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The Great Adventure, a play by Arnold Bennett |
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Act 2 Scene 2 |
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_ ACT II SCENE II [TIME. Afternoon, four days later.] [JANET is dozing in an easy-chair. Enter CARVE in his dressing-gown.]
CARVE. I'm doing nothing out of bed. (Twiddles his thumbs.) JANET. But you've no right to be out of bed at all. CARVE. I was afraid I hadn't. But I called and called, and there was no answer. So then I began to argue the point. Why not get up? I'd had a tremendous long sleep. I felt singularly powerful. And I thought you'd gone home. JANET. Nay--that you never did! CARVE. I did, honestly. JANET. Do you mean to say you thought for a single moment I should go home and leave you like that? CARVE. Yes. But of course I thought you might be coming back sooner or later. JANET. Well I never! CARVE. You've scarcely left me for three days and three nights, Mrs. Cannot, so far as I remember. Surely it was natural for me to suppose that you'd gone home to your own affairs. JANET. (Sarcastically.) It didn't occur to you I might have dropped off to sleep? CARVE. Now, don't be angry. I'm only convalescent. JANET. Will you kindly march right back to bed this instant? CARVE. No, I'm dashed if I do! JANET. I beg pardon. CARVE. I say, I'm dashed if I do! I won't stir until I've thanked you. I've been ill I don't know how many times; but this is the first time in my life I've ever enjoyed being ill. D'you know (with an ingenuous smile.) I'd really no idea what nursing was. JANET. (Drily.) Hadn't you? Well, if you call that nursing, I don't. But it was the best I could do in this barracks, with the kitchen a mile and a half off, and a pack of men that can't understand English gaping at you all day in evening-dress. I dare say this is a very good hotel for reading newspapers in. But if you want anything that isn't on the menu, it's as bad as drawing money out of the post office savings bank. You should see me nurse in my own house. CARVE. I should like to. Even in this barracks (imitating her.) you've quite altered my views of life. JANET. Yes, and they wanted altering. When I think of you and that other poor fellow wandering about all alone on that Continent--without the slightest notion of what comfort is.... Well, I'll say this--it's a pleasure to nurse you. Now, will you go back to bed? CARVE. I suppose coffee's on the menu? JANET. Coffee? CARVE. I think I should like some cafe au lait, and a roll. JANET. (Rising.) You can have hot milk if you like. CARVE. All right. And then when I've had it I'll go to bed. JANET. (At telephone.) Are you there? CARVE. (Picking up a sheet of paper from table.) Hello! What's this? Hotel bill-receipted? JANET. I should think so indeed! They sent it up the second day. (Into telephone.) Hot milk, please, and let it be hot! (Hanging up telephone. To CARVE.) I expect they were afraid for their money. CARVE. And you paid it? JANET. I took the money out of your pockets and I just paid it. I never said a word. But if you hadn't been ill I should have said something. Of all the swindles, of all the barefaced swindles!... Do you see what it's costing you to live here--a day? CARVE. Oh, not much above four pounds, I hope. JANET. (Speechless at first.) Any woman that knew her business could keep you for a month--a month--for less than you spend here in a day--and better. And better! Look here: "Biscuits, 1s. 6d.!" CARVE. Well? JANET. Well (confidentially earnest.), will you believe me when I tell you there wasn't a pennyworth of biscuits on that plate? Do you think I don't know what biscuits are a pound? CARVE. Really! JANET. (Ironically.) "Cheapest in the end"--but I should say the end's a long way off. CARVE. (Who has picked up another paper, on mantelpiece.) What? "Admit Mr. Albert Shawn to Westminster Abbey, cloisters entrance.... Funeral.... Tuesday."... That's to-day, isn't it? JANET. Yes. CARVE. (Moved.) But you told me he wasn't going to be buried in Westminster Abbey. JANET. I know. CARVE. You told me Cyrus Carve had insisted on cremation. JANET. (With vivacity.) And what did you expect me to tell you? I had to soothe you somehow; you were just about delirious. I was afraid if I told you the truth you'd be doing something silly--seeing the state you were in. Then it struck me a nice plain cremation at Woking was the very thing to keep you quiet. CARVE. (Still more moved.) Then he's.... Westminster Abbey! JANET. Yes, I should say all is over by this time. There were thousands of people for the lying-in-state, it seems. CARVE. But it's awful. Absolutely awful. JANET. Why is it awful? CARVE. I told you--I explained the whole thing to you. JANET. (Humouring, remonstrating.) Mr. Shawn, surely you've got rid of that idea! You aren't delirious now. You said you were convalescent, you know. CARVE. There'll be a perfect Hades of a row. I must write to the Dean at once. I must---- JANET. (Soothingly.) I shouldn't if I were you. Why not let things be? No one would believe that tale---- CARVE. Do you believe it? JANET. (Perfunctorily.) Oh yes. CARVE. No, you don't. Honestly, do you now? JANET. Well----(Knock at door.) Come in. (Enter WAITER with hot milk.) Here's your hot milk. WAITER. Miss Looe has called. CARVE. I must see her. JANET. But---- CARVE. I must see her. JANET. Oh, very well. (Exit WAITER.) She's telephoned each day to inquire how you were. She asked if you wanted a seat for the funeral. I told her you couldn't possibly go, but I was sure you'd like to be invited--whether it was the Abbey or not. Please don't forget your milk. (Enter HONORIA LOOE in mourning, introduced by WAITER.)
CARVE. It's very kind of you. HONORIA. Oh, Mr. Shawn, I know you didn't want him to be buried in the Abbey. I'm all for quiet funerals, too; but really this was an exceptional case, and I think if you'd seen it you'd have been glad they did decide on the Abbey. Oh, you've no idea how impressive it was! The Abbey is always so fine, isn't it? And it was crammed. You never saw such a multitude of distinguished people. I mean really distinguished--all in black, except, of course, the uniforms. Royalties, ambassadors, representatives from all the academies all over Europe. Rodin was there!! The whole of artistic London came. I don't mean only painters, but poets, novelists, sculptors, and musicians. The art students had a corner to themselves. And you should have seen the crowds outside. All traffic was stopped up as far as Trafalgar Square. I've had some difficulty in getting here. The sun was shining through the stained glass. And the music was magnificent. And then when the coffin was carried down the nave--well, there was only one wreath on the pall--just one--a white crown. All the other wreaths were piled near the screen--scores and scores of them--the effect was tremendous. I nearly cried. A lot of people did cry. (Genuinely moved.) There was that great genius lying there. He'd never done anything except put paint on canvas, and yet--and yet.... Well, it made you feel somehow that England does care for art after all. CARVE. (After a pause.) And whom have we to thank for this beautiful national manifestation of sympathy with art? HONORIA. How do you mean? CARVE. (With an attempt at cold irony, but yet in a voice imperfectly controlled.) Did your brother relent and graciously permit Lady Leonard Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or was it due solely to the influence of the newspapers written by people of refined culture like the man who gave his opinion the other day that I had got 'em? Or perhaps you yourself settled it with your esteemed uncle over a cup of tea? HONORIA. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can see that you're artistic yourself, and artists are generally very sarcastic about the British public. I know I am.... Now, don't you paint? CARVE. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I used to--a little. HONORIA. I was sure of it. Well, you can be as sarcastic as you like, but do you know what I was thinking during the service? I was thinking if only he could have seen it--if only Ilam Carve could have seen it--instead of lying cold in that coffin under that wreath, he'd--(Hesitating.) CARVE. (Interrupting her, in a different, resolved tone.) Miss Looe, I suppose you're on very confidential terms with your uncle. HONORIA. Naturally. Why? CARVE. Will you give him a message from me. He'll do perhaps better than anybody. HONORIA. With pleasure. CARVE. (Moved.) It is something important--very important indeed. In fact-- (JANET goes into bedroom, but keeping near the doorway does not actually disappear.)
CARVE. I--(He suddenly stands up and then falls back again into chair.) (JANET returns quickly to the room)
CARVE. No, I can't tell you. At least, not now. Thanks very much for calling. (Rises brusquely and walks towards the bedroom door.) JANET. (To HONORIA.) He's not really strong enough to see visitors. HONORIA. (Going to door and trying to be confidential.) What is it? JANET. (With tranquillity.) Oh, influenza. Sometimes it takes 'em in the head and sometimes in the stomach. It's taken him in the head. HONORIA. Charming man! I don't suppose there's the least likelihood of it--he's evidently very well off--but if he should be wanting a situation similar to his last, I'm sure my uncle---- JANET. (Positively and curtly.) I don't think so. HONORIA. Of course you know him very well? JANET. Well, it's like this. I'm his cousin. We aren't exactly engaged to be married---- HONORIA. (In a changed tone.) Oh, I see! Good afternoon. JANET. Good afternoon. (Exit HONORIA.)
JANET. (Smiling.) I was telling her we weren't engaged to be married. That's true, I suppose? CARVE. But are we cousins? JANET. Yes. I've got my reputation to think about. I don't want to coddle it, but there's no harm in just keeping an eye on it. CARVE. I see. (Sits down.) JANET. If nothing comes of all this-- CARVE. All what? JANET. All this illness and nursing and sitting up at nights,--then I'm just your cousin, and no harm done. CARVE. But do you mean to say you'd-- JANET. (Stopping-him.) Not so fast! (Pause. She continues reflectively.) Do you know what struck me while her ladyship was telling you about all the grand doings at the funeral--What good has it ever done him to be celebrated and make a big splash in the world? Was he any happier for it? From all I can hear he was always trying to hide just as if the police were after him. He never had the slightest notion of comfort, and so you needn't tell me! And there's another thing--you needn't tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl or other, because I know he was. A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything else--morning, noon, and night. It stands to reason--and they can say what they like--I know. And now he's dead--probably because he'd no notion of looking after himself, and it's been in all the papers how wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very likely sat up half the night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with fashionable folk--and do you know what all those fashionable folk are thinking about just now--tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whisky and soda. CARVE. But you mustn't forget that he was really very successful indeed.... Just look at the money he made, for instance. JANET. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him he'd never have left two hundred thousand of them behind him--him with no family. No, he was no better than a fool with money. Couldn't even spend it. CARVE. He had the supreme satisfaction of doing what he enjoyed doing better than anybody else could do it. JANET. And what was that? CARVE. Painting. JANET. (Casually.) Oh! and couldn't he have had that without running about all over Europe? He might just as well have been a commercial traveller. Take my word for it, Mr. Shawn, there's nothing like a comfortable home and a quiet life--and the less you're in the newspapers the better. CARVE. (Thoughtfully.) Do you know--a good deal of what you say applies to me. JANET. And you now! As we're on the subject--before we go any further--you're a bachelor of forty-five, same as him. What have you been doing with yourself lately? CARVE. Doing with myself? JANET. Well, I think I ought to ask because when I was stealing (with a little nervous laugh) the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel bill, I came across a lady's photograph. I couldn't help coming across it. Seeing how things are, I think I ought to ask. CARVE. Oh, that! It must be a photograph of the lady he was engaged to. He broke it off, you know. That was why we came to London in such a hurry. JANET. Then it is true--what the newspaper reporter said? (CARVE nods.) One of the aristocracy--(CARVE nods.) Who was she? CARVE. Lady Alice Rowfant. JANET. What was it doing in your pocket? CARVE. I don't know. Everything got mixed up. Clothes, papers, everything. JANET. Sure? CARVE. Of course! Look here, do you suppose Lady Alice Rowfant is anything to me? JANET. She isn't? CARVE. No. JANET. Honestly? (Looking at him closely.) CARVE. Honestly. JANET. (With obvious relief.) Well, that's all right then! Now will you drink this milk, please. CARVE. I just wanted to tell you---- JANET. Will you drink this milk? (Pours out a glassful for him.) (CARVE addresses himself to the milk.) (JANET begins to put on her things.)
JANET. I'm going home. CARVE. What? Now? JANET. At once. CARVE. But you can't leave me like this. I'm very ill. JANET. Oh no, you aren't. You're very much better. Anyone can see that. All you've got to do is to return to bed and stick to slops. CARVE. And when shall you come back? JANET. You might come down to see me one day at Putney. CARVE. I shall be delighted to. But before that, won't you come here? JANET. (After a pause.) I'll try and come the day after to-morrow. CARVE. Why not to-morrow? JANET. Well, a couple of days without me'll do you no harm. It's a mistake to be in a hurry when you've got all your life in front of you. CARVE. (After a pause.) Listen--have some tea before you go. JANET. No. (Holds out her hand, smiling.) Good afternoon. Now do go to bed. CARVE. I haven't begun to thank you. JANET. No--and I hope you won't begin. CARVE. You're so sudden. JANET. It's sudden or nothing. CARVE. (Holding her hand.) I say--what can you see in me? JANET. Well, if it comes to that--what can you see in me? (Withdrawing her hand.) CARVE. I--I don't know what it is.... Something.... (Lightly.) I dunno! Everything! JANET. That's too much. Good-bye! I'll come about this time the day after to-morrow. CARVE. Supposing I have a relapse? JANET. (At door.) You won't if you do as I tell you. CARVE. But supposing I do? JANET. Well, you can always telegraph, can't you? (Exit.) (CARVE, after finishing milk, suddenly gets up and searches on writing table: he then goes to the telephone.) CARVE. (Into telephone.) Please send me up a telegraph form. [CURTAIN.] _ |
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