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The Great Adventure, a play by Arnold Bennett |
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Act 1 Scene 2 |
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_ ACT I SCENE II [TIME. The next morning but one. Slightly less disorder in the room.] [CARVE and PASCOE are together, the latter ready to leave.]
PASCOE. Inquest? Of course not. CARVE. It's some relief to know that. I couldn't have faced a coroner. PASCOE. (Staring at him.) Perfectly ordinary case. CARVE. That's what you call perfectly ordinary, is it? A man is quite well on Tuesday afternoon, and dead at 4 a.m. on Thursday morning. (Looking at his watch.) My watch has stopped. PASCOE. (With fierce sarcasm.) One of those cheap German watches, I suppose, that stop when you don't wind them up! It's a singular thing that when people stay up all night they take it for granted their watches are just as excited as they are. Look here, you'll be collapsing soon. When did you have anything to eat last? CARVE. Almost half an hour ago. Two sausages that were sent in yesterday for the nurse. PASCOE. She's gone? CARVE. Oh yes. PASCOE. Well, take my advice. Try to get some sleep now. You've had no reply from the relatives--the auctioneer cousin--what's his Christian name--Cyrus? CARVE. No, I--I didn't telegraph--I forgot---- PASCOE. Well, upon my soul! I specially reminded you yesterday afternoon. CARVE. I didn't know the address. PASCOE. Ever heard of the London Directory? You'd better run out and wire instantly. You don't seem to realize that the death of a man like Ilam Carve will make something of a stir in the world. And you may depend on it that whether they'd quarrelled or not, Cyrus Carve will want to know why he wasn't informed of the illness at once. You've let yourself in for a fine row, and well you deserve it. CARVE. (After a few paces.) See here, doctor. I'm afraid there's been some mistake. (Facing him nervously.) PASCOE. What? CARVE. I--I---- (Bell rings.) PASCOE. (Firmly.) Listen to me, my man. There's been no sort of mistake. Everything has been done that could be done. Don't you get ideas into your head. Lie down and rest. You're done up, and if you aren't careful you'll be ill. I'll communicate with Cyrus Carve. I can telephone, and while I'm about it I'll ring up the registrar too--he'll probably send a clerk round. CARVE. Registrar? PASCOE. Registrar of deaths. There'll be all kinds of things to attend to. (Moving to go out.) (Bell rings again.)
PASCOE. (Drily.) Quite possibly! I'll open it. (Exit.) (CARVE, alone, makes a gesture of despair. Re-enter PASCOE with CYRUS CARVE.)
CYRUS. Morning. (Looks round at disorder of room contemptuously.) Pigstye!... My name is Cyrus Carve. I'm your late master's cousin and his only relative. You've possibly never heard of me. CARVE. (Curtly.) Oh yes, I have! You got up a great quarrel when you were aged twelve, you and he. CYRUS. Your manner isn't very respectful, my friend. However you may have treated my cousin, be good enough to remember you're not my valet. CARVE. How did you get to know about it? CYRUS. I suppose he forbade you to send for me, eh? (Pause.) Eh? CARVE. (Jumping at this suggestion.) Yes. PASCOE. So that was it. CYRUS. (Ignoring PASCOE.) Ha! Well, since you're so curious, I saw it a quarter of an hour ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag; I was on my way to the office. (Showing paper.) Here you are! The Evening Courier. Quite a full account of the illness. You couldn't send for me, but you could chatter to some journalist. CARVE. I've never spoken to a journalist in my life. CYRUS. Then how----? PASCOE. It's probably my assistant. His brother is something rather important on the Courier, and he may have telephoned to him. It's a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve. CYRUS. (Drily.) I imagine so. Where is the body? PASCOE. Upstairs. (Moving towards door.) CYRUS. Thanks. I will go alone. PASCOE. Large room at back--first floor. (Exit CYRUS, L.)
CARVE. (Taking card perfunctorily.) Very well. Then you're going? PASCOE. Yes. (Moves away and then suddenly puts out his hand, which CARVE takes.) Want a word of advice? CARVE. I--I ought---- PASCOE. If I were you I should try to get something better than valeting. It's not your line. You may have suited Ilam Carve, but you'd never suit an ordinary employer. You aren't a fool--not by any means. (CARVE shrugs his shoulders.) (Exit PASCOE, L. Door shuts off.) (Re-enter CYRUS immediately after the door shuts.)
CYRUS. Well what? CARVE. Recognize your cousin? CYRUS. Of course a man of forty-five isn't like a boy of twelve, but I think I may say I should have recognized him anywhere. CARVE. (Taken aback.) Should you indeed. (A pause.) And so you're Cyrus, the little boy that kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray of thirty years ago. CYRUS. Look here, I fancy you and I had better come to an understanding at once. What salary did my cousin pay you for your remarkable services? CARVE. What salary? CYRUS. What salary? CARVE. Eighty pounds a year. CYRUS. When were you last paid? CARVE. I--I---- CYRUS. When were you last paid? CARVE. The day before yesterday. CYRUS. (Taking a note and gold from his pocket-book and pocket.) Here's seven pounds--a month's wages in lieu of notice. It's rather more than a month's wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now. (Holding out money.) CARVE. But listen---- CYRUS. (Commandingly.) Take it. (CARVE obeys.)
CARVE. I---- CYRUS. I shall not argue.... Did your master keep his private papers and so on in England or somewhere on the Continent--what bank? CARVE. What bank? He didn't keep them in any bank. CYRUS. Where did he keep them then? CARVE. He kept them himself. CYRUS. What--travelling? CARVE. Yes. Why not? CYRUS. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the business man's mild scorn of the artist's method's.) Whose is this luggage? CARVE. Mine. CYRUS. All of it? CARVE. That is---- CYRUS. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful. CARVE. His. (Angrily, as CYRUS roughly handles a box.) Now then, mind what you're about! Those are etching things. CYRUS. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this? CARVE. That's a typewriter. CYRUS. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines. CARVE. That was--his servant's. CYRUS. Yours, you mean? CARVE. Yes, I mean mine. CYRUS. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a typewriter for? CARVE. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you? CYRUS. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll pitch you down the front-door steps and your things after you. CARVE. I've got something to tell you---- CYRUS. Silence, and answer my questions! Are his papers in this dispatch box? CARVE. Yes. CYRUS. Where are his keys? CARVE. (Slowly drawing bunch of keys from his pocket.) Here. CYRUS. (Taking them.) So you keep his keys? CARVE. Yes. CYRUS. (Opening dispatch box.) Wear his clothes too, I should say! (CARVE sits down negligently and smiles.)
CARVE. I'm not laughing. I'm smiling. (Rising and looking curiously at box.) There's nothing there except lists of securities and pictures and a few oddments--passports and so on. CYRUS. There appears to be some money. I'm glad you've left that. Quite a lot, in fact. (Showing notes.) CARVE. Here, steady! There's twelve thousand francs there besides some English notes. That's mine. CYRUS. Yours, eh? He was taking care of it for you, no doubt? CARVE. (Hesitating.) Yes. CYRUS. When you can furnish me with his receipt for the deposit, my man, it shall be handed to you. Till then it forms part of the estate. (Looking at a packet of letters.) "Alice Rowfant." CARVE. And those letters are mine too. CYRUS. (Reading.) "My dearest boy"--Were you Lady Alice Rowfant's dearest boy? Anyhow, we'll burn them. CARVE. So long as you burn them I don't mind. CYRUS. Indeed! (Continues to examine papers, cheque foils, etc. Then opens a document.) CARVE. Oh! Is that still there? I thought it was destroyed. CYRUS. Do you know what it is? CARVE. Yes. It's a will that was made in Venice I don't know how long ago--just after your aunt died and you had that appalling and final shindy by correspondence about the lease of this house. Everything is left for the establishment of an International Gallery of Painting and Sculpture in London, and you're the sole executor, and you get a legacy of five pounds for your trouble. CYRUS. Yes.... So I see. No doubt my cousin imagined it would annoy me. CARVE. He did. CYRUS. He told you so? CARVE. He said it would be one in the eye for you--and he wondered whether you'd decline the executorship. CYRUS. Well, my man, I may tell you at once that I shall not renounce probate. I never expected a penny from my cousin. I always assumed he'd do something silly with his money, and I'm relieved to find it's no worse. In fact, the idea of a great public institution in London being associated with my family is rather pleasant. CARVE. But he meant to destroy that will long since. CYRUS. (As he cons the will.) How do you know? Has he made a later will? CARVE. No. CYRUS. Well, then! Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed. You come into eighty pounds a year under it. CARVE. I was forgetting that. CYRUS. (Reading.) "I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet, courier, and factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my death." (CARVE laughs shortly.)
CARVE. He's left his card. There it is. CYRUS. He might have waited. CARVE. Yes. But he didn't. His house is only three doors off. CYRUS. (Looking at his watch.) I'll go in and see him about the certificate. Now you haven't begun to put your things together, and you've only got a bit over half an hour. In less than that time I shall be back. I shall want to look through your luggage before you leave. CARVE. (Lightly.) Shall you? CYRUS. By the way, you have a latchkey? (CARVE nods.) Give it me, please. (CARVE surrenders latchkey.) (CYRUS turns to go--As he is disappearing through the door, L., CARVE starts forward.)
CYRUS. What now? CARVE. (Subsiding weakly.) Nothing. (Exit CYRUS. Sound of front door opening and of voices in hall.) (Then re-enter CYRUS with JANET CANNOT.)
(Exit L.)
JANET. Good-morning. D'you know, I had a suspicion the other night that you must be Mr. Shawn? CARVE. Had you? Well, will you sit down--er--I say (with a humorous mysterious air). What do you think of that chap? (Pointing in direction of hall.) JANET. Who is it? CARVE. It's Mr. Cyrus Carve. The great West End auctioneer. (Sound of front-door shutting rather too vigorously.)
CARVE. Did he? JANET. "Good-morning," I said to him. "Excuse me, but are you Mr. Albert Shawn?" Because I wasn't sure, you know. And he looked. CARVE. (After laughing.) The man is an ass. JANET. Is he? CARVE. Not content with being an ass merely, he is a pompous and a stupid ass. (Laughs again to himself.) Now there is something very important that he ought to know, and he wouldn't let me tell him. JANET. Really? CARVE. Yes, very important. But no. He wouldn't let me tell him. And perhaps if I'd told him he wouldn't have believed me. JANET. What did he do to stop you from telling him? CARVE. (At a loss, vaguely.) I don't know--Wouldn't let me. JANET. If you ask me, I should say the truth is, you didn't want to tell him. CARVE. (Impressed.) Now I wonder if you're right. JANET. Well, I don't quite see how anybody can stop anybody from talking. But even if he did, he can't stop you from writing to him. CARVE. No, I'm hanged if I write to him! JANET. Oh, well, that's a proof you didn't want to tell him. CARVE. Perhaps it is. (After a burst of quiet laughter.) Pardon me. (Reflective.) I was only thinking what a terrific lark it will be. JANET. If he never does get to know? CARVE. If he never does get to know. If nobody ever gets to know. (Resolved.) No. I'll keep my mouth shut. JANET. As a general rule, it's the best thing to do. CARVE. You advise me to keep my mouth shut? JANET. Not at all. I simply say, as a general rule it's the best thing to do. But this is no business of mine, and I'm sure I'm not inquisitive. CARVE. (Solemnly.) He shall go his own way. (Pause.) And I'll--go--mine. JANET. (Calmly indifferent.) That's settled, then. CARVE. (Laughs again to himself, then controls his features.) And that being settled, the first thing I have to do is to apologize for my behaviour on Tuesday night. JANET. Oh, not at all. Seeing how upset you were! And then I'm not sure whether I shouldn't have done the same thing myself in your place. CARVE. Done the same yourself? JANET. Well, I may be wrong, but it occurred to me your idea was that you'd like to have a look at me before giving yourself away, as it were. Of course, I sent you my photographs, but photographs aren't much better than gravestones--for being reliable, and some folks are prejudiced against matrimonial agencies, even when they make use of them. It's natural. Now I've got no such prejudice. If you want to get married you want to get married, and there you are. It's no use pretending you don't. And there's as much chance of being happy through a matrimonial agency as any other way. At least--that's what I think. CARVE. (Collecting his wits.) Just so. JANET. You may tell me that people who go to a matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting let in. Well, people who don't go to a matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting let in, too. Besides, I shouldn't give a baby a razor for a birthday present, and I shouldn't advise a young girl to go to a matrimonial agency. But I'm not a young girl. If it's a question of the male sex, I may say that I've been there before. You understand me? CARVE. Quite. JANET. Well, I think I told you pretty nearly everything important in my letter. Didn't I? CARVE. Let me see now---- JANET. I mean the one I sent to the office of the Matrimonial News. CARVE. (Mechanically feeling in his pockets, pulling out papers and putting them back.) Where did I put it? Oh, perhaps it's in the pocket of another coat. (Goes to a coat of SHAWN'S hanging on inner knob of double doors, and empties all the pockets, bringing the contents, including a newspaper, to the table.) JANET. (Picking up an envelope.) Yes, that's it--I can feel the photograph. You seem to keep things in the pockets of all your coats. CARVE. If you knew what I've been through this last day or two---- JANET. (Soothingly.) Yes, yes. CARVE. I haven't had a quiet moment. Now----(Reading letter.) "Dear Sir, in reply to your advertisement, I write to you with particulars of my case. I am a widow, aged thirty-two years----" JANET. And anybody that likes can see my birth certificate. That's what I call talking. CARVE. My dear lady! (Continuing to read.) "Thirty-two years. My father was a jobbing builder, well known in Putney and Wandsworth. My husband was a rent collector and estate agent. He died four years ago of appendicitis (hesitating) caught----" JANET. Caused. CARVE. I beg pardon, "--caused by accidentally swallowing a bristle out of his tooth-brush, the same being discovered at the operation. I am an orphan, a widow, and have no children. In consequence I feel very lonely, and my first experience not being distasteful, indeed the reverse, I am anxious to try again, provided I can meet with a sincere helpmeet of good family. I am the owner of the above house, rated at forty-five pounds a year, in one of the nicest streets in Putney, and I have private means of some three pounds a week, from brewery shares bringing in fifteen per cent. I will say nothing about my appearance, but enclose latest carte-de-visite photograph." JANET. I had it taken on purpose. CARVE. "As to my tastes, I will only say that as a general rule they are quiet. If the above seems in your line, I shall be obliged if you will write and send me particulars of yourself, with photographs.--Yours truly, JANET CANNOT." Well, Mrs. Cannot, your letter is an absolute model. JANET. I suppose you did get dozens? CARVE. Well----By the way, what's this type-written thing in the envelope? JANET. (Looking at it.) It looks like a copy of your answer. CARVE. Oh! JANET. If it isn't a rude question, Mr. Shawn, why do you typewrite your letters? It seems so--what shall I say?--public. CARVE. (Half to himself.) So thats the explanation of the typewriter. JANET. (Puzzled.) I suppose it's because you're a private secretary. CARVE. (Equally puzzled.) Private secretary! I--shall we just glance through my reply? (Reads.) "My dear Mrs. Cannot, your letter inspires me with more confidence than any of the dozens of others I have received." (They look at each other, smiling.) "As regards myself, I should state at once that I am and have been for many years private secretary, indeed I may say almost companion, to the celebrated painter. Mr. Ilam Carve, whose magnificent pictures you are doubtless familiar with." JANET. No, I'm not. CARVE. Really. "We have been knocking about England together for longer than I care to remember, and I personally am anxious for a change. Our present existence is very expensive. I feel the need of a home and the companionship of just such a woman as yourself. Although a bachelor, I think I am not unfitted for the domestic hearth. My age is forty." That's a mistake of the typewriter. JANET. Oh! CARVE. Forty-five it ought to be. JANET. Well, honestly, I shouldn't have thought it. CARVE. "My age is forty-five. By a strange coincidence Mr. Carve has suggested to me that we set out for England to-morrow. At Dover I will telegraph you with a rendezvous. In great haste. Till then, my dear Mrs. Cannot, believe me," etc. JANET. You didn't send a photograph. CARVE. Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing you in advance. JANET. (Laughs.) Eh, Mr. Shawn! There's thousands of young gentlemen alive and kicking in London this minute that would give a great deal to be only half as good looking as you are. And so you're a bachelor? CARVE. Oh, quite. JANET. Two bachelors, as you say, knocking about Europe together. (CARVE laughs quietly but heartily to himself.) By the way, how is Mr. Carve? I hope he's better. CARVE. Mr. Carve?...(Suddenly stops laughing.) Oh! (Lamely, casually.) He's dead! JANET. (Stocked.) Dead? When? CARVE. Early this morning. JANET. (Rising.) And us chattering away like this. Why didn't you tell me at once, Mr. Shawn? CARVE. I forgot for the moment. I wasn't thinking---- JANET. Forgot? CARVE. (Simply and sincerely, but very upset.) Now, Mrs. Cannot, I assure you I feel that man's death. I admit I had very little affection for him--certainly not much respect--but we'd been together a long time, and his death is a shock to me. Yes, really. But I've had to think so much about my own case--and then a scene, a regular scene with Cyrus Carve. And then you coming. The fact is---- JANET. (Sympathetically.) The fact is, you scarcely know what you're doing, my poor Mr. Shawn. You're on wires, that's what's the matter with you--hysteria. I know what it is as well as anybody. You'll excuse me saying so, but you're no ordinary man. You're one of these highly-strung people and you ought to take care of yourself. Well, I'll go now, and if it's mutually agreeable we might perhaps meet again in a month's time--say. CARVE. A month? But what am I to do with myself for a month? Do you know you're absolutely the only friend I've got in London--in England. We're never here. I'm an utter stranger. You can't leave me like that--for a month--four weeks--four Sundays. I haven't the least idea what's going to happen to me. JANET. The very best thing that can happen to you is bed. You go to bed and stop there for a couple of days. There's nothing like it. CARVE. Yes, but where? JANET. Why, here of course. CARVE. I've got to be out of this place in half an hour, less. The fact is, Cyrus Carve has been extremely--er--pert. He's paid me a month's salary and I'm off at once. In under thirty minutes I shall be on the streets. JANET. I never liked that man. Well, then, you must go to some nice respectable boarding-house. CARVE. But I don't know any nice respectable boarding-house. JANET. Oh! There are thousands and thousands in London. Look in the Telegraph. CARVE. I haven't had a paper to-day. JANET. Any day will do. They're in all the papers every day. What's this? (Taking up folded dirty newspaper and opening it.) Now, let's see. Well, what about this? "A beautiful private hotel of the highest class. Luxuriously furnished. Visitors' comfort studied. Finest position in London. Cuisine a speciality. Suitable for persons of superior rank. Bathroom. Electric light. Separate tables. No irritating extras. Single rooms from two and a half guineas. 250 Queen's Gate." Quite close by! (CARVE says nothing.) Perhaps that's a bit dear. Here's another. "Not a boarding-house. A magnificent mansion. Forty bedrooms by Waring. Superb public saloons by Maple. Parisian chef. Separate tables. Four bathrooms. Card-rooms. Billiard room. Vast lounge. Special sanitation. Young, cheerful, musical society. Bridge (small). Finest position in London. No irritating extras. Single rooms from two guineas." What about that? CARVE. (Shakes his head.) I don't think I should fancy it. JANET. I won't say but what two guineas a week is a lot. CARVE. And I was thinking how cheap it was. JANET. (Staring.) Well, of course, if you've got money to fling about. CARVE. Upon my soul I don't know what money I have got. JANET. It'll be just as well to find out before you get into the street. CARVE. Let's see. Well, there's seven pounds (showing it.) and this (pulling silver and gold from another pocket). Not much is it? Sixteen shillings and sixpence. It's true I've an annuity of eighty pounds. I was forgetting that. JANET. (Pleased.) Have you indeed? CARVE. Yes. But an annuity isn't ready cash, is it? JANET. (Picking up Shawn's pocket-book.) And this? This seems rather thick. CARVE. I was forgetting that too. (Opens it and takes out many notes.) JANET. My word! And you'd forgotten that! You ought to see a doctor. CARVE. (Counting.) Twenty-one fives, and ten tens. That makes two hundred and five pounds. (Half to himself.) I always knew I was a bad lot--but where did I collar all that from? (To Janet.) I know what I shall do! I shall go to the Grand Babylon. JANET. The Grand Babylon Hotel? But it's the dearest hotel in London. CARVE. In the big towns we always went to the best hotel. It's cheapest in the end. JANET. You're very persuasive, but you'll never make me believe you'll save money by staying at the Grand Babylon. CARVE. (Rising and beginning to collect things--tries to fold up a pair of trousers.) Now, Mrs. Cannot, will you do me a favour? JANET. You'll spoil these trousers. CARVE. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow? JANET. But I've never been in such a place in my life. CARVE. Remember. You're my only friend. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow? JANET. (Timidly.) I should like to. (Suddenly.) Here, give me those trousers, do! (She takes hold of one leg, CARVE retaining the other.) (Enter CYRUS CARVE.) CYRUS. Oh!
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