The Project Gutenberg Etext of You Never Can Tell, by G. B. Shaw
#7 in our series by [George] Bernard Shaw
Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!
Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below. We need your donations.
You Never Can Tell
by [George] Bernard Shaw
May, 2000 [Etext #2175]
[Date last updated: January 27, 2004]
The Project Gutenberg Etext of You Never Can Tell, by G. B. Shaw
******This file should be named nvrct10.txt or nvrct10.zip******
Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, nvrct11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, nvrct10a.txt
Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any
of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an
up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes
in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has
a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a
look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a
new copy has at least one byte more or less.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text
files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+
If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the
total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users.
At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly
from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an
assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few
more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we
don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person.
We need your donations more than ever!
All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are
tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie-
Mellon University).
For these and other matters, please mail to:
Project Gutenberg
P. O. Box 2782
Champaign, IL 61825
When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director:
Michael S. Hart
hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org
if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .
We would prefer to send you this information by email.
******
To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser
to view http://promo.net/pg. This site lists Etexts by
author and by title, and includes information about how
to get involved with Project Gutenberg. You could also
download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here. This
is one of our major sites, please email hart@pobox.com,
for a more complete list of our various sites.
To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any
Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror
sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed
at http://promo.net/pg).
Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better.
Example FTP session:
ftp sunsite.unc.edu
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
cd etext90 through etext99
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]
***
**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-
tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at
Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other
things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-
cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the etext (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
net profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon
University" within the 60 days following each
date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)
your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,
scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty
free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution
you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg
Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".
*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
You Never Can Tell
by [George] Bernard Shaw
Act I
In a dentist's operating room on a fine August morning in 1896. Not
the usual tiny London den, but the best sitting room of a furnished
lodging in a terrace on the sea front at a fashionable watering place.
The operating chair, with a gas pump and cylinder beside it, is half way
between the centre of the room and one of the corners. If you look into
the room through the window which lights it, you will see the fireplace
in the middle of the wall opposite you, with the door beside it to your
left; an M.R.C.S. diploma in a frame hung on the chimneypiece; an easy
chair covered in black leather on the hearth; a neat stool and bench,
with vice, tools, and a mortar and pestle in the corner to the right.
Near this bench stands a slender machine like a whip provided with a
stand, a pedal, and an exaggerated winch. Recognising this as a dental
drill, you shudder and look away to your left, where you can see another
window, underneath which stands a writing table, with a blotter and a
diary on it, and a chair. Next the writing table, towards the door, is a
leather covered sofa. The opposite wall, close on your right, is
occupied mostly by a bookcase. The operating chair is under your nose,
facing you, with the cabinet of instruments handy to it on your left.
You observe that the professional furniture and apparatus are new, and
that the wall paper, designed, with the taste of an undertaker, in
festoons and urns, the carpet with its symmetrical plans of rich,
cabbagy nosegays, the glass gasalier with lustres; the ornamental gilt
rimmed blue candlesticks on the ends of the mantelshelf, also glass-
draped with lustres, and the ormolu clock under a glass-cover in the
middle between them, its uselessness emphasized by a cheap American
clock disrespectfully placed beside it and now indicating 12 o'clock
noon, all combine with the black marble which gives the fireplace the
air of a miniature family vault, to suggest early Victorian commercial
respectability, belief in money, Bible fetichism, fear of hell always at
war with fear of poverty, instinctive horror of the passionate character
of art, love and Roman Catholic religion, and all the first fruits of
plutocracy in the early generations of the industrial revolution.
There is no shadow of this on the two persons who are occupying the
room just now. One of them, a very pretty woman in miniature, her tiny
figure dressed with the daintiest gaiety, is of a later generation,
being hardly eighteen yet. This darling little creature clearly does
not belong to the room, or even to the country; for her complexion,
though very delicate, has been burnt biscuit color by some warmer sun
than England's; and yet there is, for a very subtle observer, a link
between them. For she has a glass of water in her hand, and a rapidly
clearing cloud of Spartan obstinacy on her tiny firm set mouth and
quaintly squared eyebrows. If the least line of conscience could be
traced between those eyebrows, an Evangelical might cherish some faint
hope of finding her a sheep in wolf's clothing - for her frock is
recklessly pretty - but as the cloud vanishes it leaves her frontal
sinus as smoothly free from conviction of sin as a kitten's.
The dentist, contemplating her with the self-satisfaction of a
successful operator, is a young man of thirty or thereabouts. He does
not give the impression of being much of a workman: his professional
manner evidently strikes him as being a joke, and is underlain by a
thoughtless pleasantry which betrays the young gentleman still unsettled
and in search of amusing adventures, behind the newly set-up dentist in
search of patients. He is not without gravity of demeanor; but the
strained nostrils stamp it as the gravity of the humorist. His eyes are
clear, alert, of sceptically moderate size, and yet a little rash; his
forehead is an excellent one, with plenty of room behind it; his nose
and chin cavalierly handsome. On the whole, an attractive, noticeable
beginner, of whose prospects a man of business might form a tolerably
favorable estimate.
THE YOUNG LADY (handing him the glass). Thank you. (In spite of the
biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent.)
THE DENTIST (putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of
instruments). That was my first tooth.
THE YOUNG LADY (aghast). Your first! Do you mean to say that you
began practising on me?
THE DENTIST. Every dentist has to begin on somebody.
THE YOUNG LADY. Yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay.
THE DENTIST (laughing). Oh, the hospital doesn't count. I only meant
my first tooth in private practice. Why didn't you let me give you gas?
THE YOUNG LADY. Because you said it would be five shillings extra.
THE DENTIST (shocked). Oh, don't say that. It makes me feel as if I
had hurt you for the sake of five shillings.
THE YOUNG LADY (with cool insolence). Well, so you have! (She gets
up.) Why shouldn't you? it's your business to hurt people. (It amuses
him to be treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds
to clean and replace his instruments. She shakes her dress into order;
looks inquisitively about her; and goes to the window.) You have a good
view of the sea from these rooms! Are they expensive?
THE DENTIST. Yes.
THE YOUNG LADY. You don't own the whole house, do you?
THE DENTIST. No.
THE YOUNG LADY (taking the chair which stands at the writing-table
and looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg.) Your
furniture isn't quite the latest thing, is it?
THE DENTIST. It's my landlord's.
THE YOUNG LADY. Does he own that nice comfortable Bath chair?
(pointing to the operating chair.)
THE DENTIST. No: I have that on the hire-purchase system.
THE YOUNG LADY (disparagingly). I thought so. (Looking about her
again in search of further conclusions.) I suppose you haven't been here
long?
THE DENTIST. Six weeks. Is there anything else you would like to
know?
THE YOUNG LADY (the hint quite lost on her). Any family?
THE DENTIST. I am not married.
THE YOUNG LADY. Of course not: anybody can see that. I meant
sisters and mother and that sort of thing.
THE DENTIST. Not on the premises.
THE YOUNG LADY. Hm! If you've been here six weeks, and mine was
your first tooth, the practice can't be very large, can it?
THE DENTIST. Not as yet. (He shuts the cabinet, having tidied up
everything.)
THE YOUNG LADY. Well, good luck! (She takes our her purse.) Five
shillings, you said it would be?
THE DENTIST. Five shillings.
THE YOUNG LADY (producing a crown piece). Do you charge five
shillings for everything?
THE DENTIST. Yes.
THE YOUNG LADY. Why?
THE DENTIST. It's my system. I'm what's called a five shilling
dentist.
THE YOUNG LADY. How nice! Well, here! (holding up the crown piece) a
nice new five shilling piece! your first fee! Make a hole in it with
the thing you drill people's teeth with and wear it on your watch-chain.
THE DENTIST. Thank you.
THE PARLOR MAID (appearing at the door). The young lady's brother,
sir.
A handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady's twin, comes
in eagerly. He wears a suit of terra-cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut
frock coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall hat
and tan gloves to match. He has his sister's delicate biscuit
complexion, and is built on the same small scale; but he is elastic and
strong in muscle, decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and
trenchant in speech, and with perfect manners and a finished personal
style which might be envied by a man twice his age. Suavity and self-
possession are points of honor with him; and though this, rightly
considered, is only the modern mode of boyish self-consciousness, its
effect is none the less staggering to his elders, and would be
insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. He is promptitude itself,
and has a question ready the moment he enters.
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Am I on time?
THE YOUNG LADY. No: it's all over.
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Did you howl?
THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, something awful. Mr. Valentine: this is my
brother Phil. Phil: this is Mr. Valentine, our new dentist. (Valentine
and Phil bow to one another. She proceeds, all in one breath.) He's
only been here six weeks; and he's a bachelor. The house isn't his; and
the furniture is the landlord's; but the professional plant is hired.
He got my tooth out beautifully at the first go; and he and I are great
friends.
PHILIP. Been asking a lot of questions?
THE YOUNG LADY (as if incapable of doing such a thing). Oh, no.
PHILIP. Glad to hear it. (To Valentine.) So good of you not to
mind us, Mr. Valentine. The fact is, we've never been in England
before; and our mother tells us that the people here simply won't stand
us. Come and lunch with us. (Valentine, bewildered by the leaps and
bounds with which their acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps; but he
has no opportunity of speaking, as the conversation of the twins is
swift and continuous.)
THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, do, Mr. Valentine.
PHILIP. At the Marine Hotel - half past one.
THE YOUNG LADY. We shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable
Englishman has promised to lunch with us.
PHILIP. Say no more, Mr. Valentine: you'll come.
VALENTINE. Say no more! I haven't said anything. May I ask whom I
have the pleasure of entertaining? It's really quite impossible for me
to lunch at the Marine Hotel with two perfect strangers.
THE YOUNG LADY (flippantly). Ooooh! what bosh! One patient in six
weeks! What difference does it make to you?
PHILIP (maturely). No, Dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms
Mr. Valentine's judgment. He is right. Let me introduce Miss Dorothy
Clandon, commonly called Dolly. (Valentine bows to Dolly. She nods to
him.) I'm Philip Clandon. We're from Madeira, but perfectly
respectable, so far.
VALENTINE. Clandon! Are you related to ---
DOLLY (unexpectedly crying out in despair). Yes, we are.
VALENTINE (astonished). I beg your pardon?
DOLLY. Oh, we are, we are. It's all over, Phil: they know all about
us in England. (To Valentine.) Oh, you can't think how maddening it is
to be related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for
our own sakes.
VALENTINE. But excuse me: the gentleman I was thinking of is not
celebrated.
DOLLY (staring at him). Gentleman! (Phil is also puzzled.)
VALENTINE. Yes. I was going to ask whether you were by any chance a
daughter of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall.
DOLLY (vacantly). No.
PHILIP. Well come, Dolly: how do you know you're not?
DOLLY (cheered). Oh, I forgot. Of course. Perhaps I am.
VALENTINE. Don't you know?
PHILIP. Not in the least.
DOLLY. It's a wise child ---
PHILIP (cutting her short). Sh! (Valentine starts nervously; for
the sound made by Philip, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet
of silk in two with a flash of lightning. It is the result of long
practice in checking Dolly's indiscretions.) The fact is, Mr.
Valentine, we are the children of the celebrated Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon,
an authoress of great repute - in Madeira. No household is complete
without her works. We came to England to get away from them. The are
called the Twentieth Century Treatises.
DOLLY. Twentieth Century Cooking.
PHILIP. Twentieth Century Creeds.
DOLLY. Twentieth Century Clothing.
PHILIP. Twentieth Century Conduct.
DOLLY. Twentieth Century Children.
PHILIP. Twentieth Century Parents.
DOLLY. Cloth limp, half a dollar.
PHILIP. Or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. No
family should be without them. Read them, Mr. Valentine: they'll
improve your mind.
DOLLY. But not till we've gone, please.
PHILIP. Quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. Our own
minds are in that fresh and unspoiled condition.
VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm!
DOLLY (echoing him inquiringly). Hm? Phil: he prefers people whose
minds are improved.
PHILIP. In that case we shall have to introduce him to the other
member of the family: the Woman of the Twentieth Century; our sister
Gloria!
DOLLY (dithyrambically). Nature's masterpiece!
PHILIP. Learning's daughter!
DOLLY. Madeira's pride!
PHILIP. Beauty's paragon!
DOLLY (suddenly descending to prose). Bosh! No complexion.
VALENTINE (desperately). May I have a word?
PHILIP (politely). Excuse us. Go ahead.
DOLLY (very nicely). So sorry.
VALENTINE (attempting to take them paternally). I really must give a
hint to you young people---
DOLLY (breaking out again). Oh, come: I like that. How old are you?
PHILIP. Over thirty.
DOLLY. He's not.
PHILIP (confidently). He is.
DOLLY (emphatically). Twenty-seven.
PHILIP (imperturbably). Thirty-three.
DOLLY. Stuff!
PHILIP (to Valentine). I appeal to you, Mr. Valentine.
VALENTINE (remonstrating). Well, really---(resigning himself.)
Thirty-one.
PHILIP (to Dolly). You were wrong.
DOLLY. So were you.
PHILIP (suddenly conscientious). We're forgetting our manners,
Dolly.
DOLLY (remorseful). Yes, so we are.
PHILIP (apologetic). We interrupted you, Mr. Valentine.
DOLLY. You were going to improve our minds, I think.
VALENTINE. The fact is, your---
PHILIP (anticipating him). Our appearance?
DOLLY. Our manners?
VALENTINE (ad misericordiam). Oh, do let me speak.
DOLLY. The old story. We talk too much.
PHILIP. We do. Shut up, both. (He seats himself on the arm of the
opposing chair.)
DOLLY. Mum! (She sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes
her lips tight with the tips of her fingers.)
VALENTINE. Thank you. (He brings the stool from the bench in the
corner; places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. They
attend to him with extreme gravity. He addresses himself first to
Dolly.) Now may I ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an English
seaside resort before? (She shakes her head slowly and solemnly. He
turns to Phil, who shakes his head quickly and expressively.) I thought
so. Well, Mr. Clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been
voluble; and I have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither
of you capable of conceiving what life in an English seaside resort is.
Believe me, it's not a question of manners and appearance. In those
respects we enjoy a freedom unknown in Madeira. (Dolly shakes her head
vehemently.) Oh, yes, I assure you. Lord de Cresci's sister bicycles
in knickerbockers; and the rector's wife advocates dress reform and
wears hygienic boots. (Dolly furtively looks at her own shoe: Valentine
catches her in the act, and deftly adds) No, that's not the sort of
boot I mean. (Dolly's shoe vanishes.) We don't bother much about dress
and manners in England, because, as a nation we don't dress well and
we've no manners. But - and now will you excuse my frankness? (They
nod.) Thank you. Well, in a seaside resort there's one thing you must
have before anybody can afford to be seen going about with you; and
that's a father, alive or dead. (He looks at them alternately, with
emphasis. They meet his gaze like martyrs.) Am I to infer that you
have omitted that indispensable part of your social equipment? (They
confirm him by melancholy nods.) Them I'm sorry to say that if you are
going to stay here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me
to accept your kind invitation to lunch. (He rises with an air of
finality, and replaces the stool by the bench.)
PHILIP (rising with grave politeness). Come, Dolly. (He gives her
his arm.)
DOLLY. Good morning. (They go together to the door with perfect
dignity.)
VALENTINE (overwhelmed with remorse). Oh, stop, stop. (They halt
and turn, arm in arm.) You make me feel a perfect beast.
DOLLY. That's your conscience: not us.
VALENTINE (energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional
manner). My conscience! My conscience has been my ruin. Listen to me.
Twice before I have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in
various parts of England. On both occasions I acted conscientiously,
and told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be
told. Result, ruin. Now I've set up as a dentist, a five shilling
dentist; and I've done with conscience forever. This is my last chance.
I spent my last sovereign on moving in; and I haven't paid a shilling of
rent yet. I'm eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as
a Jew and as hard as nails; and I've made five shillings in six weeks.
If I swerve by a hair's breadth from the straight line of the most rigid
respectability, I'm done for. Under such a circumstance, is it fair to
ask me to lunch with you when you don't know your own father?
DOLLY. After all, our grandfather is a canon of Lincoln Cathedral.
VALENTINE (like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon).
What! Have you a grandfather?
DOLLY. Only one.
VALENTINE. My dear, good young friends, why on earth didn't you tell
me that before? A cannon of Lincoln! That makes it all right, of
course. Just excuse me while I change my coat. (He reaches the door in
a bound and vanishes. Dolly and Phil stare after him, and then stare at
one another. Missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace
at once.)
PHILIP (throwing away Dolly's arm and coming ill-humoredly towards
the operating chair). That wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a
compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch - probably the first
square meal he has had for months. (He gives the chair a kick, as if it
were Valentine.)
DOLLY. It's too beastly. I won't stand it any longer, Phil. Here
in England everybody asks whether you have a father the very first
thing.
PHILIP. I won't stand it either. Mamma must tell us who he was.
DOLLY. Or who he is. He may be alive.
PHILIP. I hope not. No man alive shall father me.
DOLLY. He might have a lot of money, though.
PHILIP. I doubt it. My knowledge of human nature leads me to
believe that if he had a lot of money he wouldn't have got rid of his
affectionate family so easily. Anyhow, let's look at the bright side of
things. Depend on it, he's dead. (He goes to the hearth and stands
with his back to the fireplace, spreading himself. The parlor maid
appears. The twins, under observation, instantly shine out again with
their former brilliancy.)
THE PARLOR MAID. Two ladies for you, miss. Your mother and sister,
miss, I think.
Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come in. Mrs. Clandon is between forty and
fifty, with a slight tendency to soft, sedentary fat, and a fair
remainder of good looks, none the worse preserved because she has
evidently followed the old tribal matronly fashion of making no
pretension in that direction after her marriage, and might almost be
suspected of wearing a cap at home. She carries herself artificially
well, as women were taught to do as a part of good manners by dancing
masters and reclining boards before these were superseded by the modern
artistic cult of beauty and health. Her hair, a flaxen hazel fading
into white, is crimped, and parted in the middle with the ends plaited
and made into a knot, from which observant people of a certain age infer
that Mrs. Clandon had sufficient individuality and good taste to stand
out resolutely against the now forgotten chignon in her girlhood. In
short, she is distinctly old fashioned for her age in dress and manners.
But she belongs to the forefront of her own period (say 1860-80) in a
jealously assertive attitude of character and intellect, and in being a
woman of cultivated interests rather than passionately developed
personal affections. Her voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane;
and she lends herself conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations
of fondness by which her children mark their esteem for her; but
displays of personal sentiment secretly embarrass her: passion in her is
humanitarian rather than human: she feels strongly about social
questions and principles, not about persons. Only, one observes that
this reasonableness and intense personal privacy, which leaves her
relations with Gloria and Phil much as they might be between her and the
children of any other woman, breaks down in the case of Dolly. Though
almost every word she addresses to her is necessarily in the nature of a
remonstrance for some breach of decorum, the tenderness in her voice is
unmistakable; and it is not surprising that years of such remonstrance
have left Dolly hopelessly spoiled.
Gloria, who is hardly past twenty, is a much more formidable person
than her mother. She is the incarnation of haughty highmindedness,
raging with the impatience of an impetuous, dominative character
paralyzed by the impotence of her youth, and unwillingly disciplined by
the constant danger of ridicule from her lighter-handed juniors. Unlike
her mother, she is all passion; and the conflict of her passion with her
obstinate pride and intense fastidiousness results in a freezing
coldness of manner. In an ugly woman all this would be repulsive; but
Gloria is an attractive woman. Her deep chestnut hair, olive brown
skin, long eyelashes, shaded grey eyes that often flash like stars,
delicately turned full lips, and compact and supple, but muscularly
plump figure appeal with disdainful frankness to the senses and
imagination. A very dangerous girl, one would say, if the moral
passions were not also marked, and even nobly marked, in a fine brow.
Her tailor-made skirt-and-jacket dress of saffron brown cloth, seems
conventional when her back is turned; but it displays in front a blouse
of sea-green silk which upsets its conventionality with one stroke, and
sets her apart as effectually as the twins from the ordinary run of
fashionable seaside humanity.
Mrs. Clandon comes a little way into the room, looking round to see
who is present. Gloria, who studiously avoids encouraging the twins by
betraying any interest in them, wanders to the window and looks out with
her thoughts far away. The parlor maid, instead of withdrawing, shuts
the door and waits at it.
MRS. CLANDON. Well, children? How is the toothache, Dolly?
DOLLY. Cured, thank Heaven. I've had it out. (She sits down on the
step of the operating chair. Mrs. Clandon takes the writing-table
chair.)
PHILIP (striking in gravely from the hearth). And the dentist, a
first-rate professional man of the highest standing, is coming to lunch
with us.
MRS. CLANDON (looking round apprehensively at the servant). Phil!
THE PARLOR MAID. Beg pardon, ma'am. I'm waiting for Mr. Valentine.
I have a message for him.
DOLLY. Who from?
MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Dolly! (Dolly catches her lips with her
finger tips, suppressing a little splutter of mirth.)
THE PARLOR MAID. Only the landlord, ma'am.
Valentine, in a blue serge suit, with a straw hat in his hand, comes
back in high spirits, out of breath with the haste he has made. Gloria
turns from the window and studies him with freezing attention.
PHILIP. Let me introduce you, Mr. Valentine. My mother, Mrs.
Lanfrey Clandon. (Mrs. Clandon bows. Valentine bows, self-possessed
and quite equal to the occasion.) My sister Gloria. (Gloria bows with
cold dignity and sits down on the sofa. Valentine falls in love at
first sight and is miserably confused. He fingers his hat nervously,
and makes her a sneaking bow.)
MRS. CLANDON. I understand that we are to have the pleasure of
seeing you at luncheon to-day, Mr. Valentine.
VALENTINE. Thank you--er--if you don't mind--I mean if you will be
so kind -- (to the parlor maid testily) What is it?
THE PARLOR MAID. The landlord, sir, wishes to speak to you before
you go out.
VALENTINE. Oh, tell him I have four patients here. (The Clandons
look surprised, except Phil, who is imperturbable.) If he wouldn't mind
waiting just two minutes, I--I'll slip down and see him for a moment.
(Throwing himself confidentially on her sense of the position.) Say I'm
busy, but that I want to see him.
THE PARLOR MAID (reassuringly). Yes, sir. (She goes.)
MRS. CLANDON (on the point of rising). We are detaining you, I am
afraid.
VALENTINE. Not at all, not at all. Your presence here will be the
greatest help to me. The fact is, I owe six week's rent; and I've had
no patients until to-day. My interview with my landlord will be
considerably smoothed by the apparent boom in my business.
DOLLY (vexed). Oh, how tiresome of you to let it all out! And we've
just been pretending that you were a respectable professional man in a
first-rate position.
MRS. CLANDON (horrified). Oh, Dolly, Dolly! My dearest, how can you
be so rude? (To Valentine.) Will you excuse these barbarian children
of mine, Mr. Valentine?
VALENTINE. Thank you, I'm used to them. Would it be too much to ask
you to wait five minutes while I get rid of my landlord downstairs?
DOLLY. Don't be long. We're hungry.
MRS. CLANDON (again remonstrating). Dolly, dear!
VALENTINE (to Dolly). All right. (To Mrs. Clandon.) Thank you: I
shan't be long. (He steals a look at Gloria as he turns to go. She is
looking gravely at him. He falls into confusion.) I--er--er--yes--
thank you (he succeeds at last in blundering himself out of the room;
but the exhibition is a pitiful one).
PHILIP. Did you observe? (Pointing to Gloria.) Love at first
sight. You can add his scalp to your collection, Gloria.
MRS. CLANDON. Sh--sh, pray, Phil. He may have heard you.
PHILIP. Not he. (Bracing himself for a scene.) And now look here,
mamma. (He takes the stool from the bench; and seats himself
majestically in the middle of the room, taking a leaf out of Valentine's
book. Dolly, feeling that her position on the step of the operating
chair is unworthy of the dignity of the occasion, rises, looking
important and determined; crosses to the window; and stands with her
back to the end of the writing-table, her hands behind her and on the
table. Mrs. Clandon looks at them, wondering what is coming. Gloria
becomes attentive. Philip straightens his back; places his knuckles
symmetrically on his knees; and opens his case.) Dolly and I have been
talking over things a good deal lately; and I don't think, judging from
my knowledge of human nature--we don't think that you (speaking very
staccato, with the words detached) quite appreciate the fact ---
DOLLY (seating herself on the end of the table with a spring). That
we've grown up.
MRS. CLANDON. Indeed? In what way have I given you any reason to
complain?
PHILIP. Well, there are certain matters upon which we are beginning
to feel that you might take us a little more into your confidence.
MRS. CLANDON (rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly
broken up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike
but implacable--the manner of the Old Guard of the Women's Rights
movement--coming upon her). Phil: take care. Remember what I have
always taught you. There are two sorts of family life, Phil; and your
experience of human nature only extends, so far, to one of them.
(Rhetorically.) The sort you know is based on mutual respect, on
recognition of the right of every member of the household to
independence and privacy (her emphasis on "privacy" is intense) in their
personal concerns. And because you have always enjoyed that, it seems
such a matter of course to you that you don't value it. But (with
biting acrimony) there is another sort of family life: a life in which
husbands open their wives' letters, and call on them to account for
every farthing of their expenditure and every moment of their time; in
which women do the same to their children; in which no room is private
and no hour sacred; in which duty, obedience, affection, home, morality
and religion are detestable tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of
punishments and lies, coercion and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion,
recrimination--Oh! I cannot describe it to you: fortunately for you,
you know nothing about it. (She sits down, panting. Gloria has
listened to her with flashing eyes, sharing all her indignation.)
DOLLY (inaccessible to rhetoric). See Twentieth Century Parents,
chapter on Liberty, passim.
MRS. CLANDON (touching her shoulder affectionately, soothed even by a
gibe from her). My dear Dolly: if you only knew how glad I am that it
is nothing but a joke to you, though it is such bitter earnest to me.
(More resolutely, turning to Philip.) Phil, I never ask you questions
about your private concerns. You are not going to question me, are you?
PHILIP. I think it due to ourselves to say that the question we
wanted to ask is as much our business as yours.
DOLLY. Besides, it can't be good to keep a lot of questions bottled
up inside you. You did it, mamma; but see how awfully it's broken out
again in me.
MRS. CLANDON. I see you want to ask your question. Ask it.
DOLLY AND PHILIP (beginning simultaneously). Who--- (They stop.)
PHILIP. Now look here, Dolly: am I going to conduct this business or
are you?
DOLLY. You.
PHILIP. Then hold your mouth. (Dolly does so literally.) The
question is a simple one. When the ivory snatcher---
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil!
PHILIP. Dentist is an ugly word. The man of ivory and gold asked us
whether we were the children of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall.
In pursuance of the precepts in your treatise on Twentieth Century
Conduct, and your repeated personal exhortations to us to curtail the
number of unnecessary lies we tell, we replied truthfully the we didn't
know.
DOLLY. Neither did we.
PHILIP. Sh! The result was that the gum architect made considerable
difficulties about accepting our invitation to lunch, although I doubt
if he has had anything but tea and bread and butter for a fortnight
past. Now my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that we had
a father, and that you probably know who he was.
MRS. CLANDON (her agitation returning). Stop, Phil. Your father is
nothing to you, nor to me (vehemently). That is enough. (The twins are
silenced, but not satisfied. Their faces fall. But Gloria, who has
been following the altercation attentively, suddenly intervenes.)
GLORIA (advancing). Mother: we have a right to know.
MRS. CLANDON (rising and facing her). Gloria! "We!" Who is "we"?
GLORIA (steadfastly). We three. (Her tone is unmistakable: she is
pitting her strength against her mother for the first time. The twins
instantly go over to the enemy.)
MRS. CLANDON (wounded). In your mouth "we" used to mean you and I,
Gloria.
PHILIP (rising decisively and putting away the stool). We're hurting
you: let's drop it. We didn't think you'd mind. I don't want to know.
DOLLY (coming off the table). I'm sure I don't. Oh, don't look like
that, mamma. (She looks angrily at Gloria.)
MRS. CLANDON (touching her eyes hastily with her handkerchief and
sitting down again). Thank you, my dear. Thanks, Phil.
GLORIA (inexorably). We have a right to know, mother.
MRS. CLANDON (indignantly). Ah! You insist.
GLORIA. Do you intend that we shall never know?
DOLLY. Oh, Gloria, don't. It's barbarous.
GLORIA (with quiet scorn). What is the use of being weak? You see
what has happened with this gentleman here, mother. The same thing has
happened to me.
MRS. CLANDON } (all { What do you mean?
DOLLY } together). { Oh, tell us.
PHILIP } { What happened to you?
GLORIA. Oh, nothing of any consequence. (She turns away from them
and goes up to the easy chair at the fireplace, where she sits down,
almost with her back to them. As they wait expectantly, she adds, over
her shoulder, with studied indifference.) On board the steamer the
first officer did me the honor to propose to me.
DOLLY. No, it was to me.
MRS. CLANDON. The first officer! Are you serious, Gloria? What did
you say to him? (correcting herself) Excuse me: I have no right to ask
that.
GLORIA. The answer is pretty obvious. A woman who does not know who
her father was cannot accept such an offer.
MRS. CLANDON. Surely you did not want to accept it?
GLORIA (turning a little and raising her voice). No; but suppose I
had wanted to!
PHILIP. Did that difficulty strike you, Dolly?
DOLLY. No, I accepted him.
GLORIA } (all crying { Accepted him!
MRS. CLANDON } out { Dolly!
PHILIP } together) { Oh, I say!
DOLLY (naively). He did look such a fool!
MRS. CLANDON. But why did you do such a thing, Dolly?
DOLLY. For fun, I suppose. He had to measure my finger for a ring.
You'd have done the same thing yourself.
MRS. CLANDON. No, Dolly, I would not. As a matter of fact the first
officer did propose to me; and I told him to keep that sort of thing for
women were young enough to be amused by it. He appears to have acted on
my advice. (She rises and goes to the hearth.) Gloria: I am sorry you
think me weak; but I cannot tell you what you want. You are all too
young.
PHILIP. This is rather a startling departure from Twentieth Century
principles.
DOLLY (quoting). "Answer all your children's questions, and answer
them truthfully, as soon as they are old enough to ask them." See
Twentieth Century Motherhood---
PHILIP. Page one---
DOLLY. Chapter one---
PHILIP. Sentence one.
MRS. CLANDON. My dears: I did not say that you were too young to
know. I said you were too young to be taken into my confidence. You
are very bright children, all of you; but I am glad for your sakes that
you are still very inexperienced and consequently very unsympathetic.
There are some experiences of mine that I cannot bear to speak of except
to those who have gone through what I have gone through. I hope you
will never be qualified for such confidences. But I will take care that
you shall learn all you want to know. Will that satisfy you?
PHILIP. Another grievance, Dolly.
DOLLY. We're not sympathetic.
GLORIA (leaning forward in her chair and looking earnestly up at her
mother). Mother: I did not mean to be unsympathetic.
MRS. CLANDON (affectionately). Of course not, dear. Do you think I
don't understand?
GLORIA (rising). But, mother---
MRS. CLANDON (drawing back a little). Yes?
GLORIA (obstinately). It is nonsense to tell us that our father is
nothing to us.
MRS. CLANDON (provoked to sudden resolution). Do you remember your
father?
GLORIA (meditatively, as if the recollection were a tender one). I
am not quite sure. I think so.
MRS. CLANDON (grimly). You are not sure?
GLORIA. No.
MRS. CLANDON (with quiet force). Gloria: if I had ever struck you--
(Gloria recoils: Philip and Dolly are disagreeably shocked; all three
start at her, revolted as she continues)--struck you purposely,
deliberately, with the intention of hurting you, with a whip bought for
the purpose! Would you remember that, do you think? (Gloria utters an
exclamation of indignant repulsion.) That would have been your last
recollection of your father, Gloria, if I had not taken you away from
him. I have kept him out of your life: keep him now out of mine by
never mentioning him to me again. (Gloria, with a shudder, covers her
face with her hands, until, hearing someone at the door, she turns away
and pretends to occupy herself looking at the names of the books in the
bookcase. Mrs. Clandon sits down on the sofa. Valentine returns.).
VALENTINE. I hope I've not kept you waiting. That landlord of mine
is really an extraordinary old character.
DOLLY (eagerly). Oh, tell us. How long has he given you to pay?
MRS. CLANDON (distracted by her child's bad manners). Dolly, Dolly,
Dolly dear! You must not ask questions.
DOLLY (demurely). So sorry. You'll tell us, won't you, Mr.
Valentine?
VALENTINE. He doesn't want his rent at all. He's broken his tooth
on a Brazil nut; and he wants me to look at it and to lunch with him
afterwards.
DOLLY. Then have him up and pull his tooth out at once; and we'll
bring him to lunch, too. Tell the maid to fetch him along. (She runs
to the bell and rings it vigorously. Then, with a sudden doubt she
turns to Valentine and adds) I suppose he's respectable---really
respectable.
VALENTINE. Perfectly. Not like me.
DOLLY. Honest Injun? (Mrs. Clandon gasps faintly; but her powers of
remonstrance are exhausted.)
VALENTINE. Honest Injun!
DOLLY. Then off with you and bring him up.
VALENTINE (looking dubiously at Mrs. Clandon). I daresay he'd be
delighted if--er---?
MRS. CLANDON (rising and looking at her watch). I shall be happy to
see your friend at lunch, if you can persuade him to come; but I can't
wait to see him now: I have an appointment at the hotel at a quarter to
one with an old friend whom I have not seen since I left England
eighteen years ago. Will you excuse me?
VALENTINE. Certainly, Mrs. Clandon.
GLORIA. Shall I come?
MRS. CLANDON. No, dear. I want to be alone. (She goes out,
evidently still a good deal troubled. Valentine opens the door for her
and follows her out.)
PHILIP (significantly--to Dolly). Hmhm!
DOLLY (significantly to Philip). Ahah! (The parlor maid answers the
bell.)
DOLLY. Show the old gentleman up.
THE PARLOR MAID (puzzled). Madam?
DOLLY. The old gentleman with the toothache.
PHILIP. The landlord.
THE PARLOR MAID. Mr. Crampton, Sir?
PHILIP. Is his name Crampton?
DOLLY (to Philip). Sounds rheumaticky, doesn't it?
PHILIP. Chalkstones, probably.
DOLLY (over her shoulder, to the parlor maid). Show Mr. Crampstones
up. (Goes R. to writing-table chair).
THE PARLOR MAID (correcting her). Mr. Crampton, miss. (She goes.)
DOLLY (repeating it to herself like a lesson). Crampton, Crampton,
Crampton, Crampton, Crampton. (She sits down studiously at the writing-
table.) I must get that name right, or Heaven knows what I shall call
him.
GLORIA. Phil: can you believe such a horrible thing as that about
our father---what mother said just now?
PHILIP. Oh, there are lots of people of that kind. Old Chalice used
to thrash his wife and daughters with a cartwhip.
DOLLY (contemptuously). Yes, a Portuguese!
PHILIP. When you come to men who are brutes, there is much in common
between the Portuguese and the English variety, Doll. Trust my
knowledge of human nature. (He resumes his position on the hearthrug
with an elderly and responsible air.)
GLORIA (with angered remorse). I don't think we shall ever play
again at our old game of guessing what our father was to be like.
Dolly: are you sorry for your father---the father with lots of money?
DOLLY. Oh, come! What about your father---the lonely old man with
the tender aching heart? He's pretty well burst up, I think.
PHILIP. There can be no doubt that the governor is an exploded
superstition. (Valentine is heard talking to somebody outside the
door.) But hark: he comes.
GLORIA (nervously). Who?
DOLLY. Chalkstones.
PHILIP. Sh! Attention. (They put on their best manners. Philip
adds in a lower voice to Gloria) If he's good enough for the lunch,
I'll nod to Dolly; and if she nods to you, invite him straight away.
(Valentine comes back with his landlord. Mr. Fergus Crampton is a
man of about sixty, tall, hard and stringy, with an atrociously
obstinate, ill tempered, grasping mouth, and a querulously dogmatic
voice. Withal he is highly nervous and sensitive, judging by his thin
transparent skin marked with multitudinous lines, and his slender
fingers. His consequent capacity for suffering acutely from all the
dislike that his temper and obstinacy can bring upon him is proved by
his wistful, wounded eyes, by a plaintive note in his voice, a painful
want of confidence in his welcome, and a constant but indifferently
successful effort to correct his natural incivility of manner and
proneness to take offence. By his keen brows and forehead he is clearly
a shrewd man; and there is no sign of straitened means or commercial
diffidence about him: he is well dressed, and would be classed at a
guess as a prosperous master manufacturer in a business inherited from
an old family in the aristocracy of trade. His navy blue coat is not of
the usual fashionable pattern. It is not exactly a pilot's coat; but it
is cut that way, double breasted, and with stout buttons and broad
lappels, a coat for a shipyard rather than a counting house. He has
taken a fancy to Valentine, who cares nothing for his crossness of grain
and treats him with a sort of disrespectful humanity, for which he is
secretly grateful.)
VALENTINE. May I introduce---this is Mr. Crampton---Miss Dorothy
Clandon, Mr. Philip Clandon, Miss Clandon. (Crampton stands nervously
bowing. They all bow.) Sit down, Mr. Crampton.
DOLLY (pointing to the operating chair). That is the most
comfortable chair, Mr. Ch--crampton.
CRAMPTON. Thank you; but won't this young lady---(indicating Gloria,
who is close to the chair)?
GLORIA. Thank you, Mr. Crampton: we are just going.
VALENTINE (bustling him across to the chair with good-humored
peremptoriness). Sit down, sit down. You're tired.
CRAMPTON. Well, perhaps as I am considerably the oldest person
present, I--- (He finishes the sentence by sitting down a little
rheumatically in the operating chair. Meanwhile, Philip, having studied
him critically during his passage across the room, nods to Dolly; and
Dolly nods to Gloria.)
GLORIA. Mr. Crampton: we understand that we are preventing Mr.
Valentine from lunching with you by taking him away ourselves. My
mother would be very glad, indeed, if you would come too.
CRAMPTON (gratefully, after looking at her earnestly for a moment).
Thank you. I will come with pleasure.
GLORIA } (politely { Thank you very much--er---
DOLLY } murmuring).{ So glad--er---
PHILIP } { Delighted, I'm sure--er---
(The conversation drops. Gloria and Dolly look at one another; then
at Valentine and Philip. Valentine and Philip, unequal to the occasion,
look away from them at one another, and are instantly so disconcerted by
catching one another's eye, that they look back again and catch the eyes
of Gloria and Dolly. Thus, catching one another all round, they all
look at nothing and are quite at a loss. Crampton looks about him,
waiting for them to begin. The silence becomes unbearable.)
DOLLY (suddenly, to keep things going). How old are you, Mr.
Crampton?
GLORIA (hastily). I am afraid we must be going, Mr. Valentine. It
is understood, then, that we meet at half past one. (She makes for the
door. Philip goes with her. Valentine retreats to the bell.)
VALENTINE. Half past one. (He rings the bell.) Many thanks. (He
follows Gloria and Philip to the door, and goes out with them.)
DOLLY (who has meanwhile stolen across to Crampton). Make him give
you gas. It's five shillings extra: but it's worth it.
CRAMPTON (amused). Very well. (Looking more earnestly at her.) So
you want to know my age, do you? I'm fifty-seven.
DOLLY (with conviction). You look it.
CRAMPTON (grimly). I dare say I do.
DOLLY. What are you looking at me so hard for? Anything wrong?
(She feels whether her hat is right.)
CRAMPTON. You're like somebody.
DOLLY. Who?
CRAMPTON. Well, you have a curious look of my mother.
DOLLY (incredulously). Your mother!!! Quite sure you don't mean
your daughter?
CRAMPTON (suddenly blackening with hate). Yes: I'm quite sure I
don't mean my daughter.
DOLLY (sympathetically). Tooth bad?
CRAMPTON. No, no: nothing. A twinge of memory, Miss Clandon, not of
toothache.
DOLLY. Have it out. "Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow:" with
gas, five shillings extra.
CRAMPTON (vindicatively). No, not a sorrow. An injury that was done
me once: that's all. I don't forget injuries; and I don't want to
forget them. (His features settle into an implacable frown.)
(re-enter Philip: to look for Dolly. He comes down behind her
unobserved.)
DOLLY (looking critically at Crampton's expression). I don't think
we shall like you when you are brooding over your sorrows.
PHILIP (who has entered the room unobserved, and stolen behind her).
My sister means well, Mr. Crampton: but she is indiscreet. Now Dolly,
outside! (He takes her towards the door.)
DOLLY (in a perfectly audible undertone). He says he's only fifty-
seven; and he thinks me the image of his mother; and he hates his
daughter; and--- (She is interrupted by the return of Valentine.)
VALENTINE. Miss Clandon has gone on.
PHILIP. Don't forget half past one.
DOLLY. Mind you leave Mr. Crampton with enough teeth to eat with.
(They go out. Valentine comes down to his cabinet, and opens it.)
CRAMPTON. That's a spoiled child, Mr. Valentine. That's one of your
modern products. When I was her age, I had many a good hiding fresh in
my memory to teach me manners.
VALENTINE (taking up his dental mirror and probe from the shelf in
front of the cabinet). What did you think of her sister?
CRAMPTON. You liked her better, eh?
VALENTINE (rhapsodically). She struck me as being--- (He checks
himself, and adds, prosaically) However, that's not business. (He
places himself behind Crampton's right shoulder and assumes his
professional tone.) Open, please. (Crampton opens his mouth.
Valentine puts the mirror in, and examines his teeth.) Hm! You have
broken that one. What a pity to spoil such a splendid set of teeth!
Why do you crack nuts with them? (He withdraws the mirror, and comes
forward to converse with Crampton.)
CRAMPTON. I've always cracked nuts with them: what else are they
for? (Dogmatically.) The proper way to keep teeth good is to give them
plenty of use on bones and nuts, and wash them every day with soap---
plain yellow soap.
VALENTINE. Soap! Why soap?
CRAMPTON. I began using it as a boy because I was made to; and I've
used it ever since. And I never had toothache in my life.
VALENTINE. Don't you find it rather nasty?
CRAMPTON. I found that most things that were good for me were nasty.
But I was taught to put up with them, and made to put up with them. I'm
used to it now: in fact, I like the taste when the soap is really good.
VALENTINE (making a wry face in spite of himself). You seem to have
been very carefully educated, Mr. Crampton.
CRAMPTON (grimly). I wasn't spoiled, at all events.
VALENTINE (smiling a little to himself). Are you quite sure?
CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean?
VALENTINE. Well, your teeth are good, I admit. But I've seen just
as good in very self-indulgent mouths. (He goes to the ledge of cabinet
and changes the probe for another one.)
CRAMPTON. It's not the effect on the teeth: it's the effect on the
character.
VALENTINE (placably). Oh, the character, I see. (He recommences
operations.) A little wider, please. Hm! That one will have to come
out: it's past saving. (He withdraws the probe and again comes to the
side of the chair to converse.) Don't be alarmed: you shan't feel
anything. I'll give you gas.
CRAMPTON. Rubbish, man: I want none of your gas. Out with it.
People were taught to bear necessary pain in my day.
VALENTINE. Oh, if you like being hurt, all right. I'll hurt you as
much as you like, without any extra charge for the beneficial effect on
your character.
CRAMPTON (rising and glaring at him). Young man: you owe me six
weeks' rent.
VALENTINE. I do.
CRAMPTON. Can you pay me?
VALENTINE. No.
CRAMPTON (satisfied with his advantage). I thought not. How soon
d'y' think you'll be able to pay me if you have no better manners than
to make game of your patients? (He sits down again.)
VALENTINE. My good sir: my patients haven't all formed their
characters on kitchen soap.
CRAMPTON (suddenly gripping him by the arm as he turns away again to
the cabinet). So much the worse for them. I tell you you don't
understand my character. If I could spare all my teeth, I'd make you
pull them all out one after another to shew you what a properly hardened
man can go through with when he's made up his mind to do it. (He nods
at him to enforce the effect of this declaration, and releases him.)
VALENTINE (his careless pleasantry quite unruffled). And you want to
be more hardened, do you?
CRAMPTON. Yes.
VALENTINE (strolling away to the bell). Well, you're quite hard
enough for me already---as a landlord. (Crampton receives this with a
growl of grim humor. Valentine rings the bell, and remarks in a
cheerful, casual way, whilst waiting for it to be answered.) Why did
you never get married, Mr. Crampton? A wife and children would have
taken some of the hardness out of you.
CRAMPTON (with unexpected ferocity). What the devil is that to you?
(The parlor maid appears at the door.)
VALENTINE (politely). Some warm water, please. (She retires: and
Valentine comes back to the cabinet, not at all put out by Crampton's
rudeness, and carries on the conversation whilst he selects a forceps
and places it ready to his hand with a gag and a drinking glass.) You
were asking me what the devil that was to me. Well, I have an idea of
getting married myself.
CRAMPTON (with grumbling irony). Naturally, sir, naturally. When a
young man has come to his last farthing, and is within twenty-four hours
of having his furniture distrained upon by his landlord, he marries.
I've noticed that before. Well, marry; and be miserable.
VALENTINE. Oh, come, what do you know about it?
CRAMPTON. I'm not a bachelor.
VALENTINE. Then there is a Mrs. Crampton?
CRAMPTON (wincing with a pang of resentment). Yes---damn her!
VALENTINE (unperturbed). Hm! A father, too, perhaps, as well as a
husband, Mr. Crampton?
CRAMPTON. Three children.
VALENTINE (politely). Damn them?--eh?
CRAMPTON (jealously). No, sir: the children are as much mine as
hers. (The parlor maid brings in a jug of hot water.)
VALENTINE. Thank you. (He takes the jug from her, and brings it to
the cabinet, continuing in the same idle strain) I really should like
to know your family, Mr. Crampton. (The parlor maid goes out: and he
pours some hot water into the drinking glass.)
CRAMPTON. Sorry I can't introduce you, sir. I'm happy to say that I
don't know where they are, and don't care, so long as they keep out of
my way. (Valentine, with a hitch of his eyebrows and shoulders, drops
the forceps with a clink into the glass of hot water.) You needn't warm
that thing to use on me. I'm not afraid of the cold steel. (Valentine
stoops to arrange the gas pump and cylinder beside the chair.) What's
that heavy thing?
VALENTINE. Oh, never mind. Something to put my foot on, to get the
necessary purchase for a good pull. (Crampton looks alarmed in spite of
himself. Valentine stands upright and places the glass with the forceps
in it ready to his hand, chatting on with provoking indifference.) And
so you advise me not to get married, Mr. Crampton? (He stoops to fit
the handle on the apparatus by which the chair is raised and lowered.)
CRAMPTON (irritably). I advise you to get my tooth out and have done
reminding me of my wife. Come along, man. (He grips the arms of the
chair and braces himself.)
VALENTINE (pausing, with his hand on the lever, to look up at him and
say). What do you bet that I don't get that tooth out without your
feeling it?
CRAMPTON. Your six week's rent, young man. Don't you gammon me.
VALENTINE (jumping at the bet and winding him aloft vigorously).
Done! Are you ready? (Crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in
his alarm at its sudden ascent, folds his arms: sits stiffly upright:
and prepares for the worst. Valentine lets down the back of the chair
to an obtuse angle.)
CRAMPTON (clutching at the arms of the chair as he falls back). Take
care man. I'm quite helpless in this po----
VALENTINE (deftly stopping him with the gag, and snatching up the
mouthpiece of the gas machine). You'll be more helpless presently. (He
presses the mouthpiece over Crampton's mouth and nose, leaning over his
chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair.
Crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to lay
hands on Valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. After a
moment his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. He is quite
insensible. Valentine, with an exclamation of somewhat preoccupied
triumph, throws aside the mouthpiece quickly: picks up the forceps
adroitly from the glass: and ---the curtain falls.)
END OF ACT I.
Act II
On the terrace at the Marine Hotel. It is a square flagged platform,
with a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone
coping on the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff.
The head waiter of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon
table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his
left, in the corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to
the beach.
When he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to
his left a solitary guest, a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair of
iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three
wasps on it, reading the Standard, with his umbrella up to defend him
from the sun, which, in August and at less than an hour after noon, is
toasting his protended insteps. Just opposite him, at the hotel side of
the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern.
Access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of its
facade, reached by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised
pavement. Nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked
by a little trellis porch. The table at which the waiter is occupied is
a long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two
at each side and one at the end next the hotel. Against the parapet
another table is prepared as a buffet to serve from.
The waiter is a remarkable person in his way. A silky old man,
white-haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that in
his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and
imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of the
actual. He has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been
extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of
the vanity of success, are untouched by envy.
The gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. He
wears his London frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the
table beside the sugar bowl. The excellent condition and quality of
these garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is
reading the Standard, and the Times at his elbow overlaying the local
paper, all testify to his respectability. He is about fifty, clean
shaven, and close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down
purposely, as if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was
determined not to let them have their way. He has large expansive ears,
cod colored eyes, and a brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he
had resolved in his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and
incorruptible, but had never succeeded in making that habit of mind
automatic and unconscious. Still, he is by no means to be laughed at.
There is no sign of stupidity or infirmity of will about him: on the
contrary, he would pass anywhere at sight as a man of more than average
professional capacity and responsibility. Just at present he is
enjoying the weather and the sea too much to be out of patience; but he
has exhausted all the news in his papers and is at present reduced to
the advertisements, which are not sufficiently succulent to induce him
to persevere with them.
THE GENTLEMAN (yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job).
Waiter!
WAITER. Sir? (coming down C.)
THE GENTLEMAN. Are you quite sure Mrs. Clandon is coming back before
lunch?
WAITER. Quite sure, sir. She expects you at a quarter to one, sir.
(The gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter's voice, looks at him with
a lazy smile. It is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that
gives sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks
with the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing
them, nor committing any other vulgarism. He looks at his watch as he
continues) Not that yet, sir, is it? 12:43, sir. Only two minutes
more to wait, sir. Nice morning, sir?
THE GENTLEMAN. Yes: very fresh after London.
WAITER. Yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. Very nice family,
Mrs. Clandon's, sir.
THE GENTLEMAN. You like them, do you?
WAITER. Yes, sir. They have a free way with them that is very
taking, sir, very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and
gentleman.
THE GENTLEMAN. Miss Dorothea and Mr. Philip, I suppose.
WAITER. Yes, sir. The young lady, in giving an order, or the like
of that, will say, "Remember, William, we came to this hotel on your
account, having heard what a perfect waiter you are." The young
gentleman will tell me that I remind him strongly of his father (the
gentleman starts at this) and that he expects me to act by him as such.
(Soothing, sunny cadence.) Oh, very peasant, sir, very affable and
pleasant indeed!
THE GENTLEMAN. You like his father! (He laughs at the notion.)
WAITER. Oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. Of
course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the
resemblance, too, sir.
THE GENTLEMAN. Did she?
WAITER. No, sir. She thought me like the bust of Shakespear in
Stratford Church, sir. That is why she calls me William, sir. My real
name is Walter, sir. (He turns to go back to the table, and sees Mrs.
Clandon coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps.) Here is
Mrs. Clandon, sir. (To Mrs. Clandon, in an unobtrusively confidential
tone) Gentleman for you, ma'am.
MRS. CLANDON. We shall have two more gentlemen at lunch, William.
WAITER. Right, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. (He withdraws into the
hotel. Mrs. Clandon comes forward looking round for her visitor, but
passes over the gentleman without any sign of recognition.)
THE GENTLEMAN (peering at her quaintly from under the umbrella).
Don't you know me?
MRS. CLANDON (incredulously, looking hard at him) Are you Finch
McComas?
McCOMAS. Can't you guess? (He shuts the umbrella; puts it aside;
and jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be
inspected.)
MRS. CLANDON. I believe you are. (She gives him her hand. The
shake that ensues is that of old friends after a long separation.)
Where's your beard?
McCOMAS (with humorous solemnity). Would you employ a solicitor with
a beard?
MRS. CLANDON (pointing to the silk hat on the table). Is that your
hat?
McCOMAS. Would you employ a solicitor with a sombrero?
MRS. CLANDON. I have thought of you all these eighteen years with
the beard and the sombrero. (She sits down on the garden seat. McComas
takes his chair again.) Do you go to the meetings of the Dialectical
Society still?
McCOMAS (gravely). I do not frequent meetings now.
MRS. CLANDON. Finch: I see what has happened. You have become
respectable.
McCOMAS. Haven't you?
MRS. CLANDON. Not a bit.
McCOMAS. You hold to your old opinions still?
MRS. CLANDON. As firmly as ever.
McCOMAS. Bless me! And you are still ready to make speeches in
public, in spite of your sex (Mrs. Clandon nods); to insist on a married
woman's right to her own separate property (she nods again); to champion
Darwin's view of the origin of species and John Stuart Mill's essay on
Liberty (nod); to read Huxley, Tyndall and George Eliot (three nods);
and to demand University degrees, the opening of the professions, and
the parliamentary franchise for women as well as men?
MRS. CLANDON (resolutely). Yes: I have not gone back one inch; and I
have educated Gloria to take up my work where I left it. That is what
has brought me back to England: I felt that I had no right to bury her
alive in Madeira--my St. Helena, Finch. I suppose she will be howled at
as I was; but she is prepared for that.
McCOMAS. Howled at! My dear good lady: there is nothing in any of
those views now-a-days to prevent her from marrying a bishop. You
reproached me just now for having become respectable. You were wrong: I
hold to our old opinions as strongly as ever. I don't go to church; and
I don't pretend I do. I call myself what I am: a Philosophic Radical,
standing for liberty and the rights of the individual, as I learnt to do
from my master Herbert Spencer. Am I howled at? No: I'm indulged as an
old fogey. I'm out of everything, because I've refused to bow the knee
to Socialism.
MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Socialism.
McCOMAS. Yes, Socialism. That's what Miss Gloria will be up to her
ears in before the end of the month if you let her loose here.
MRS. CLANDON (emphatically). But I can prove to her that Socialism
is a fallacy.
McCOMAS (touchingly). It is by proving that, Mrs. Clandon, that I
have lost all my young disciples. Be careful what you do: let her go
her own way. (With some bitterness.) We're old-fashioned: the world
thinks it has left us behind. There is only one place in all England
where your opinions would still pass as advanced.
MRS. CLANDON (scornfully unconvinced). The Church, perhaps?
McCOMAS. No, the theatre. And now to business! Why have you made
me come down here?
MRS. CLANDON. Well, partly because I wanted to see you---
McCOMAS (with good-humored irony). Thanks.
MRS. CLANDON. ---and partly because I want you to explain everything
to the children. They know nothing; and now that we have come back to
England, it is impossible to leave them in ignorance any longer.
(Agitated.) Finch: I cannot bring myself to tell them. I--- (She is
interrupted by the twins and Gloria. Dolly comes tearing up the steps,
racing Philip, who combines a terrific speed with unhurried propriety of
bearing which, however, costs him the race, as Dolly reaches her mother
first and almost upsets the garden seat by the precipitancy of her
arrival.)
DOLLY (breathless). It's all right, mamma. The dentist is coming;
and he's bringing his old man.
MRS. CLANDON. Dolly, dear: don't you see Mr. McComas? (Mr. McComas
rises, smilingly.)
DOLLY (her face falling with the most disparagingly obvious
disappointment). This! Where are the flowing locks?
PHILIP (seconding her warmly). Where the beard? ---the cloak? ---the
poetic exterior?
DOLLY. Oh, Mr. McComas, you've gone and spoiled yourself. Why
didn't you wait till we'd seen you?
McCOMAS (taken aback, but rallying his humor to meet the emergency).
Because eighteen years is too long for a solicitor to go without having
his hair cut.
GLORIA (at the other side of McComas). How do you do, Mr. McComas?
(He turns; and she takes his hand and presses it, with a frank straight
look into his eyes.) We are glad to meet you at last.
McCOMAS. Miss Gloria, I presume? (Gloria smiles assent, and
releases his hand after a final pressure. She then retires behind the
garden seat, leaning over the back beside Mrs. Clandon.) And this young
gentleman?
PHILIP. I was christened in a comparatively prosaic mood. My name
is---
DOLLY (completing his sentence for him declamatorily). "Norval. On
the Grampian hills"---
PHILIP (declaiming gravely). "My father feeds his flock, a frugal
swain"---
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dear, dear children: don't be silly.
Everything is so new to them here, Finch, that they are in the wildest
spirits. They think every Englishman they meet is a joke.
DOLLY. Well, so he is: it's not our fault.
PHILIP. My knowledge of human nature is fairly extensive, Mr.
McComas; but I find it impossible to take the inhabitants of this island
seriously.
McCOMAS. I presume, sir, you are Master Philip (offering his hand)?
PHILIP (taking McComas's hand and looking solemnly at him). I was
Master Philip---was so for many years; just as you were once Master
Finch. (He gives his hand a single shake and drops it; then turns away,
exclaiming meditatively) How strange it is to look back on our boyhood!
(McComas stares after him, not at all pleased.)
DOLLY (to Mrs. Clandon). Has Finch had a drink?
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dearest: Mr. McComas will lunch with
us.
DOLLY. Have you ordered for seven? Don't forget the old gentleman.
MRS. CLANDON. I have not forgotten him, dear. What is his name?
DOLLY. Chalkstones. He'll be here at half past one. (To McComas.)
Are we like what you expected?
MRS. CLANDON (changing her tone to a more earnest one). Dolly: Mr.
McComas has something more serious than that to tell you. Children: I
have asked my old friend to answer the question you asked this morning.
He is your father's friend as well as mine: and he will tell you the
story more fairly than I could. (Turning her head from them to Gloria.)
Gloria: are you satisfied?
GLORIA (gravely attentive). Mr. McComas is very kind.
McCOMAS (nervously). Not at all, my dear young lady: not at all. At
the same time, this is rather sudden. I was hardly prepared---er---
DOLLY (suspiciously). Oh, we don't want anything prepared.
PHILIP (exhorting him). Tell us the truth.
DOLLY (emphatically). Bald headed.
McCOMAS (nettled). I hope you intend to take what I have to say
seriously.
PHILIP (with profound mock gravity). I hope it will deserve it, Mr.
McComas. My knowledge of human nature teaches me not to expect too
much.
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil---
PHILIP. Yes, mother, all right. I beg your pardon, Mr. McComas:
don't mind us.
DOLLY (in conciliation). We mean well.
PHILIP. Shut up, both.
(Dolly holds her lips. McComas takes a chair from the luncheon
table; places it between the little table and the garden seat with Dolly
on his right and Philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the
air of a man about to begin a long communication. The Clandons match
him expectantly.)
McCOMAS. Ahem! Your father---
DOLLY (interrupting). How old is he?
PHILIP. Sh!
MRS. CLANDON (softly). Dear Dolly: don't let us interrupt Mr.
McComas.
McCOMAS (emphatically). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Thank you. (To
Dolly.) Your father is fifty-seven.
DOLLY (with a bound, startled and excited). Fifty-seven! Where does
he live?
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dolly, Dolly!
McCOMAS (stopping her). Let me answer that, Mrs. Clandon. The
answer will surprise you considerably. He lives in this town. (Mrs.
Clandon rises. She and Gloria look at one another in the greatest
consternation.)
DOLLY (with conviction). I knew it! Phil: Chalkstones is our
father.
McCOMAS. Chalkstones!
DOLLY. Oh, Crampstones, or whatever it is. He said I was like his
mother. I knew he must mean his daughter.
PHILIP (very seriously). Mr. McComas: I desire to consider your
feelings in every possible way: but I warn you that if you stretch the
long arm of coincidence to the length of telling me that Mr. Crampton of
this town is my father, I shall decline to entertain the information for
a moment.
McCOMAS. And pray why?
PHILIP. Because I have seen the gentleman; and he is entirely unfit
to be my father, or Dolly's father, or Gloria's father, or my mother's
husband.
McCOMAS. Oh, indeed! Well, sir, let me tell you that whether you
like it or not, he is your father, and your sister' father, and Mrs.
Clandon's husband. Now! What have you to say to that!
DOLLY (whimpering). You needn't be so cross. Crampton isn't your
father.
PHILIP. Mr. McComas: your conduct is heartless. Here you find a
family enjoying the unspeakable peace and freedom of being orphans. We
have never seen the face of a relative---never known a claim except the
claim of freely chosen friendship. And now you wish to thrust into the
most intimate relationship with us a man whom we don't know---
DOLLY (vehemently). An awful old man! (reproachfully) And you
began as if you had quite a nice father for us.
McCOMAS (angrily). How do you know that he is not nice? And what
right have you to choose your own father? (raising his voice.) Let me
tell you, Miss Clandon, that you are too young to---
DOLLY (interrupting him suddenly and eagerly). Stop, I forgot! Has
he any money?
McCOMAS. He has a great deal of money.
DOLLY (delighted). Oh, what did I always say, Phil?
PHILIP. Dolly: we have perhaps been condemning the old man too
hastily. Proceed, Mr. McComas.
McCOMAS. I shall not proceed, sir. I am too hurt, too shocked, to
proceed.
MRS. CLANDON (urgently). Finch: do you realize what is happening?
Do you understand that my children have invited that man to lunch, and
that he will be here in a few moments?
McCOMAS (completely upset). What! do you mean---am I to understand-
--is it---
PHILIP (impressively). Steady, Finch. Think it out slowly and
carefully. He's coming---coming to lunch.
GLORIA. Which of us is to tell him the truth? Have you thought of
that?
MRS. CLANDON. Finch: you must tell him.
DOLLY Oh, Finch is no good at telling things. Look at the mess he
has made of telling us.
McCOMAS. I have not been allowed to speak. I protest against this.
DOLLY (taking his arm coaxingly). Dear Finch: don't be cross.
MRS. CLANDON. Gloria: let us go in. He may arrive at any moment.
GLORIA (proudly). Do not stir, mother. I shall not stir. We must
not run away.
MRS. CLANDON (delicately rebuking her). My dear: we cannot sit down
to lunch just as we are. We shall come back again. We must have no
bravado. (Gloria winces, and goes into the hotel without a word.)
Come, Dolly. (As she goes into the hotel door, the waiter comes out
with plates, etc., for two additional covers on a tray.)
WAITER. Gentlemen come yet, ma'am?
MRS. CLANDON. Two more to come yet, thank you. They will be here,
immediately. (She goes into the hotel. The waiter takes his tray
to the service table.)
PHILIP. I have an idea. Mr. McComas: this communication should be
made, should it not, by a man of infinite tact?
McCOMAS. It will require tact, certainly.
PHILIP Good! Dolly: whose tact were you noticing only this morning?
DOLLY (seizing the idea with rapture). Oh, yes, I declare! William!
PHILIP. The very man! (Calling) William!
WAITER. Coming, sir.
McCOMAS (horrified). The waiter! Stop, stop! I will not permit
this. I---
WAITER (presenting himself between Philip and McComas). Yes, sir.
(McComas's complexion fades into stone grey; and all movement and
expression desert his eyes. He sits down stupefied.)
PHILIP. William: you remember my request to you to regard me as your
son?
WAITER (with respectful indulgence). Yes, sir. Anything you please,
sir.
PHILIP. William: at the very outset of your career as my father, a
rival has appeared on the scene.
WAITER. Your real father, sir? Well, that was to be expected,
sooner or later, sir, wasn't it? (Turning with a happy smile to
McComas.) Is it you, sir?
McCOMAS (renerved by indignation). Certainly not. My children know
how to behave themselves.
PHILIP. No, William: this gentleman was very nearly my father: he
wooed my mother, but wooed her in vain.
McCOMAS (outraged). Well, of all the---
PHILIP. Sh! Consequently, he is only our solicitor. Do you know
one Crampton, of this town?
WAITER. Cock-eyed Crampton, sir, of the Crooked Billet, is it?
PHILIP. I don't know. Finch: does he keep a public house?
McCOMAS (rising scandalized). No, no, no. Your father, sir, is a
well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here.
WAITER (impressed). Oh, beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. A son of Mr.
Crampton's! Dear me!
PHILIP. Mr. Crampton is coming to lunch with us.
WAITER (puzzled). Yes, sir. (Diplomatically.) Don't usually lunch
with his family, perhaps, sir?
PHILIP (impressively). William: he does not know that we are his
family. He has not seen us for eighteen years. He won't know us. (To
emphasize the communication he seats himself on the iron table with a
spring, and looks at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs
swinging.)
DOLLY. We want you to break the news to him, William.
WAITER. But I should think he'd guess when he sees your mother,
miss. (Philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. He
contemplates the waiter raptly.)
DOLLY (dazzled). I never thought of that.
PHILIP. Nor I. (Coming off the table and turning reproachfully on
McComas.) Nor you.
DOLLY. And you a solicitor!
PHILIP. Finch: Your professional incompetence is appalling.
William: your sagacity puts us all to shame.
DOLLY You really are like Shakespear, William.
WAITER. Not at all, sir. Don't mention it, miss. Most happy, I'm
sure, sir. (Goes back modestly to the luncheon table and lays the two
additional covers, one at the end next the steps, and the other so as to
make a third on the side furthest from the balustrade.)
PHILIP (abruptly). Finch: come and wash your hands. (Seizes his arm
and leads him toward the hotel.)
McCOMAS. I am thoroughly vexed and hurt, Mr. Clandon---
PHILIP (interrupting him). You will get used to us. Come, Dolly.
(McComas shakes him off and marches into the hotel. Philip follows with
unruffled composure.)
DOLLY (turning for a moment on the steps as she follows them). Keep
your wits about you, William. There will be fire-works.
WAITER. Right, miss. You may depend on me, miss. (She goes into
the hotel.)
(Valentine comes lightly up the steps from the beach, followed
doggedly by Crampton. Valentine carries a walking stick. Crampton,
either because he is old and chilly, or with some idea of extenuating
the unfashionableness of his reefer jacket, wears a light overcoat. He
stops at the chair left by McComas in the middle of the terrace, and
steadies himself for a moment by placing his hand on the back of it.)
CRAMPTON. Those steps make me giddy. (He passes his hand over his
forehead.) I have not got over that infernal gas yet.
(He goes to the iron chair, so that he can lean his elbows on the
little table to prop his head as he sits. He soon recovers, and begins
to unbutton his overcoat. Meanwhile Valentine interviews the waiter.)
VALENTINE. Waiter!
WAITER (coming forward between them). Yes, sir.
VALENTINE. Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon.
WAITER (with a sweet smile of welcome). Yes, sir. We're expecting
you, sir. That is your table, sir. Mrs. Clandon will be down
presently, sir. The young lady and young gentleman were just talking
about your friend, sir.
VALENTINE. Indeed!
WAITER (smoothly melodious). Yes, sire. Great flow of spirits,
sir. A vein of pleasantry, as you might say, sir. (Quickly, to
Crampton, who has risen to get the overcoat off.) Beg pardon, sir, but
if you'll allow me (helping him to get the overcoat off and taking it
from him). Thank you, sir. (Crampton sits down again; and the waiter
resumes the broken melody.) The young gentleman's latest is that you're
his father, sir.
CRAMPTON. What!
WAITER. Only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. Yesterday, I was to
be his father. To-day, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he
tried to put it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father-
--not seen you for eighteen years, he said.
CRAMPTON (startled). Eighteen years!
WAITER. Yes, sir. (With gentle archness.) But I was up to his
tricks, sir. I saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there,
thinking what new joke he'd have with me. Yes, sir: that's the sort he
is: very pleasant, ve--ry off hand and affable indeed, sir. (Again
changing his tempo to say to Valentine, who is putting his stick down
against the corner of the garden seat) If you'll allow me, sir?
(Taking Valentine's stick.) Thank you, sir. (Valentine strolls up to
the luncheon table and looks at the menu. The waiter turns to Crampton
and resumes his lay.) Even the solicitor took up the joke, although he
was in a manner of speaking in my confidence about the young gentleman,
sir. Yes, sir, I assure you, sir. You would never imagine what
respectable professional gentlemen from London will do on an outing,
when the sea air takes them, sir.
CRAMPTON. Oh, there's a solicitor with them, is there?
WAITER. The family solicitor, sir---yes, sir. Name of McComas, sir.
(He goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious
of the bomblike effect the name has produced on Crampton.)
CRAMPTON (rising in angry alarm). McComas! (Calls to Valentine.)
Valentine! (Again, fiercely.) Valentine!! (Valentine turns.) This is
a plant, a conspiracy. This is my family---my children--my infernal
wife.
VALENTINE (coolly). On, indeed! Interesting meeting! (He resumes
his study of the menu.)
CRAMPTON. Meeting! Not for me. Let me out of this. (Calling to
the waiter.) Give me that coat.
WAITER. Yes, sir. (He comes back, puts Valentine's stick carefully
down against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and
holds it for Crampton to put on.) I seem to have done the young
gentleman an injustice, sir, haven't I, sir.
CRAMPTON. Rrrh! (He stops on the point of putting his arms into the
sleeves, and turns to Valentine with sudden suspicion.) Valentine: you
are in this. You made this plot. You---
VALENTINE (decisively). Bosh! (He throws the menu down and goes
round the table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet.)
CRAMPTON (angrily). What d'ye--- (McComas, followed by Philip and
Dolly, comes out. He vacillates for a moment on seeing Crampton.)
WAITER (softly--interrupting Crampton). Steady, sir. Here they
come, sir. (He takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the
coat across his arm. McComas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely
down and crosses to Crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands
behind him. McComas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in
the majesty of a spotless conscience.)
WAITER (aside, as he passes Philip on his way out). I've broke it to
him, sir.
PHILIP. Invaluable William! (He passes on to the table.)
DOLLY (aside to the waiter). How did he take it?
WAITER (aside to her). Startled at first, miss; but resigned---very
resigned, indeed, miss. (He takes the stick and coat into the hotel.)
McCOMAS (having stared Crampton out of countenance). So here you
are, Mr. Crampton.
CRAMPTON. Yes, here--caught in a trap--a mean trap. Are those my
children?
PHILIP (with deadly politeness). Is this our father, Mr. McComas?
McCOMAS. Yes--er--- (He loses countenance himself and stops.)
DOLLY (conventionally). Pleased to meet you again. (She wanders
idly round the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with
Valentine on the way.)
PHILIP. Allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your
wine. (He takes the wine list from the table. His polite attention,
and Dolly's unconcerned indifference, leave Crampton on the footing of
the casual acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist's. The
consciousness of it goes through the father with so keen a pang that he
trembles all over; his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at his
son, who, just conscious enough of his own callousness to intensely
enjoy the humor and adroitness of it, proceeds pleasantly.) Finch: some
crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh?
McCOMAS (firmly). Apollinaris only. I prefer to take nothing
heating. (He walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting
temptation behind him.)
PHILIP. Valentine---?
VALENTINE. Would Lager be considered vulgar?
PHILIP. Probably. We'll order some. Dolly takes it. (Turning to
Crampton with cheerful politeness.) And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we
do for you?
CRAMPTON. What d'ye mean, boy?
PHILIP. Boy! (Very solemnly.) Whose fault is it that I am a boy?
(Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely
pretends to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect
politeness.)
DOLLY (looking over Crampton's right shoulder). The whisky's on the
last page but one.
CRAMPTON. Let me alone, child.
DOLLY. Child! No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you
mustn't call me child. (She slips her arm through Philip's; and the two
stand looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.)
CRAMPTON (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even
by their playing with him). McComas: we are--ha!--going to have a
pleasant meal.
McCOMAS (pusillanimously). There is no reason why it should not be
pleasant. (He looks abjectly gloomy.)
PHILIP. Finch's face is a feast in itself. (Mrs. Clandon and Gloria
come from the hotel. Mrs. Clandon advances with courageous self-
possession and marked dignity of manner. She stops at the foot of the
steps to address Valentine, who is in her path. Gloria also stops,
looking at Crampton with a certain repulsion.)
MRS. CLANDON. Glad to see you again, Mr. Valentine. (He smiles.
She passes on and confronts Crampton, intending to address him with
perfect composure; but his aspect shakes her. She stops suddenly and
says anxiously, with a touch of remorse.) Fergus: you are greatly
changed.
CRAMPTON (grimly). I daresay. A man does change in eighteen years.
MRS. CLANDON (troubled). I--I did not mean that. I hope your health
is good.
CRAMPTON. Thank you. No: it's not my health. It's my happiness:
that's the change you meant, I think. (Breaking out suddenly.) Look at
her, McComas! Look at her; and look at me! (He utters a half laugh,
half sob.)
PHILIP. Sh! (Pointing to the hotel entrance, where the waiter has
just appeared.) Order before William!
DOLLY (touching Crampton's arm warningly with her finger).
Ahem! (The waiter goes to the service table and beckons to the kitchen
entrance, whence issue a young waiter with soup plates, and a cook, in
white apron and cap, with the soup tureen. The young waiter remains and
serves: the cook goes out, and reappears from time to time bringing in
the courses. He carves, but does not serve. The waiter comes to the
end of the luncheon table next the steps.)
MRS. CLANDON (as they all assemble about the table). I think you
have all met one another already to-day. Oh, no, excuse me.
(Introducing) Mr. Valentine: Mr. McComas. (She goes to the end of the
table nearest the hotel.) Fergus: will you take the head of the table,
please.
CRAMPTON. Ha! (Bitterly.) The head of the table!
WAITER (holding the chair for him with inoffensive encouragement).
This end, sir. (Crampton submits, and takes his seat.) Thank you, sir.
MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Valentine: will you take that side (indicating the
side nearest the parapet) with Gloria? (Valentine and Gloria take their
places, Gloria next Crampton and Valentine next Mrs. Clandon.) Finch: I
must put you on this side, between Dolly and Phil. You must protect
yourself as best you can. (The three take the remaining side of the
table, Dolly next her mother, Phil next his father, and McComas between
them. Soup is served.)
WAITER (to Crampton). Thick or clear, sir?
CRAMPTON (to Mrs. Clandon). Does nobody ask a blessing in this
household?
PHILIP (interposing smartly). Let us first settle what we are about
to receive. William!
WAITER. Yes, sir. (He glides swiftly round the table to Phil's left
elbow. On his way he whispers to the young waiter) Thick.
PHILIP. Two small Lagers for the children as usual, William; and one
large for this gentleman (indicating Valentine). Large Apollinaris for
Mr. McComas.
WAITER. Yes, sir.
DOLLY. Have a six of Irish in it, Finch?
McCOMAS (scandalized). No--no, thank you.
PHILIP. Number 413 for my mother and Miss Gloria as before; and--
(turning enquiringly to Crampton) Eh?
CRAMPTON (scowling and about to reply offensively). I---
WAITER (striking in mellifluously). All right, sir. We know what
Mr. Crampton likes here, sir. (He goes into the hotel.)
PHILIP (looking gravely at his father). You frequent bars. Bad
habit! (The cook, accompanied by a waiter with a supply of hot plates,
brings in the fish from the kitchen to the service table, and begins
slicing it.)
CRAMPTON. You have learnt your lesson from your mother, I see.
MRS. CLANDON. Phil: will you please remember that your jokes are apt
to irritate people who are not accustomed to us, and that your father is
our guest to-day.
CRAMPTON (bitterly). Yes, a guest at the head of my own table. (The
soup plates are removed.)
DOLLY (sympathetically). Yes: it's embarrassing, isn't it? It's
just as bad for us, you know.
PHILIP. Sh! Dolly: we are both wanting in tact. (To Crampton.) We
mean well, Mr. Crampton; but we are not yet strong in the filial line.
(The waiter returns from the hotel with the drinks.) William: come and
restore good feeling.
WAITER (cheerfully). Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Small Lager for
you, sir. (To Crampton.) Seltzer and Irish, sir. (To McComas.)
Apollinaris, sir. (To Dolly.) Small Lager, miss. (To Mrs. Clandon,
pouring out wine.) 413, madam. (To Valentine.) Large Lager for you,
sir. (To Gloria.) 413, miss.
DOLLY (drinking). To the family!
PHILIP. (drinking). Hearth and Home! (Fish is served.)
McCOMAS (with an obviously forced attempt at cheerful domesticity).
We are getting on very nicely after all.
DOLLY (critically). After all! After all what, Finch?
CRAMPTON (sarcastically). He means that you are getting on very
nicely in spite of the presence of your father. Do I take your point
rightly, Mr. McComas?
McCOMAS (disconcerted). No, no. I only said "after all" to round
off the sentence. I---er---er---er----
WAITER (tactfully). Turbot, sir?
McCOMAS (intensely grateful for the interruption). Thank you,
waiter: thank you.
WAITER (sotto voce). Don't mention it, sir. (He returns to the
service table.)
CRAMPTON (to Phil). Have you thought of choosing a profession yet?
PHILIP. I am keeping my mind open on that subject. William!
WAITER. Yes, sir.
PHILIP. How long do you think it would take me to learn to be a
really smart waiter?
WAITER. Can't be learnt, sir. It's in the character, sir.
(Confidentially to Valentine, who is looking about for something.)
Bread for the lady, sir? yes, sir. (He serves bread to Gloria, and
resumes at his former pitch.) Very few are born to it, sir.
PHILIP. You don't happen to have such a thing as a son, yourself,
have you?
WAITER. Yes, sir: oh, yes, sir. (To Gloria, again dropping his
voice.) A little more fish, miss? you won't care for the joint in the
middle of the day.
GLORIA. No, thank you. (The fish plates are removed.)
DOLLY. Is your son a waiter, too, William?
WAITER (serving Gloria with fowl). Oh, no, miss, he's too impetuous.
He's at the Bar.
McCOMAS (patronizingly). A potman, eh?
WAITER (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment
softened by time). No, sir: the other bar---your profession, sir. A
Q.C., sir.
McCOMAS (embarrassed). I'm sure I beg your pardon.
WAITER. Not at all, sir. Very natural mistake, I'm sure, sir. I've
often wished he was a potman, sir. Would have been off my hands ever so
much sooner, sir. (Aside to Valentine, who is again in difficulties.)
Salt at your elbow, sir. (Resuming.) Yes, sir: had to support him
until he was thirty-seven, sir. But doing well now, sir: very
satisfactory indeed, sir. Nothing less than fifty guineas, sir.
McCOMAS. Democracy, Crampton!---modern democracy!
WAITER (calmly). No, sir, not democracy: only education, sir.
Scholarships, sir. Cambridge Local, sir. Sidney Sussex College, sir.
(Dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) Stone ginger,
miss? Right, miss. (To McComas.) Very good thing for him, sir: he
never had any turn for real work, sir. (He goes into the hotel, leaving
the company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.)
VALENTINE. Which of us dare give that man an order again!
DOLLY. I hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer.
CRAMPTON (doggedly). While he's a waiter it's his business to wait.
If you had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held
his tongue.
DOLLY. What a loss that would have been! Perhaps he'll give us an
introduction to his son and get us into London society. (The waiter
reappears with the ginger-beer.)
CRAMPTON (growling contemptuously). London society! London
society!! You're not fit for any society, child.
DOLLY (losing her temper). Now look here, Mr. Crampton. If you
think---
WAITER (softly, at her elbow). Stone ginger, miss.
DOLLY (taken aback, recovers her good humor after a long breath and
says sweetly). Thank you, dear William. You were just in time. (She
drinks.)
McCOMAS (making a fresh effort to lead the conversation into
dispassionate regions). If I may be allowed to change the subject, Miss
Clandon, what is the established religion in Madeira?
GLORIA. I suppose the Portuguese religion. I never inquired.
DOLLY. The servants come in Lent and kneel down before you and
confess all the things they've done: and you have to pretend to forgive
them. Do they do that in England, William?
WAITER. Not usually, miss. They may in some parts: but it has not
come under my notice, miss. (Catching Mrs. Clandon's eye as the young
waiter offers her the salad bowl.) You like it without dressing, ma'am:
yes, ma'am, I have some for you. (To his young colleague, motioning him
to serve Gloria.) This side, Jo. (He takes a special portion of salad
from the service table and puts it beside Mrs. Clandon's plate. In
doing so he observes that Dolly is making a wry face.) Only a bit of
watercress, miss, got in by mistake. (He takes her salad away.) Thank
you, miss. (To the young waiter, admonishing him to serve Dolly
afresh.) Jo. (Resuming.) Mostly members of the Church of England,
miss.
DOLLY. Members of the Church of England! What's the subscription?
CRAMPTON (rising violently amid general consternation). You see how
my children have been brought up, McComas. You see it; you hear it. I
call all of you to witness--- (He becomes inarticulate, and is about to
strike his fist recklessly on the table when the waiter considerately
takes away his plate.)
MRS. CLANDON (firmly). Sit down, Fergus. There is no occasion at
all for this outburst. You must remember that Dolly is just like a
foreigner here. Pray sit down.
CRAMPTON (subsiding unwillingly). I doubt whether I ought to sit
here and countenance all this. I doubt it.
WAITER. Cheese, sir; or would you like a cold sweet?
CRAMPTON (take aback). What? Oh!---cheese, cheese.
DOLLY. Bring a box of cigarets, William.
WAITER. All ready, miss. (He takes a box of cigarets from the
service table and places them before Dolly, who selects one and prepares
to smoke. He then returns to his table for a box of vestas.)
CRAMPTON (staring aghast at Dolly). Does she smoke?
DOLLY (out of patience). Really, Mr. Crampton, I'm afraid I'm
spoiling your lunch. I'll go and have my cigaret on the beach. (She
leaves the table with petulant suddenness and goes down the steps. The
waiter attempts to give her the matches; but she is gone before he can
reach her.)
CRAMPTON (furiously). Margaret: call that girl back. Call her back,
I say.
McCOMAS (trying to make peace). Come, Crampton: never mind. She's
her father's daughter: that's all.
MRS. CLANDON (with deep resentment). I hope not, Finch. (She rises:
they all rise a little.) Mr. Valentine: will you excuse me: I am afraid
Dolly is hurt and put out by what has passed. I must go to her.
CRAMPTON. To take her part against me, you mean.
MRS. CLANDON (ignoring him). Gloria: will you take my place whilst I
am away, dear. (She crosses to the steps. Crampton's eyes follow her
with bitter hatred. The rest watch her in embarrassed silence, feeling
the incident to be a very painful one.)
WAITER (intercepting her at the top of the steps and offering her a
box of vestas). Young lady forgot the matches, ma'am. If you would be
so good, ma'am.
MRS. CLANDON (surprised into grateful politeness by the witchery of
his sweet and cheerful tones). Thank you very much. (She takes the
matches and goes down to the beach. The waiter shepherds his assistant
along with him into the hotel by the kitchen entrance, leaving the
luncheon party to themselves.)
CRAMPTON (throwing himself back in his chair). There's a mother for
you, McComas! There's a mother for you!
GLORIA (steadfastly). Yes: a good mother.
CRAMPTON. And a bad father? That's what you mean, eh?
VALENTINE (rising indignantly and addressing Gloria). Miss Clandon:
I---
CRAMPTON (turning on him). That girl's name is Crampton, Mr.
Valentine, not Clandon. Do you wish to join them in insulting me?
VALENTINE (ignoring him). I'm overwhelmed, Miss Clandon. It's all
my fault: I brought him here: I'm responsible for him. And I'm ashamed
of him.
CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean?
GLORIA (rising coldly). No harm has been done, Mr. Valentine. We
have all been a little childish, I am afraid. Our party has been a
failure: let us break it up and have done with it. (She puts her chair
aside and turns to the steps, adding, with slighting composure, as she
passes Crampton.) Good-bye, father.
(She descends the steps with cold, disgusted indifference. They all
look after her, and so do not notice the return of the waiter from the
hotel, laden with Crampton's coat, Valentine's stick, a couple of shawls
and parasols, a white canvas umbrella, and some camp stools.)
CRAMPTON (to himself, staring after Gloria with a ghastly
expression). Father! Father!! (He strikes his fist violently on the
table.) Now---
WAITER (offering the coat). This is yours, sir, I think, sir.
(Crampton glares at him; then snatches it rudely and comes down the
terrace towards the garden seat, struggling with the coat in his angry
efforts to put it on. McComas rises and goes to his assistance; then
takes his hat and umbrella from the little iron table, and turns towards
the steps. Meanwhile the waiter, after thanking Crampton with unruffled
sweetness for taking the coat, offers some of his burden to Phil.) The
ladies' sunshades, sir. Nasty glare off the sea to-day, sir: very
trying to the complexion, sir. I shall carry down the camp stools
myself, sir.
PHILIP. You are old, Father William; but you are the most
considerate of men. No: keep the sunshades and give me the camp stools
(taking them).
WAITER (with flattering gratitude). Thank you, sir.
PHILIP. Finch: share with me (giving him a couple). Come along.
(They go down the steps together.)
VALENTINE (to the waiter). Leave me something to bring down--one of
these. (Offering to take a sunshade.)
WAITER (discreetly). That's the younger lady's, sir. (Valentine
lets it go.) Thank you, sir. If you'll allow me, sir, I think you had
better have this. (He puts down the sunshades on Crampton's chair, and
produces from the tail pocket of his dress coat, a book with a lady's
handkerchief between the leaves, marking the page.) The eldest young
lady is reading it at present. (Valentine takes it eagerly.) Thank
you, sir. Schopenhauer, sir, you see. (He takes up the sunshades
again.) Very interesting author, sir: especially on the subject of
ladies, sir. (He goes down the steps. Valentine, about to follow him,
recollects Crampton and changes his mind.)
VALENTINE (coming rather excitedly to Crampton). Now look here,
Crampton: are you at all ashamed of yourself?
CRAMPTON (pugnaciously). Ashamed of myself! What for?
VALENTINE. For behaving like a bear. What will your daughter think
of me for having brought you here?
CRAMPTON. I was not thinking of what my daughter was thinking of
you.
VALENTINE. No, you were thinking of yourself. You're a perfect
maniac.
CRAMPTON (heartrent). She told you what I am---a father---a father
robbed of his children. What are the hearts of this generation like?
Am I to come here after all these years---to see what my children are
for the first time! to hear their voices!---and carry it all off like a
fashionable visitor; drop in to lunch; be Mr. Crampton---M i s t e r
Crampton! What right have they to talk to me like that? I'm their
father: do they deny that? I'm a man, with the feelings of our common
humanity: have I no rights, no claims? In all these years who have I
had round me? Servants, clerks, business acquaintances. I've had
respect from them---aye, kindness. Would one of them have spoken to me
as that girl spoke?---would one of them have laughed at me as that boy
was laughing at me all the time? (Frantically.) My own children!
M i s t e r Crampton! My---
VALENTINE. Come, come: they're only children. The only one of them
that's worth anything called you father.
CRAMPTON (wildly). Yes: "good-bye, father." Oh, yes: she got at my
feelings---with a stab!
VALENTINE (taking this in very bad part). Now look here, Crampton:
you just let her alone: she's treated you very well. I had a much worse
time of it at lunch than you.
CRAMPTON. You!
VALENTINE (with growing impetuosity). Yes: I. I sat next to her;
and I never said a single thing to her the whole time---couldn't think
of a blessed word. And not a word did she say to me.
CRAMPTON. Well?
VALENTINE. Well? Well??? (Tackling him very seriously and talking
faster and faster.) Crampton: do you know what's been the matter with
me to-day? You don't suppose, do you, that I'm in the habit of playing
such tricks on my patients as I played on you?
CRAMPTON. I hope not.
VALENTINE. The explanation is that I'm stark mad, or rather that
I've never been in my real senses before. I'm capable of anything: I've
grown up at last: I'm a Man; and it's your daughter that's made a man of
me.
CRAMPTON (incredulously). Are you in love with my daughter?
VALENTINE (his words now coming in a perfect torrent). Love!
Nonsense: it's something far above and beyond that. It's life, it's
faith, it's strength, certainty, paradise---
CRAMPTON (interrupting him with acrid contempt). Rubbish, man! What
have you to keep a wife on? You can't marry her.
VALENTINE. Who wants to marry her? I'll kiss her hands; I'll kneel
at her feet; I'll live for her; I'll die for her; and that'll be enough
for me. Look at her book! See! (He kisses the handkerchief.) If you
offered me all your money for this excuse for going down to the beach
and speaking to her again, I'd only laugh at you. (He rushes buoyantly
off to the steps, where he bounces right into the arms of the waiter,
who is coming up form the beach. The two save themselves from falling
by clutching one another tightly round the waist and whirling one
another around.)
WAITER (delicately). Steady, sir, steady.
VALENTINE (shocked at his own violence). I beg your pardon.
WAITER. Not at all, sir, not at all. Very natural, sir, I'm sure,
sir, at your age. The lady has sent me for her book, sir. Might I take
the liberty of asking you to let her have it at once, sir?
VALENTINE. With pleasure. And if you will allow me to present you
with a professional man's earnings for six weeks--- (offering him
Dolly's crown piece.)
WAITER (as if the sum were beyond his utmost expectations). Thank
you, sir: much obliged. (Valentine dashes down the steps.) Very high-
spirited young gentleman, sir: very manly and straight set up.
CRAMPTON (in grumbling disparagement). And making his fortune in a
hurry, no doubt. I know what his six weeks' earnings come to. (He
crosses the terrace to the iron table, and sits down.)
WAITER (philosophically). Well, sir, you never can tell. That's a
principle in life with me, sir, if you'll excuse my having such a thing,
sir. (Delicately sinking the philosopher in the waiter for a moment.)
Perhaps you haven't noticed that you hadn't touched that seltzer and
Irish, sir, when the party broke up. (He takes the tumbler from the
luncheon table, and sets if before Crampton.) Yes, sir, you never can
tell. There was my son, sir! who ever thought that he would rise to
wear a silk gown, sir? And yet to-day, sir, nothing less than fifty
guineas, sir. What a lesson, sir!
CRAMPTON. Well, I hope he is grateful to you, and recognizes what he
owes you.
WAITER. We get on together very well, very well indeed, sir,
considering the difference in our stations. (With another of his
irresistible transitions.) A small lump of sugar, sir, will take the
flatness out of the seltzer without noticeably sweetening the drink,
sir. Allow me, sir. (He drops a lump of sugar into the tumbler.) But
as I say to him, where's the difference after all? If I must put on a
dress coat to show what I am, sir, he must put on a wig and gown to show
what he is. If my income is mostly tips, and there's a pretence that I
don't get them, why, his income is mostly fees, sir; and I understand
there's a pretence that he don't get them! If he likes society, and his
profession brings him into contact with all ranks, so does mine, too,
sir. If it's a little against a barrister to have a waiter for his
father, sir, it's a little against a waiter to have a barrister for a
son: many people consider it a great liberty, sir, I assure you, sir.
Can I get you anything else, sir?
CRAMPTON. No, thank you. (With bitter humility.) I suppose that's
no objection to my sitting here for a while: I can't disturb the party
on the beach here.
WAITER (with emotion). Very kind of you, sir, to put it as if it was
not a compliment and an honour to us, Mr. Crampton, very kind indeed.
The more you are at home here, sir, the better for us.
CRAMPTON (in poignant irony). Home!
WAITER (reflectively). Well, yes, sir: that's a way of looking at
it, too, sir. I have always said that the great advantage of a hotel is
that it's a refuge from home life, sir.
CRAMPTON. I missed that advantage to-day, I think.
WAITER. You did, sir, you did. Dear me! It's the unexpected that
always happens, isn't it? (Shaking his head.) You never can tell, sir:
you never can tell. (He goes into the hotel.)
CRAMPTON (his eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable
face on his hands). Home! Home!! (He drops his arms on the table and
bows his head on them, but presently hears someone approaching and
hastily sits bolt upright. It is Gloria, who has come up the steps
alone, with her sunshade and her book in her hands. He looks defiantly
at her, with the brutal obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of
his eyes contradicting each other pathetically. She comes to the corner
of the garden seat and stands with her back to it, leaning against the
end of it, and looking down at him as if wondering at his weakness: too
curious about him to be cold, but supremely indifferent to their
kinship.) Well?
GLORIA. I want to speak with you for a moment.
CRAMPTON (looking steadily at her). Indeed? That's surprising. You
meet your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to
him for a moment! That's touching: isn't it? (He rests his head on his
hands, and looks down and away from her, in gloomy reflection.)
GLORIA. All that is what seems to me so nonsensical, so uncalled
for. What do you expect us to feel for you---to do for you? What is it
you want? Why are you less civil to us than other people are? You are
evidently not very fond of us---why should you be? But surely we can
meet without quarrelling.
CRAMPTON (a dreadful grey shade passing over his face). Do you
realize that I am your father?
GLORIA. Perfectly.
CRAMPTON. Do you know what is due to me as your father?
GLORIA. For instance----?
CRAMPTON (rising as if to combat a monster). For instance! For
instance!! For instance, duty, affection, respect, obedience---
GLORIA (quitting her careless leaning attitude and confronting him
promptly and proudly). I obey nothing but my sense of what is right. I
respect nothing that is not noble. That is my duty. (She adds, less
firmly) As to affection, it is not within my control. I am not sure
that I quite know what affection means. (She turns away with an evident
distaste for that part of the subject, and goes to the luncheon table
for a comfortable chair, putting down her book and sunshade.)
CRAMPTON (following her with his eyes). Do you really mean what you
are saying?
GLORIA (turning on him quickly and severely). Excuse me: that is an
uncivil question. I am speaking seriously to you; and I expect you to
take me seriously. (She takes one of the luncheon chairs; turns it away
from the table; and sits down a little wearily, saying) Can you not
discuss this matter coolly and rationally?
CRAMPTON. Coolly and rationally! No, I can't. Do you understand
that? I can't.
GLORIA (emphatically). No. That I c a n n o t understand. I have
no sympathy with---
CRAMPTON (shrinking nervously). Stop! Don't say anything more yet;
you don't know what you're doing. Do you want to drive me mad? (She
frowns, finding such petulance intolerable. He adds hastily) No: I'm
not angry: indeed I'm not. Wait, wait: give me a little time to think.
(He stands for a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in
his perplexity; then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and
sits down beside her, saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and
patient) Now, I think I have it. At least I'll try.
GLORIA (firmly). You see! Everything comes right if we only think
it resolutely out.
CRAMPTON (in sudden dread). No: don't think. I want you to feel:
that's the only thing that can help us. Listen! Do you---but first---I
forgot. What's your name? I mean you pet name. They can't very well
call you Sophronia.
GLORIA (with astonished disgust). Sophronia! My name is Gloria. I
am always called by it.
CRAMPTON (his temper rising again). Your name is Sophronia, girl:
you were called after your aunt Sophronia, my sister: she gave you your
first Bible with your name written in it.
GLORIA. Then my mother gave me a new name.
CRAMPTON (angrily). She had no right to do it. I will not allow
this.
GLORIA. You had no right to give me your sister's name. I don't
know her.
CRAMPTON. You're talking nonsense. There are bounds to what I will
put up with. I will not have it. Do you hear that?
GLORIA (rising warningly). Are you resolved to quarrel?
CRAMPTON (terrified, pleading). No, no: sit down. Sit down, won't
you? (She looks at him, keeping him in suspense. He forces himself to
utter the obnoxious name.) Gloria. (She marks her satisfaction with a
slight tightening of the lips, and sits down.) There! You see I only
want to shew you that I am your father, my---my dear child. (The
endearment is so plaintively inept that she smiles in spite of herself,
and resigns herself to indulge him a little.) Listen now. What I want
to ask you is this. Don't you remember me at all? You were only a tiny
child when you were taken away from me; but you took plenty of notice of
things. Can't you remember someone whom you loved, or (shyly) at least
liked in a childish way? Come! someone who let you stay in his study
and look at his toy boats, as you thought them? (He looks anxiously
into her face for some response, and continues less hopefully and more
urgently) Someone who let you do as you liked there and never said a
word to you except to tell you that you must sit still and not speak?
Someone who was something that no one else was to you---who was your
father.
GLORIA (unmoved). If you describe things to me, no doubt I shall
presently imagine that I remember them. But I really remember nothing.
CRAMPTON (wistfully). Has your mother never told you anything about
me?
GLORIA. She has never mentioned your name to me. (He groans
involuntarily. She looks at him rather contemptuously and continues)
Except once; and then she did remind me of something I had forgotten.
CRAMPTON (looking up hopefully). What was that?
GLORIA (mercilessly). The whip you bought to beat me with.
CRAMPTON (gnashing his teeth). Oh! To bring that up against me! To
turn from me! When you need never have known. (Under a grinding,
agonized breath.) Curse her!
GLORIA (springing up). You wretch! (With intense emphasis.) You
wretch!! You dare curse my mother!
CRAMPTON. Stop; or you'll be sorry afterwards. I'm your father.
GLORIA. How I hate the name! How I love the name of mother! You
had better go.
CRAMPTON. I---I'm choking. You want to kill me. Some---I--- (His
voice stifles: he is almost in a fit.)
GLORIA (going up to the balustrade with cool, quick resourcefulness,
and calling over to the beach). Mr. Valentine!
VALENTINE (answering from below). Yes.
GLORIA. Come here a moment, please. Mr. Crampton wants you. (She
returns to the table and pours out a glass of water.)
CRAMPTON (recovering his speech). No: let me alone. I don't want
him. I'm all right, I tell you. I need neither his help nor yours.
(He rises and pulls himself together.) As you say, I had better go.
(He puts on his hat.) Is that your last word?
GLORIA. I hope so. (He looks stubbornly at her for a moment; nods
grimly, as if he agreed to that; and goes into the hotel. She looks at
him with equal steadiness until he disappears, when she makes a gesture
of relief, and turns to speak to Valentine, who comes running up the
steps.)
VALENTINE (panting). What's the matter? (Looking round.) Where's
Crampton?
GLORIA. Gone. (Valentine's face lights up with sudden joy, dread,
and mischief. He has just realized that he is alone with Gloria. She
continues indifferently) I thought he was ill; but he recovered
himself. He wouldn't wait for you. I am sorry. (She goes for her book
and parasol.)
VALENTINE. So much the better. He gets on my nerves after a while.
(Pretending to forget himself.) How could that man have so beautiful a
daughter!
GLORIA (taken aback for a moment; then answering him with polite but
intentional contempt). That seems to be an attempt at what is called a
pretty speech. Let me say at once, Mr. Valentine, that pretty speeches
make very sickly conversation. Pray let us be friends, if we are to be
friends, in a sensible and wholesome way. I have no intention of
getting married; and unless you are content to accept that state of
things, we had much better not cultivate each other's acquaintance.
VALENTINE (cautiously). I see. May I ask just this one question?
Is your objection an objection to marriage as an institution, or merely
an objection to marrying me personally?
GLORIA. I do not know you well enough, Mr. Valentine, to have any
opinion on the subject of your personal merits. (She turns away from
him with infinite indifference, and sits down with her book on the
garden seat.) I do not think the conditions of marriage at present are
such as any self-respecting woman can accept.
VALENTINE (instantly changing his tone for one of cordial sincerity,
as if he frankly accepted her terms and was delighted and reassured by
her principles). Oh, then that's a point of sympathy between us
already. I quite agree with you: the conditions are most unfair. (He
takes off his hat and throws it gaily on the iron table.) No: what I
want is to get rid of all that nonsense. (He sits down beside her, so
naturally that she does not think of objecting, and proceeds, with
enthusiasm) Don't you think it a horrible thing that a man and a woman
can hardly know one another without being supposed to have designs of
that kind? As if there were no other interests---no other subjects of
conversation---as if women were capable of nothing better!
GLORIA (interested). Ah, now you are beginning to talk humanly and
sensibly, Mr. Valentine.
VALENTINE (with a gleam in his eye at the success of his hunter's
guile). Of course!---two intelligent people like us. Isn't it
pleasant, in this stupid, convention-ridden world, to meet with someone
on the same plane---someone with an unprejudiced, enlightened mind?
GLORIA (earnestly). I hope to meet many such people in England.
VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm! There are a good many people here---
nearly forty millions. They're not all consumptive members of the
highly educated classes like the people in Madeira.
GLORIA (now full of her subject). Oh, everybody is stupid and
prejudiced in Madeira---weak, sentimental creatures! I hate weakness;
and I hate sentiment.
VALENTINE. That's what makes you so inspiring.
GLORIA (with a slight laugh). Am I inspiring?
VALENTINE Yes. Strength's infectious.
GLORIA. Weakness is, I know.
VALENTINE (with conviction). Y o u're strong. Do you know that you
changed the world for me this morning? I was in the dumps, thinking of
my unpaid rent, frightened about the future. When you came in, I was
dazzled. (Her brow clouds a little. He goes on quickly.) That was
silly, of course; but really and truly something happened to me.
Explain it how you will, my blood got--- (he hesitates, trying to think
of a sufficiently unimpassioned word) ---oxygenated: my muscles braced;
my mind cleared; my courage rose. That's odd, isn't it? considering
that I am not at all a sentimental man.
GLORIA (uneasily, rising). Let us go back t