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The Romantic Age: A Comedy In Three Acts, a play by A. A. Milne |
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Act 1 |
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_ ACT I (We are looking at the inner hall of MR. HENRY KNOWLE'S country house, at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors R. and L.--on the right leading to the drawing-room, on the left to the entrance hall, the dining-room and the library. At the back are windows--French windows on the right, then an interval of wall, then casement windows.) (MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, her daughter, MELISANDE, and her niece, JANE BAGOT, are waiting for their coffee, MRS. KNOWLE, short and stoutish, is reclining on the sofa; JANE, pleasant-looking and rather obviously pretty, is sitting in a chair near her, glancing at a book; MELISANDE, the beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows, gazing into the night.) (ALICE, the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands in front of MRS. KNOWLE, a little embarrassed because MRS. KNOWLE'S eyes are closed. She waits there until JANE looks up from her book.) JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee? MRS. KNOWLE (opening her eyes with a start). Coffee. Oh, yes, coffee. Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. "No sugar, Mrs. Knowle," he said. "Oh, Dr. Anderson!" I said. (ALICE has taken the tray to JANE, who pours out her own and her aunt's coffee, and takes her cup off the tray.) JANE. Thank you. (ALICE takes the tray to MRS. KNOWLE.) MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. (ALICE goes over to MELISANDE, who says nothing, but waves her away.) MRS. KNOWLE (as soon as ALICE is gone). Jane! JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary? MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open? JANE. Oh, _no_, Aunt Mary. MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I'm glad of that. It's so bad for the servants. (She finishes her coffee.) JANE (getting up). Shall I put it down for you? MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. (JANE puts the two cups down and goes back to her book. MRS. KNOWLE fidgets a little on her sofa.) MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (There is no answer) Sandy! JANE. Melisande! (MELISANDE turns round and comes slowly towards her mother.) MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother? MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn't you hear me? MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other things. MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the great poet tells us. "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." Tennyson, wasn't it? I know I wrote it in your album for you when you were a little girl. It's so true. MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson. JANE (nodding). Kingsley, that's right. MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it's the same thing. I know when _my_ mother used to call me I used to come running up, saying, "What is it, Mummy, darling?" And even if it was anything upstairs, like a handkerchief or a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off happily, saying to myself, "Do noble things, not dream them all day long." MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want doing? MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I've forgotten. If only you'd come at once, dear-- MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It's a wonderful night. Midsummer Night. MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will start drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know where we are. All these changes of the seasons are very inconsiderate to an invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted, dear. Can you find me another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it most important that the small of the back should be well supported after a meal. (Indicating the place) Just here, dear. JANE (jumping up with the cushion from her chair). Let me, Aunt Mary. MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. (JANE arranges it.) JANE. Is that right? MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson's sake. (JANE goes back to her book and MELISANDE goes back to her Midsummer Night. There is silence for a little.) MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy! JANE. Melisande! MELISANDE (coming patiently down to them). Yes, Mother? MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I've just remembered--(MELISANDE shudders.) What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That comes of standing by the open window in a treacherous climate like this. Close the window and come and sit down properly. MELISANDE. It's a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I'm not cold. MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder. Didn't you see her, Jane? JANE. I'm afraid I wasn't looking, Aunt Mary. MELISANDE. I didn't shudder because I was cold. I shuddered because you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder every time I hear it. MRS. KNOWLE (surprised). What name, Sandy? MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by such a wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were going to call me Sandy? MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I've told you, that was a mistake of your father's. I suppose he got it out of some book. I should certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him distinctly. I thought he said Millicent--after your Aunt Milly. And not being very well at the time, and leaving it all to him, I never really knew about it until it was too late to do anything. I did say to your father, "Can't we christen her again?" But there was nothing in the prayer book about it except "riper years," and nobody seemed to know when riper years began. Besides, we were all calling you Sandy then. I think Sandy is a very pretty name, don't you, Jane? JANE. Oh, but don't you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary? I mean really beautiful. MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not for a nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes me think of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to whom she has never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest with her hair coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a pool. Not at all the thing one wants for one's daughter. JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds! MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with "Jane," dear. Your mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child from floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it is my duty to do so. MELISANDE (to her self ecstatically). Melisande! MRS. KNOWLE (to MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about floating in a pool reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner to-night. You heard what your father said? You must give cook a good talking to in the morning. She has been getting very careless lately. I don't know what's come over her. MELISANDE. _I've_ come over her. When _you_ were over her, everything was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you take an interest in it. I don't. I hate it. How can you expect the house to be run properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you ever give it up and make me do it when you know how I hate it? MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I'm sure Jane here doesn't hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a great help she is. MELISANDE (warningly). It's no good your saying you like it, Jane, after what you told me yesterday. JANE. I don't like it, but it doesn't make me miserable doing it. But then I'm different. I'm not romantic like Melisande. MELISANDE. One doesn't need to be very romantic not to want to talk about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this! MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of myself. If I thought about myself I should disregard all the warnings that Dr. Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on doing the housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to think of you. I want to see you married to some nice, steady young man before I die--my handkerchief, Jane--(JANE gets up and gives her her handkerchief from the other end of the sofa)--before I die (she touches her eyes with her handkerchief), and no nice young man will want to marry you, if you haven't learnt how to look after his house for him. MELISANDE (contemptuously). If that's marriage, I shall never get married. JANE (shocked). Melisande, darling! MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to make me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live another hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't _want_ to live another hundred years. I only want to live until my dear daughter, Melisande"--I didn't say Sandy to him because it seemed rather familiar--"I only want to live until my daughter Melisande is happily married to some nice, steady young man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson," I said, "and I shall be your lifelong debtor." He promised to do his best. It was then that he mentioned about the cushion in the small of the back after meals. And so don't forget to tell cook about the bread-sauce, will you, dear? MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother. MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his food. I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper interest in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been married some years, and told each other everything you did and saw before you met, there isn't really anything to talk about at meals except food. And you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. Nothing breaks up the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, breakfast doesn't matter, because he has his paper then; and after you have said, "Is there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has said, "No," then he doesn't expect anything more. I wonder sometimes why they go on printing the newspapers. I've been married twenty years, and there has never been anything in the paper yet. MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage like that. Wasn't there ever _any_ kind of romance between you and Father? Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one magic Midsummer morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald twinkle in the grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't there ever one passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with one long kiss my whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew"? Or did you talk about bread-sauce _all_ the time? JANE (eagerly). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary. MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am quite sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, as Sandy suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at Surbiton. He used to come down from London with his racquet and play tennis with us. And then he would stay on to supper sometimes, and then after supper we would go into the garden together--it was quite dark then, but everything smelt so beautifully, I shall always remember it--and we talked, oh, I don't know what about, but I knew somehow that I should marry him one day. I don't think _he_ knew--he wasn't sure--and then he came to a subscription dance one evening--I think Mother, your grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because she was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right pair of shoes on--rather a tight pair--however, I put them on. And there was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?" Well, of course, I was only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don't know, but, of course, I never told her. And when we got home after the dance, I went up to her room--as soon as I'd got my shoes off--and said, "Mother, I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "_Not_ Mr. Knowle--Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, and wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" and--Jane, where's my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that's really all, you know, except that--(she dabs her eyes again)--I'm afraid I'm feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, dear, why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and compose myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't know what I should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather than cause either of them a moment's remorse. (She is up now) There! JANE. Shall I come with you? MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a little. (She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your Uncle Henry--if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of course. [She goes.] JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their romances too. MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription dances and wearing tight shoes? JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you know what I mean. MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history. Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so little? JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt Mary-- MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost everywhere nowadays. There is no romance left. JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is no--(she searches for the right word)--no _romance_ left. MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one shudder. JANE (doing her best). Positively shudder! MELISANDE. He meets Her at--(she shudders)--a subscription dance, or a tennis party--(she shudders again) or--at _golf_. He calls upon her mother--perhaps in a top hat--perhaps (tragically) even in a bowler hat. JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders. MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his income--discovers that he is a nice, steady young man--and decides that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked to come again, he is invited to parties; it is understood that he is falling in love with the daughter. The rest of the family are encouraged to leave them alone together--if the opportunity occurs, Jane. (Contemptuously) But, of course, only if it occurs. JANE (awkwardly). Yes, dear. MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her. JANE (to herself ecstatically). Oh! MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she takes to be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and tells Father. They are engaged. They talk about each other as "my fiance." Perhaps they are engaged for months and months-- JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande. MELISANDE. For years and years--and wherever they go, people make silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if they go into a room where the two of them are. And then they get married at last, and everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell everybody--they shout it out in the newspapers--_where_ they are going for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about bread-sauce. Oh, Jane, it's horrible. JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you? MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I, Jane? JANE. Because you see, Sandy--I mean Melisande--you see, darling, this _is_ the twentieth century, and-- MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my lattice window. And from his blazoned baldric slung
MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose. JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him? (She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather--_you_ know. Rather forward. MELISANDE. Forward! JANE (upset). Well, I mean--Well, of course, I suppose it was different in those days. MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle? JANE. Well, of course, there _is_ that. MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope--for I have been immured in my room--and I let myself down to him. He places me on the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the world--together for always! JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get _married_, I suppose, darling, or do you--er-- MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest marries us. JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes. MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince from Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a country which is sorely troubled by a dragon. JANE. By a what, dear? MELISANDE. A dragon. JANE. Oh, yes, of course. MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his kingdom to anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens to be passing through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the dragon devours him. JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't _the_ one? MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused no emotion in my heart. JANE. Oh, I'm so glad. MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes upon the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed. JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in blue and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be allowed to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the great hall on my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our eyes meet. . . . Oh, Jane! JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, Melisande. They would have suited you so well. MELISANDE. Will they never come back again? JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress in blue and gold nowadays. I mean men. MELISANDE. No. (She sighs) Well, I suppose I shall never marry. JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't have time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I quite agree with everything you say, and of course it must have been thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still here we are, and (with a wave of the hand)--and what I mean is--here we are. MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and to make the ordinary commonplace marriage? JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was the right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't say beautiful--pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not very clever perhaps, but making enough money---- MELISANDE (carelessly). It sounds rather like Bobby. JANE (confused). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else particularly. It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I was just describing the sort of man without thinking of any one in---- MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right. JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to _you_. MELISANDE (firmly). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you solemnly that if you think you are going to leave me and Bobby alone together this evening---- (Voices are heard outside.) Well, I warn you. JANE (in a whisper). Of course not, darling. (With perfect tact) And, as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the most----Ah, here you are at last! We wondered what had happened to you! (Enter BOBBY and MR. KNOWLE. JANE has already described BOBBY for us. MR. KNOWLE is a pleasant, middle-aged man with a sense of humour, which he cultivates for his own amusement entirely.) BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (He goes towards them.) JANE (laughing). Very. (MELISANDE gets up as BOBBY comes, and moves away.) MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy? MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father. MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget what I said about the bread-sauce, will you? MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What you said? MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that you should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there is no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy chicken, such as we had to-night, but that a properly made bread-sauce is a necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to be obtained. MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, Father. MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A little quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer Night. Why aren't you two out in the garden looking for fairies? BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be out. D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy? MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out. BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm. MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take _you_ out. If we meet any of Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me. MELISANDE (looking across warningly at her). Jane---- JANE (awkwardly). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande and I--I promised Sandy--we---- MR. KNOWLE (putting her arm firmly through his). Nonsense. I'm not going to have my niece taken away from me, when she is only staying with us for such a short time. Besides I insist upon being introduced to Titania. I want to complain about the rings on the tennis-lawn. They must dance somewhere else. JANE (looking anxiously at MELISANDE). You see, Uncle Henry, I'm not feeling very---- MELISANDE (resigned) All right, Jane. JANE (brightly). All right, Uncle Henry. MR. KNOWLE (very brightly). It's all right, Bobby. JANE. Come along! (They go to the open windows together.) MR. KNOWLE (as they go). Any message for Oberon, if we meet him? MELISANDE (gravely). No, thank you, Father. MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose. (JANE laughs as they go out together.) (Left alone, MELISANDE takes up a book and goes to the sofa with it, while BOBBY walks about the room unhappily, whistling to himself. He keeps looking across at her, and at last their eyes meet.) MELISANDE (putting down her book). Well, Bobby? BOBBY (awkwardly). Well, Sandy? MELISANDE (angrily). Don't call me that; you know how I hate it. BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And your father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say anything. MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes a time when it is almost useless to say things to them. BOBBY (eagerly). I never mind your saying things to _me_, Sandy--I mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, really I shan't. Of course, I know I'm not worthy of you, and all that, but--I say, Melisande, isn't there _any_ hope? MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that again. BOBBY (coming to her). I know you did, but I must. I can't believe that you-- MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like that again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that it shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not even Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they propose to a girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of the country and shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to do. But I did try and make it easy for _you_, Bobby. (Sadly) And now you're beginning all over again. BOBBY (awkwardly). I though perhaps you might have changed your mind. Lots of girls do. MELISANDE (contemptuously). Lots of girls! Is that how you think of me? BOBBY. Well, your mother said--(He breaks off hurriedly.) MELISANDE (coldly). Have you been discussing me with my mother? BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean Melisande. MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on. BOBBY. Well, I didn't _discuss_ you with your mother. She just happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and that they always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be downhearted, because-- MELISANDE. That _you_ needn't? You mean you _told_ her? BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out. MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, you went and _told_ her! And then I suppose you went and told the cook, and _she_ said that her brother's young woman was just the same, and then you told the butcher, and _he_ said, "You stick to it, sir. All women are alike. My missis said 'No' to me the first time." And then you went and told the gardeners--I suppose you had all the gardeners together in the potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it--and when you had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go and tell the postman," and then-- BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair. MELISANDE. Oh, what a world! BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair. MELISANDE (picking up her book). Father and Jane are outside, Bobby, if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I suppose they know already. (She pretends to read.) BOBBY. I say, you know--(He doesn't quite know what to say. There is an awkward silence. Then he says humbly) I'm awfully sorry, Melisande. Please forgive me. MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). That's nice of you, Bobby. Please forgive _me_. I wasn't fair. BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your mother. And it sort of came out with _her_. She began talking about you-- MELISANDE. _I_ know. BOBBY. But I never told anybody else. MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother. BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should mind so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't help falling in love with you, and--well, it _is_ a sort of a compliment to you, isn't it?--even if it's only me. MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so--so unromantic. (After a pause) Sometimes I think I shall never marry. BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do _like_ me, don't you? MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't say beautiful-- BOBBY. I should hope not! MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable--not very clever, perhaps, but making enough money-- BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad. MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more! BOBBY. What sort of things? MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so--so ordinary! BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did you? MELISANDE. So--commonplace. So--unromantic. BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry and all that, if that's what you mean by romantic, but--commonplace! I'm blessed if I see how you make out that. MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings-- BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings. MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass! (BOBBY goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his clothes.) BOBBY (looking back at her). Well? MELISANDE. Well! BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong. MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like that! BOBBY (looking at it). What's the matter with it? It's what every other fellow wears. MELISANDE (contemptuously). What every other fellow wears! And you think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what every other fellow talks, and eat what every other--I suppose _you_ didn't like the bread-sauce this evening? BOBBY (guardedly). Well, not as bread-sauce. MELISANDE (nodding her head). I thought so, I thought so. BOBBY (struck by an idea). I say, you didn't make it, did you? MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it? BOBBY. I thought perhaps--You know, I really don't know what you _do_ want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean-- MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did. BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is _he_ going to do the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I don't. MELISANDE (shaking her head gently at him). No, I'm sure you don't, Bobby. BOBBY (still trying, however). I suppose it's because he's doing the cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. He sounds a funny sort of chap; I should like to see him. MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him. BOBBY (jealously). Have you seen him? MELISANDE. Only in my dreams. BOBBY (relieved). Oh, well. MELISANDE (dreamily to herself). Perhaps I shall never see him in this world--and then I shall never marry. But if he ever comes for me, he will come not like other men; and because he is so different from everybody else, then I shall know him when he comes for me. He won't talk about bread-sauce--billiards--and the money market. He won't wear a little black suit, with a little black tie--all sideways. (BOBBY hastily pulls his tie straight.) I don't know how he will be dressed, but I know this, that when I see him, that when my eyes have looked into his, when his eyes have looked into mine-- BOBBY. I say, steady! MELISANDE (waking from her dream). Yes? (She gives a little laugh) Poor Bobby! BOBBY (appealingly). I say, Sandy! (He goes up to her.) (MRS. KNOWLE has seized this moment to come back for her handkerchief. She sees them together, and begins to walk out on tiptoe.) (They hear her and turn round suddenly.) MRS. KNOWLE (in a whisper). Don't take any notice of me. I only just came for my handkerchief. (She continues to walk on tiptoe towards the opposite door.) MELISANDE (getting up). We were just wondering where you were, Mother. Here's your handkerchief. (She picks it up from the sofa.) MRS. KNOWLE (still in the voice in which you speak to an invalid). Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you--I was just going-- MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to Bobby, won't you? MRS. KNOWLE (with a happy smile, hoping for the best). Yes, my darling. MELISANDE (going to the windows). That's right. (She stops at the windows and holds out her hands to the night)--
[She goes to it.] MRS. KNOWLE (in a different voice). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. Coote? BOBBY (turning back to her with a start). Oh--er--yes? MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you Bobby, mayn't I? BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle. MRS. KNOWLE (archly). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of a better name? BOBBY (wondering if he ought to call her MARY). Er--I'm--I'm afraid I don't quite-- MRS. KNOWLE. Mother. BOBBY. Oh, but I say-- MRS. KNOWLE (giving him her hand). And now come and sit on the sofa with me, and tell me all about it. (They go to the sofa together.) BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle-- MRS. KNOWLE (shaking a finger playfully at him). Not Mrs. Knowle, Bobby. BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think--I mean Sandy and I--we aren't-- MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has refused you again. BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it. MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other day was true. Girls don't know their own minds. BOBBY (ruefully). I think Sandy knows hers--about me, anyhow. MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet said--Shakespeare, or was it the other man?--"Faint heart never won fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would never have won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he came again--like Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a revolver, and threatened to shoot himself. I was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I loved him. "Henry," I said, "I am yours." He took me in his arms--putting down the revolver first, of course. I have never regretted my surrender, Mr. Coote. (With a sigh) Ah, me! We women are strange creatures. BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot myself. MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very warm-hearted. I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you are taking too gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it. BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her again. I know when I'm not wanted. MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and I-- BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to you this time. MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how should I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not? BOBBY. Well, of course--I mean I haven't really said anything, have I? Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about things. MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she gets it from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was all the result of being christened in that irreligious way--I quite thought he said Millicent--and reading all those books, instead of visiting the sick as I used to do. I was quite a little Red Riding Hood until Henry sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE and JANE come in by the window, and she turns round towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was wondering where you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all about his prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get your feet wet, I hope. JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary. MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been talking to the fairies--haven't we, Jane? MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see Sandy? MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania--and Peters. He had an appointment, apparently--but not with Titania. JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think. MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a mistake. MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about it as you. He is doing his best to remedy the error. MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I have been through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know about. MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What's the matter, my love? Indigestion? MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my lips are sealed. I shall suffer my cross--my mental cross--in silence. JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary? MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (To Heaven) My only daughter has left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece has offered to help me out of my--to help me. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Mr. Coote. BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle. MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (in a loud whisper) what Shakespeare said. (She presses his hand and holds it) Good-night! Good-night! . . . Good-night! MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he said, "Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I could say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE looks at him severely, and then, without saying anything, goes over to him and holds up her cheek.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well. MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane. JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary. (MRS. KNOWLE goes to the door, BOBBY hurrying in front to open it for her.) MRS. KNOWLE (at the door). I shall _not_ sleep well. I shall lie awake all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much distressed. "Dr. Anderson," I shall say, "it is not your fault. I lay awake all night, thinking of my loved ones." In five minutes, Jane. [She goes out.] MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the library, if anybody wants to think of me--or say good-night to me--or anything like that. JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now, Uncle Henry. (She goes up to him.) MR. KNOWLE (kissing her). Good-night, dear. JANE. Good-night. MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss me--what about you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library and have a smoke first? BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather tired to-day, somehow. MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a business this is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she should come back, Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she will find it in the library--just above the back of the armchair nearest the door. [He goes out. JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden? BOBBY (gloomily). Yes--about five minutes ago. JANE (timidly). I'm so sorry, Bobby. BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (After a pause) Don't let's talk about it. JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I _had_ to say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did you? BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind. JANE (gently). I mind very much when my friends are unhappy. BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (He stands up, buttons his coat, and looks at himself) I say, do _you_ see anything wrong with it? JANE. Wrong with what? BOBBY. My clothes. (He revolves slowly.) JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully. BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she means half the time. JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what you mean. She's so (searching for the right word)--so _romantic_. BOBBY (eagerly). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of living up to. I say, have a cigarette, won't you? JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who marries her. BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that? JANE. Yes. She's too (getting the right word at last)--too _romantic_. BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about doing deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but when one marries and settles down--you know what I mean? JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to Melisande only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I happen to like the twentieth century. That's all. BOBBY. I see what you mean. JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen on games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else wears--as long as they fit well, of course--and to talk about the ordinary things that everybody talks about. Of course, Melisande would say that that was very stupid and unromantic of me---- BOBBY. I don't think it is at all. JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do understand so wonderfully. BOBBY (with a laugh). I say, that's rather funny. I was just thinking the same about you. JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that we are really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't know whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make friends very easily. BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends? JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly think of any--not what you call real friends. BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each other all your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you? JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I could never tell even her. (Impressively) I could never show her my inmost heart. BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I bet there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything. JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. That sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be liked. BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit horrid. JANE. How nice of you. (She gets up) Well, I must be going, I suppose. BOBBY. What's the hurry? JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes. BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down again, won't you? JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Bobby. BOBBY (taking it). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light your candle for you. JANE. How nice of you! (She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door together.) BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself. JANE (at the door). Well, if you are, we'd better put the lights out. BOBBY. Righto. (He puts them out.) I say, what a night! (The moonlight streams through the windows on them.) You'll hardly want a candle. [They go out together.] (The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to ring. After a little interval, ALICE comes in, turns on the light, and looks round the hall. She is walking across the hall to the drawing-room when MR. KNOWLE comes in from behind her, and she turns round.) MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice? ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir. MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it? ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he wondered if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how very sorry he was to trouble you---- MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all--particularly if Peters is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if it's not troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And ask the gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the door-mat. ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir. MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is about to bring in the whiskey. ALICE. Yes, sir. MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out, and returns a moment later) He says, thank you very much, sir, but he really won't come in, and he's very sorry indeed to trouble you about the petrol. MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him. ALICE (hopefully). Yes, sir. MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present Mr. Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much honoured if he will drink a glass of whiskey with me before proceeding on his journey. ALICE. Yes, sir. MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey. ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out. In a little while she comes back followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in a long cloak.) Mr. Gervase Mallory. [She goes out.] MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see you. (They shake hands.) GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for bothering you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance. MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far? GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty miles away. Do you know it? MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as far away as that. GERVASE (with a laugh). Well, perhaps only by the way I came. The fact is I've lost myself rather. MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to have come within five miles of us. GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't. MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now that you _are_ here. GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you. (ALICE comes in.) MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE puts down the whiskey.) You've told Peters? ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now. MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE goes out.) You'll have some whiskey, won't you? GERVASE. Thanks very much. (He comes to the table.) MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make yourself comfortable? GERVASE. Er--thanks. I don't think---- (He smiles to himself and keeps his cloak on.) MR. KNOWLE (busy with the drinks). Say when. GERVASE. Thank you. MR. KNOWLE. And soda? GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks! (He takes the glass.) MR. KNOWLE (giving himself one). I'm so glad you came, because I have a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives me cough-mixture, I insist on somebody else in the house having cough-mixture too. A glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just before going to bed---- (He looks up) But do take your coat off, won't you, and sit down and be comfortable? GERVASE. Er--thanks very much, but I don't think---- (With a shrug and a smile) Oh, well! (He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. He is in fancy dress--the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold of MELISANDE'S dream.) (MR. KNOWLE turns round to him again just as he has put his cloak down. He looks at GERVASE in amazement.) MR. KNOWLE (pointing to his whiskey glass). But I haven't even begun it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port. GERVASE (laughing). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder what on earth I'm doing. MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth _I'd_ been doing. GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at Collingham. MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably. GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in--or take my cloak off. MR. KNOWLE (inspecting him). It becomes you extraordinarily well, if I may say so. GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it when other people are in ordinary clothes. MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. I don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but (looking at himself) I am sure that I could have found something more expressive of my emotions than this. GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, Davy." MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed. GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a whiskey and soda. MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette, too? GERVASE. May I have one of my own? MR. KNOWLE. Do. GERVASE (feeling for it). If I can find it. They were very careless about pockets in the old days. I had a special one put in somewhere, only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, here it is. (He takes a cigarette from his case, and after trying to put the case back in his pocket again, places it on the table.) MR. KNOWLE. Match? GERVASE. Thanks. (Picking up his whiskey) Well, here's luck, and--my most grateful thanks. MR. KNOWLE (raising his glass). May you slay all your dragons. GERVASE. Thank you. (They drink.) MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw a map outside in the hall. GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was too much interested in your prints. MR. KNOWLE (eagerly). You don't say that you are interested in prints? GERVASE. Very much--as an entire amateur. MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the art began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I have something in the library--but of course I mustn't take up your time now. If you could bear to come over another day--after all, we are neighbours---- GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it. MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it because you seem to have lost your way so completely---- GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different in the moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in one afternoon. MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea. GERVASE. That will be ripping. (Getting up) Well, I suppose I ought to be getting on. (He picks up his cloak.) MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the way. GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's. (They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking at the casement windows.) MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (He switches off the lights, and the moon streams through the windows) Just look. GERVASE (with a deep sigh). Wonderful! [They go out together.] (The hall is empty for a moment. Then GERVASE reappears. He has forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and on his way out again stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking through the casement windows.) (MELISANDE comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and at the same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. It is He! The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each other. . . . Silently he makes obeisance to her; silently she acknowledges it. . . . Then he is gone.) _ |
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