from the Hazel-tree; But once I had a cudgel torn Most circumspectly from the Thorn; I know a fellow, far from rash, Who swears entirely by the Ash; And all good travellers invoke A blessing on the mighty Oak. Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill! Some years ago I gave my heart To Prue until we had to part; Then, seeing Susan's pretty face, I left it with her for a space; And Susan had my heart until I wanted it for Mistress Jill; I think, although I am not clear, That Chloe's had it this last year. Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the applause.) DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse. TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy fellow by nature. But waggish—waggish withal. SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us, Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one woman only. TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses to it. MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now? FIDDLER. If you wish it. TALKER. You would wish me to accompany her, of course. MOTHER (with a smile). It is kind of you, sir, but I think perhaps my daughter— DAUGHTER (eagerly). Yes, of course, I will if I can. (She goes to the spinet.) FIDDLER (playing a few notes). Do you know this? DAUGHTER. Yes, I think so. (She plays. At the end of it the TALKER finds himself bowing to the applause.) TALKER. And now, Madame, you have had a sample of all our poor talents, save and except that paltry talent of mine which in other company concludes such a performance. I pray you tell me what you think of the entertainment. MOTHER. I have enjoyed it immensely, good Master Johannes. And if you did wish to exercise that talent of yours, of which so far we have only heard— TALKER. Nay, nay, Madame, I beg you. MOTHER. Then, Sir, I offer you my grateful thanks for your entertainment. DAUGHTER. And I too. TALKER. Ladies, you are too kind—er—(he hesitates)—er— MOTHER. Yes? TALKER, The fact is, Madame, that now we approach or, so to speak, draw nigh or adjacent—in other words, Madame, we are perilously approximate— FIDDLER. Tell her straight out. MOTHER. Tell her what? FIDDLER. What we've come for. SINGER. Master Johannes, Madam, is so accustomed when he goes round with the hat to disguise under it flow of words the fact that money is as necessary to an artist as applause, that he has lost the habit of saying anything in less than ten sentences. TALKER (mournfully). And yet I am a taciturn man. MOWER. Well, will somebody tell me, for I confess I have been wondering what is behind it all. FIDDLER. Tell her, Johannes. TALKER. If you will allow me, Madame. But tell me first, did you notice anything lacking in our performance? MOTHER (surprised). No; I don't think so. TALKER (to DAUGHTER). Perhaps you, Mademoiselle? DAUGHTER (shyly). It seemed to lack a woman's voice, sir. TALKER (admiringly). What intelligence! What profundity! (To MOTHER) Madam, I felicitate you again on your daughter. Unerringly she has laid her finger on the weak joint in our armour. We have no woman's voice. MOTHER. Well, Sir, I don't see how I can help you. TALKER. Madame, you have a nightingale. It has lived in a cage all its life. It looks through the bars sometimes, and sees the great world outside, and sighs and turns back to its business of singing. Madame, it would sing better outside in the open air, with the other birds. MOTHER. I don't understand you, sir. Are you referring to my daughter? TALKER (looking towards the window). There is a stream which runs beyond the road, with a green bank to it. We were seated on that bank, I and my two companions, eating our bread and cheese, and washing it down with draughts from that good stream. We were tired, for we had come from over the hills that morning, and it was good to lie on our backs there and watch the little clouds taking shape after shape in the blue, and so to dream our dreams. In a little while the road would take us westward, here through a wood banked with primroses, there across a common or between high spring hedges with the little stream babbling ever at the side of us. And in the evening we would come to an inn, where there would be good company, and we would sing and play to them, and they would reward us. (With a shrug) It is a pleasant life. DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, go on! MOTHER. Yes, go on, Sir. TALKER. We were lying on our backs thus, Madame, when we heard the nightingale. "Duke," says I, "it is early yet for the nightingale." His Flutiness removes his cap from his face, takes a squint at the sun, and says "Monstrous early, good Master Johannes," and claps his cap back again. "What says you, Fiddler," says I,﹃in this matter of nightingales? Is it possible,﹄says I;﹃the sun being where it is, and nightingales being what they are—to wit, nightingales?﹄"It's not a nightingale," says Fiddler dreamily, "it's a girl." "Then," says I, jumping up,﹃it is a girl we want. She must put the red feather in her cap, and come her ways with us.﹄(With a bow) Madame, your humble servant. DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, you will let me go, won't you? I must, I must! He is quite right. I'm caged here. Oh, you will let me see something of the world before I grow old! FIDDLER (suddenly). Yes, let her come. If she feels like that, she ought to come. SINGER (with a very winning smile). We will take great care of her, Madame, as if she were our own sister. MOTHER (surprisingly to JOHANNES). What do you think of cider as a drink, Master Johannes? TALKER (who had not expected it, but is always ready). Cider—ah, there's a drink! Oh, I can talk to you about cider, glum body as I am by nature, having been as it were taciturn from birth. Yet of cider I could talk you— MOTHER. Ours is considered very good cider. (To her daughter) Take them, child, and give them such refreshment as they want. They have deserved it for their entertainment. DAUGHTER. Why, of course, Mother. Come this way please. [She leads the way, and the others follow, the TALKER coming last and murmuring "Cider" to himself.] MOTHER. Master Johannes. (He turns round.) A word with you, if you please, sir. TALKER. But certainly, Madame. The cider will be all the better for the expectation. MOTHER. Sit down, please. (He does so.) Master Johannes, who are you, all of you? TALKER. I thought I had explained, Madame. Her Royal Sweetness Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a humble Marquis. We may be referred to collectively as the Red Feathers. For myself I am sometimes called Silent John, being of a close disposition. MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the world, and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to you, for however little a time, I must know something more about you. TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I have never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years of age; it is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you something about myself, starting from that day, forty-six years ago, when I was born—were I to begin—well, Madame, I am only too ready to begin. It is a subject I find vastly pleasant. But, (looking at her comically) shall I begin? MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir? TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one who has but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express himself, talking is a great comfort. MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now that I think you must be a man of our world? TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your mother's heart to know that your daughter will be in good company, I think I can give you that comfort. MOTHER. Is that all you can give me? (The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly he takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and is immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a beaming face.) TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to stop any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there was a certain noble gentleman, a baron of estates and family. Conceiving himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch to win or lose it all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a fit of melancholy he abjured society, cursed all women and took to the road. A pleasant melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke. MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just gone). You mean he really is— TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right to speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe to his lips) Cuck-oo! MOTHER. Poor child, she is not happy here. We live so quietly; we have no neighbours. I have wondered what to do—it seemed that I could do so little. If only I could be sure—(Suddenly) Master Johannes, do you like the look of this house with its little stream opposite, and the green bank running down, on which one may lie on one's back and look up at the sky? TALKER. Did we not single it out above all others by having our bread and cheese outside it? MOTHER. Will you all stay with me for a little? I think I can find room for you. Before I can lend my daughter to you, I feel that I must know something of you. I think that is the best way, is it not? (With a very friendly smile) The cider is good, you know. TALKER (rising and boning). Madame, we need say no more. [The other three come in. The DAUGHTER has found from somewhere a cap with a red feather in it. They stand in a row opposite the MOTHER, and to the FIDDLER'S accompaniment sing a merry song.]
TOGETHER. The cuckoo comes in April, Sings his song in May, Changes his tune in the middle of June, And then he flies away. HE. The cuckoo comes when April's here— He is not very good, I fear. He goes and takes another nest— Perhaps he does it for the best. Cuckoo! Cuckoo!... SHE. When April's over he begins Repenting of his former sins; From tree to tree he takes his way, But this is all he finds to say: Cuckoo! Cuckoo!... HE. By June he gets a trifle flat, Which is not to be wondered at, And critical observers note A huskiness about the throat. (Huskily) Cuckoo! Cuckoo!... SHE. Alas! he does not stay for long, But other birds take up the song Of summer gently following The wild and happy days of Spring. Cuckoo!(The TALKER conducts with his pipe in his hand, and hums "La, la, la!" to himself. He pipes the chorus with them. At the conclusion they all bow or curtsey deeply to the MOTHER.) MOTHER (half laughing, half crying). Oh! TALKER (suddenly and dramatically, holding up his hand). Listen! EVERYBODY. What? TALKER. Didn't I hear somebody say "cider"? *** (It is eight days later when we see them again. The DAUGHTER is at the spinet, playing an accompaniment to the song which she and the SINGER are sharing for the moment.)
SHE. He does not know I love him, He does not care; The sky is blue above him, The road is there For those who dare— Alas! why should he care? HE. She does not know I love her, She does not know; The sky is blue above her, The soft winds blow Where violets grow— Alas! how should she know? TOGETHER. Yet those who sing About the Spring All say it should bring Two lovers together! Oh where, oh where Will you find a pair So matched as you and I, love? Come rain or shine, Come wet or fine, If you are mine What matter the weather? Oh take my hand And kiss me and Confess that you are my love. HE. She does not know I love her— Ah yes, she knows; The sky is blue above her, The buds disclose The first wild rose— Ah yes, she knows, she knows! SHE. He cares not that I love him— Ah yes, he cares; The sky is blue above him, A thrush declares The world is theirs— Ah yes, how much he cares!TOGETHER. For those who sing, etc. DAUGHTER (looking up at him). It is a pretty song. SINGER. The words, I thought, were good. I liked the words. DAUGHTER. Who thinks of the words of a song if the tune be pretty? SINGER. But if the heart of the singer be in the words? DAUGHTER (suddenly, as, she gets up). Tell me about Chloe. SINGER (surprised). Chloe? DAUGHTER. Or whatever her name was. SINGER (hurt). I am not sure that I understand this conversation. DAUGHTER. I mean the first one. SINGER. I am not sure that I like this conversation. DAUGHTER. She was the first, wasn't she—the one who made you renounce the world and take to the road? SINGER (stiffly). Her name was not Chloe. DAUGHTER (coaxingly). What was it? SINGER (annoyed). Why rake up the dead ashes of the past? I was but a boy. It was five months ago. Besides, her name was Penelope. DAUGHTER. You still remember it, though it was so long ago? SINGER. I could have pretended to have forgotten, if it would have pleased you better. DAUGHTER (coldly). I? Oh, I am not interested. SINGER. Well, Ididn't start the subject. Perhaps, as neither of us is interested, I had better withdraw. Since we are to start this afternoon, I have much to see about. (Bowing) With your permission. DAUGHTER (stopping him). Don't go. I am sorry. I have been unkind. SINGER (smiling). Shall we practise that other song? Our voices agree, if our—our hearts do not. DAUGHTER (distressed). Oh, don't say that. We must be friends. SINGER. Only friends? DAUGHTER (gently). Tell me about her. SINGER. There is not much to tell, dear. I thought she loved me. Perhaps that was why I thought I loved her. When I told her, she pretended to be surprised. I don't think she was surprised. She was very pretty. (He pauses.) DAUGHTER. And hard? SINGER. It is not for me to say anything against her. It is through her that I came here. DAUGHTER. When you came here the other day, had you forgotten her? SINGER (singing).﹃Oh, let the wench, the wench be whom she will, so long as I can walk on Morland Hill.﹄Didn't I say so on that first day? DAUGHTER. Of course, I know very little of the world, but I do wonder sometimes if people who sing about the joys of wandering are really enjoying it all the time. SINGER (looking round at the window). Is Johannes about? DAUGHTER (surprised). No. SINGER. Then I will be frank with you. Just lately Ihave been wondering too. DAUGHTER. Oh! SINGER (rapidly). I have a house; you would like my house. I have a park; you would like the park. Horses to ride and jewels to wear. I go to London sometimes and see the King; you would like London. DAUGHTER (tragically). I have never been to London. SINGER (letting himself go suddenly). Sweetheart, all that I have—(In an ordinary whisper) Be careful, Fiddler just went past the window. (Keeping his arm round her, he breaks into the last line or two of his song. She joins in, as if they were rehearsing.) [Enter the FIDDLER.] SINGER (to DAUGHTER). Yes, I think we have it pretty well now. 'Tis a good song. (Turning round suddenly and seeing the FIDDLER). Ah, Fiddler, are you there? What do you think of it? FIDDLER. Isn't it time to start? SINGER. To start? Ah yes, we start this afternoon. Well, we have had a pleasant holiday and must get to work again. DAUGHTER (eagerly). And I am coming with you. FIDDLER. It is settled? DAUGHTER. Oh yes, I think so. FIDDLER. It is the best life. (TO DAUGHTER) Play something. [As the DAUGHTER goes to the spinet, the SINGER goes out.] (They play. When it is over, the DAUGHTER turns round and looks at the FIDDLER, and sighs.) DAUGHTER. That is all you want? Just you and your fiddle and the open road? FIDDLER. It is the best life. [The TALKER appears at the window.] TALKER. Aha! what did I hear? Did I hear our loquacious Fiddler perorating upon Life? "Life," quoth she, with much argument and circumstantial matter; "Life," she continued, making her points singly and one by one, thus keeping the business in its true perspective;﹃Life is—﹄(Lamely) Well, what is life? FIDDLER. When do we start, Johannes? [The DAUGHTER goes out.] TALKER. Are you so eager to be gone? FIDDLER. We have been here eight days. TALKER. Eight days! And Troy was besieged for eleven years! Eight days! Why, I could talk for eight days without taking breath, and I am by nature a glum, silent man. Nay, nay, say not to me "Eight days." Eight days will not make a man grow old or a woman lose her beauty. (The MOTHER comes into the room.) Or a woman lose her beauty—Madame, I kiss your hands. Were I of less girth I would flit through the window and fall upon my knees at your feet. (The FIDDLER with a shrug goes out.) As it is, I shall enter by the door in the usual way. I have your permission? MOTHER (smiling). You asked my permission a week ago. You do not need to ask it now. TALKER (still at the window). It has been a happy week. The week has liked me well. MOTHER. You take the road again this afternoon. Your plan still holds? TALKER (with a sigh). They say so, lady. MOTHER. Who say so? Is not Master Johannes the master of his company? Who say so? TALKER. The birds. I held converse with a cuckoo-bird this morning. "Cuckoo," he said—in this manner (he imitates it on his pipe)—meaning, as I gathered, "O fool!" I bowed low to him, and "Pardon, bird," said I,—"but I would have you tell me why I am a fool." He answered thus in parables—"Cuckoo." MOTHER. And what did that mean? TALKER (sighing). It meant, "There's no fool like an old fool." (She looks away. He waits a little, then sighs again and leaves the window, entering a moment later by the door.) MOTHER (looking up). Well, Sir? TALKER. Madame, I am a man of good family, although—although I quarrelled with my good family. I left them many years ago and took to the road. I have seen something of the world since then, but I think I must always have had at the back of my mind some dim picture of what a home was—some ancient memory, perhaps. That memory has been very strong within me these last days. MOTHER. You have liked my home, Master Johannes? TALKER. I have liked it well. (He takes out his pipe and plays a melancholy "Cuckoo.") Well, well—we start this afternoon. MOTHER. You want my daughter? TALKER (sadly). Not your daughter, Madame. MOTHER. What is it you want? Are you so backward in asking? It is not like the Master Johannes who came to my house eight days ago. TALKER (taking his courage in his hands). Madame, though I have wandered about the world, I have saved some pennies in my time. A few trifling coins—enough for middle-age. Since I have had the great honour of knowing you—(He breaks of as the voice of the SINGER to full song is heard approaching.) Oh, God bless that poor young fool! Madame, I entreat you— MOTHER (rising and moving hastily away). Another time, dear Johannes—(she smiles very fondly at him as she goes out)—another time you must tell me—all. (The TALKER stares after her, hardly believing. Then, with an air of solemn happiness, he takes out his pipe and dances carefully but cheerfully round the room, piping to himself. The SINGER comes in singing merrily, He joins the TALKER at the end of the room, turns round with hint and trips up and down the room with him, one singing and the other piping.) TALKER. Friend, we are gay. SINGER. Very, very gay, Master Johannes. (They turn round and go up and down the room as before.) TALKER. Something is stirring our middle-aged blood. I feel years younger. SINGER. I have only just been born. TALKER (with a wave of the hand): Shall we take another turn? SINGER. At your pleasure. (They go up and down as before.) TALKER (looking at the other anxiously out of the corners of his eyes). What do you think has happened to us? SINGER (with a similar look). I—I wonder. TALKER (nervously). I suppose the fact that we are going off this afternoon—the joy of returning to our old gay life is—is affecting us? SINGER. I—I suppose so. (Without enthusiasm) Yes, that must be it. TALKER. This cauliflower existence, this settled life which even the least enterprising cabbage would find monotonous, we have had more than enough of it, my friend. SINGER. Yes. (He sighs deeply.) I sigh to think how we have wasted these eight days. TALKER. Ah! (He sighs still more deeply.) However, Heaven be praised, we are for the road this afternoon. SINGER (gloomily). Heaven be praised! It is a grand life. TALKER (carelessly). Of course, if you came to me and said, "Johannes," you said, "I left my home in a fit of melancholy five months agone; the melancholy is cured, I will return home again"—why, I would say, "God bless you, Master Duke; go your way." Well, I can understand such a thing happening to a man of your age, not born to the wandering as I am. SINGER. Bless you, Johannes, you are a true gentleman. TALKER (airily). Say no more, say no more. SINGER. But I cannot accept this sacrifice. I pledged myself to serve you for a year, and I'll keep my pledge. TALKER (considerably upset by this). Wait a moment, Master Duke; I have myself thought of retiring these many months past. Indeed, it was only for your sake— SINGER. No, no, I cannot allow it. It is only for my sake that you are saying this. We will take the road this afternoon. (Heroically) Indeed, I would infinitely prefer it. I am enamoured of the wandering life. TALKER. It is a great life. It means everything to me. (They stand side by side looking gloomily in front of them. Gradually they begin to glance towards each other; they catch each other's eyes—and understand each other thoroughly.) TALKER (clapping the SINGER heartily on the back). I knew it, I knew it! You and the wandering life! SINGER (delightedly). You, too, Johannes! You've had enough of it! (They suddenly turn round and go up and down the room together, piping and singing. A genteel cough is heard outside the window, and the MOTHER is seen for a moment. The TALKER turns round with his pipe to his lips. They go up the room together again, and at the top the TALKER, with a wave of the hand, leaves his companion and goes out. He is seen passing the window.) [The DAUGHTER comes in.] SINGER. Sweetheart! DAUGHTER (going to him). Is it all right? SINGER. Everything is all right, beloved. DAUGHTER. You have told him? SINGER (nodding). It couldn't have fallen out better. He, too, was tired of wandering and wanted to settle down. DAUGHTER. I told mother. She seemed glad. You know, I think she seems younger about something. [Enter FIDDLER.] FIDDLER. Are we starting this afternoon? DAUGHTER. Oh, Fiddler dear, do you mind very much? (She holds out her hand, and the SINGER takes it.) We aren't coming at all. We—we— SINGER. We are getting married. FIDDLER (nodding to herself). I thought so. DAUGHTER. But you will come and stay with us sometimes. Oh, say you will! SINGER (smiling at FIDDLER with great friendliness). Of course she will. (The TALKER and the MOTHER are seen coming least the windows.) FIDDLER. There's Johannes. I expect we shall be starting this afternoon. [The TALKER and the MOTHER come in arm-in-arm. He bows to her and takes the floor.] TALKER. Ladies and gentlemen, companions-in-arms, knights and ladies of the road, comrades all,—I have the honour to make an announcement to you. The wandering company of the Red Feathers is determined from this date, likewise disbanded, or, as others would say, dissolved.﹃What means this, Master Johannes?﹄I hear you say. "Who has done this thing?" Ladies and gentles all, I answer you that young Cupid has done this thing. With unerring aim he has loosed his arrows. With the same happy arrow (taking the MOTHER'S hand) he has pierced the hearts of this gracious lady and myself, while yonder gallant gentleman I name no names, but the perspicacious will perceive whom I mean—is about to link his life with the charming maiden who stands so modestly by his side. There is one other noble lady present to whom I have not yet referred— FIDDLER (holding out her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go. Good-bye, and thank you. MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear. TALKER (continuing his speech)—noble lady to whom I have not yet referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish of (swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should take up her abode with us. FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think— DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she promised. MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be much more suitable that she should live with us. SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see you whenever she liked. MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and come and see you sometimes. TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to this? For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year, she shall live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her habitation with us; whereas for the other six months—(They have been so busy discussing the future of the FIDDLER that they have not noticed that she is no longer there. Suddenly the sound of the fiddle is heard.) What's that? [The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in it. She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content again. She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them a little bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She goes out of the door, still playing; she is still playing as she goes past the windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she is gone they still listen until the music dies in the distance.]
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