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The Lucky One: A Play In Three Acts, a play by A. A. Milne |
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_ ACT II [It is a quiet old-fashioned hotel which SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON patronize in Dover Street on their occasional visits to London. Their private sitting-room is furnished in heavy early Victorian style. A couple of gloomy palms help to decorate the room, on whose walls are engravings of Landseer's masterpieces.] [MASON, a faithful kindly body, once nurse, now familiar servant, is at the table arranging flowers, in a gallant attempt to make the room more cheerful. As she fills each vase she takes it to its place, steps back to consider the effect, and returns to fill the next one. GERALD, in London clothes as attractive as ever, but looking none rather serious, discovers her at work.] GERALD. Hullo, Nanny, when did you come? MASON. This morning, sir. Her ladyship telegraphed for me. GERALD (smiling affectionately at her). Whenever there's any trouble about, we send for Nanny. I wonder she ever came to London without you. MASON. I told her I'd better come, but she wouldn't listen to me. Dear, dear! there _is_ trouble about now Master Gerald. GERALD. Yes. MASON. I thought a few flowers would cheer us up. I said to Mr. Underhill before I started, "Give me some flowers to take with me," I said, "so that I can make the place look more homey and comfortable for her ladyship." GERALD. And you have. No one like Nanny for that. MASON (timidly). Is there any news of Master Bob this morning? Of course, we've all been reading about it in the papers. They're not going to send him to prison? GERALD. I'm afraid they are. MASON. Dear, dear! (She goes on arranging the flowers.) He's not in prison now? GERALD. No; he's on bail for the moment. Perhaps he'll be round here for lunch. But I'm afraid that to-night-- MASON. Even as a baby he was never quite like you, Master Gerald. Never was there such a little lamb as you. How long will they send him to prison for? GERALD. We don't know yet; I expect we shall know this evening. But there's no doubt which way the case is going. MASON. Two of the men were making their bets about it over the supper-table last night. I didn't wait long before giving them a piece of my mind, I can promise you. GERALD (turning round sharply). Who were they? Out they go to-morrow. MASON. That wouldn't be quite fair, would it, sir? They're young and thoughtless like. GERALD (to himself rather than to her). After all, it's only what everybody else has been doing. MASON. It wouldn't be anything very bad that Master Bob has done? GERALD (emphatically). No, Nanny. No. Nothing bad; only--stupid. MASON. I didn't know they put you in prison for being stupid. Some of us have been lucky. GERALD. They can put you in prison for everything Nanny--being stupid or being wise, being bad or being good, being poor or--yes, or being rich. MASON (putting her last touches to the flowers). There! Now it looks much more like what her ladyship's used to. If you aren't sent to prison for being bad, it doesn't seem to matter so much. GERALD. Well--it isn't nice, you know. MASON. There's lots of things that aren't nice in the world. They haven't come _your_ way yet, and I only hope they never will. GERALD. I wish they hadn't come Bob's way. MASON. Ah, Master Bob was born to meet them. Well, I'll go up to her ladyship now. GERALD. Oh, are they back? MASON. Sir James and her ladyship came back from the police-station-- GERALD. The Old Bailey, Nanny. MASON. They came back about ten minutes ago, Master Gerald. And went up to their rooms. GERALD. Tell mother I'm here, will you? MASON. Yes, Sir. (She goes out and comes back almost at once with PAMELA. ) MASON. Here's Miss Pamela. (To PAMELA) I was just saying that her ladyship will be down directly. GERALD (smiling). Not too directly now, Nanny. MASON. No, Master Gerald. [Exit.] GERALD. Pamela! Have you just come up? PAMELA. Mother and I are staying with Aunt Judith. Oh, Gerald! Poor, poor Bob! GERALD. Have you seen him? PAMELA. He came down to us last week, and he has been writing the most heart-rending letters. GERALD. You're a dear to be so good to him. PAMELA. How can one help it? Oh, Gerald, he _has_ been stupid! How he could have gone on as he did, hating it all, understanding nothing, but feeling all the time that things were wrong, and yet too proud or too obstinate to ask for help--hadn't you any idea, _any_ of you? GERALD (awkwardly). You never could get him to talk about the City at all. If you asked him, he changed the subject. PAMELA (reproachfully). Ah! but how did you ask him? Lightly? Jokingly? "Hullo, Rothschild, how's the City getting on?" That sort of way. You didn't really mind. GERALD (smiling). Well, if it comes to that, he didn't much mind how I was getting on at the Foreign Office. He never even said, "Hullo, Grey, how are Balkans?" PAMELA. You had plenty of people to say that; Bob was different. I think I was the first person he really talked to about himself. That was before I met you. I begged him then to get out of it--little knowing. I wonder if it would have made any difference if you had gone up with him on--Oh, well, it doesn't matter now. GERALD (defensively). What were you going to say? PAMELA. Nothing. (Looking at him thoughtfully) Poor Gerald! it's been bad for you too. GERALD. You're not making it better by suggesting that I've let Bob down in some way--I don't quite know how. PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, don't be angry with me--I don't want to hurt you. But I can only think of Bob now. You're so--you want so little; Bob wants so much. Why doesn't he come? I sent a note round to his rooms to say that I'd be here. Doesn't he have lunch here? Oh, Gerald, suppose the case is over, and they've taken him to prison, and I've never said good-bye to him. He said it wouldn't be over till this evening, but how would he know? Oh, I can't bear it if they've taken him away, and his only friend never said good-bye to him. GERALD. Pamela, Pamela, don't be so silly. It's all right, dear; of course I'm not angry with you. And of course Bob will be here. I rang up Wentworth an hour ago, and he said the case can't end till this evening. PAMELA (recovering). Sorry, Gerald, I'm being rather a fool. GERALD (taking her hands). You're being--(There is a knock at the door, and he turns round impatiently) Oh, what is it? [Enter MASON.] MASON (handing note). There's a telephone message been waiting for you, sir. And her ladyship will be down directly. GERALD. Thank you, Nanny. [Exit MASON.] (To PAMELA) May I? (He reads it) Oh, I say, this is rather--this is from Wentworth. He's taken Bob round to lunch with him. PAMELA (going towards the door). I must go, Gerald. Mr. Wentworth won't mind. GERALD (stopping her). Look here, dear, it's going to be quite all right. Wentworth rang up from his rooms; they're probably halfway through lunch by now, and they'll be round in ten minutes. PAMELA. Supposing he doesn't come? Supposing he didn't get my note? It may be waiting for him in his rooms now. GERALD. All right, then, darling, I'll ring him up. PAMELA (determined). No. I'll do it. Yes, Gerald, I know how to manage him. It isn't only that I must see him myself, but if--(bravely) if the case is to be over this evening, and if what we fear is going to happen, he must--oh, he must say good-bye to his mother too. GERALD. Well, if that's all, I'll tell him. PAMELA. He mightn't come for you. He will for me; No, Gerald; I mean it. None of you understand him. I do. GERALD. But supposing he's already started and you miss him? PAMELA. I'll telephone to him at his rooms. Oh, _don't_ stand there talking-- (He walks up and down the room absently, picking up papers and putting them down. MASON comes in and arranges the sofa R.) MASON. Miss Pamela gone, Master Gerald? GERALD. She's coming back. [Enter LADY FARRINGDON.] LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, I hoped you'd be here. GERALD (kissing her). I've only just got away. I couldn't get round to the court. (Seeing her to the sofa) You're all right, dear? [Exit MASON. ] LADY FARRINGDON. Now you're here, Gerald. I telegraphed for Mason. She's such a comfort. How nicely she's done the flowers! (She sits down on the sofa.) GERALD. I'm so glad you sent for her. LADY FARRINGDON. I don't think your father-- [Enter SIR JAMES.] SIR JAMES. Ah, Gerald, I had to take your mother out. She was--ah--overcome. They have adjourned, I suppose? GERALD. Yes. The judge is summing up directly after lunch. Bob will be round here when he's had something to eat. SIR JAMES (looking at his watch). Well, I suppose we ought to try and eat something. LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't touch anything. GERALD (going over to her). Poor mother! LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, couldn't _you_ do anything? I'm sure if you'd gone into the witness-box, or told the judge--Oh, why didn't you go to the Bar, and then you could have defended him. You would have been so much better than that stupid man. SIR JAMES. I must say I didn't at all like his tone. He's practically making out my son to be an idiot. GERALD. Well, it's really the only line he could take. SIR JAMES. What do you mean? Bob is far from being an idiot. LADY FARRINGDON. We always knew he wasn't as clever as Gerald, dear. GERALD. You see, Bob either understood what was going on or he didn't. If he did, then he's in it as much as Marcus. If he didn't--well, of course we know that he didn't. But no doubt the jury will think that he ought to have known. SIR JAMES. The old story, a knave or a fool, eh? GERALD. The folly was in sending him there. SIR JAMES (angrily). That was Parkinson's fault. It was he who recommended Marcus to me. I shall never speak to that man again. (To his wife) Mary, if the Parkinsons call, you are out; remember that. GERALD. He never ought to have gone into business at all. Why couldn't you have had him taught farming or estate agency or something? SIR JAMES. We've got to move with the times, my boy. Land is played out as a living for gentlemen; they go into business nowadays. If he can't get on there, it's his own fault. He went to Eton and Oxford; what more does he want? LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). You must remember he isn't clever like you, Gerald. GERALD. Oh, well, it's no good talking about it now. Poor old Bob! Wentworth thinks-- SIR JAMES. Ah, now why couldn't Wentworth have defended him? That other man--why, to begin with, I don't even call him a gentleman. GERALD. Wentworth recommended him. But I wish he had gone to Wentworth before, as soon as he knew what was coming. SIR JAMES. Why didn't he come to _me_? Why didn't he come to _any_ of us? Then we might have done something. LADY FARRINGDON. Didn't he even tell _you_, Gerald? GERALD (awkwardly). Only just at the last. It was--it was too late to do anything then. It was the Saturday before he was--arrested. (To himself) "The Saturday before Bob was arrested"--what a way to remember anything by! LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). Bob is coming round, dear? GERALD. Yes. Wentworth's looking after him. Pamela will be here too. SIR JAMES. We haven't seen much of Pamela lately. What does _she_ think about it? GERALD (sharply). What do you mean? SIR JAMES. The disgrace of it. I hope it's not going to affect your engagement. GERALD. Disgrace? what disgrace? SIR JAMES. Well, of course, he hasn't been found guilty yet. GERALD. What's that got to do with it? What does it matter what a lot of rotten jurymen think of him? _We_ know that he has done nothing disgraceful. LADY FARRINGDON. I'm sure Pamela wouldn't think anything like that of your brother, dear. GERALD. Of course she wouldn't. She's been a perfect angel to Bob these last few weeks. What does it matter if he does go to prison? SIR JAMES. I suppose you think I shall enjoy telling my neighbours, when they ask me what my elder boy is doing, that he's--ah--in prison. GERALD. Of course you won't enjoy it, and I don't suppose Bob will enjoy it either, but that's no reason why we should make it worse for him by pretending that he's a disgrace to the family. (Half to himself) If anything we've done has helped to send him to prison then it's we who should be ashamed. SIR JAMES. I don't profess to know anything about business, but I flatter myself that I understand my fellow men. If I had been in Bob's place, I should have pretty soon seen what that fellow Marcus was up to. I don't want to be unfair to Bob; I don't think that any son of mine would do a dishonourable action; but the Law is the Law, and if the Law sends Bob to prison I can't help feeling the disgrace of it. GERALD. Yes, it's rough on you and mother. LADY FARRINGDON. I don't mind about myself, dear. It's you I feel so sorry for--and Bob, of course. GERALD. I don't see how it's going to affect _me_. SIR JAMES. In the Foreign Office one has to be like Caesar's wife--above suspicion. GERALD. Yes, but in this case it's Caesar's brother-in-law's partner who's the wrong un. I don't suppose Caesar was so particular about _him_. LADY FARRINGDON. I don't see how Caesar comes into it at all. SIR JAMES (kindly). I spoke in metaphors, dear. [The door opens and WENTWORTH appears.] GERALD. Come in, Wentworth. Where's Bob? WENTWORTH. I dropped him at his rooms--a letter or something he wanted to get. But he'll be here directly. (Nervously) How do you do, Lady Farringdon? How do you do, Sir James? SIR JAMES. Ah, Wentworth. (There is an awkward silence and nobody seems to know what to say.) WENTWORTH. Very hot this morning. SIR JAMES. Very hot. Very. (There is another awkward silence.) WENTWORTH. This is quite a good hotel. My mother always stays here when she's in London. SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. We use it a good deal ourselves. LADY FARRINGDON. How is Mrs. Wentworth? WENTWORTH. She's been keeping very well this summer, thank you. LADY FARRINGDON. I'm so glad. (There is another awkward silence.) GERALD (impatiently). Oh, what's the good of pretending this is a formal call, Wentworth? Tell us about Bob; how's he taking it? WENTWORTH. He doesn't say much. He had lunch in my rooms--you got my message. He couldn't bear the thought of being recognized by anyone, so I had something sent up. GERALD (realizing what it must feel like). Poor old Bob! WENTWORTH. Lady Farringdon, I can't possibly tell you what I feel about this, but I should like to say that all of us who know Bob know that he couldn't do anything dishonourable. Whatever the result of the trial, we shall feel just the same towards him. (LADY FARRINGDON is hardly able to acknowledge this, and SIR JAMES goes across to comfort her.) SIR JAMES (helplessly). There, there, Mary. GERALD (seizing his opportunity, to WENTWORTH). What'll he get? WENTWORTH (quietly). Three months--six months. One can't be certain. GERALD (cheering up). Thank the Lord! I imagined awful things. SIR JAMES (his ministrations over). After all, he hasn't been found guilty yet; eh, Wentworth? WENTWORTH. Certainly, Sir James. With a jury there's always hope. SIR JAMES. What do you think yourself? WENTWORTH. I think he has been very foolish; whether the Law will call it criminally foolish I should hardly like to say. I only wish I had known about it before. He must have suspected something--didn't he say anything to anybody? SIR JAMES. He told Gerald, apparently. For some reason he preferred to keep his father in the dark. GERALD (eagerly). That was the day you came down to us, Wentworth; five days before he was arrested. I asked him to tell you, but he wouldn't. WENTWORTH. Oh, it was too late then. Marcus had absconded by that time. GERALD (earnestly). Nobody could have helped him then, could they? WENTWORTH. Oh no. GERALD (to himself). Thank God. SIR JAMES (to LADY FARRINGDON as he looks at his watch). Well, dear, I really think you ought to try to eat something. LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't, James. (Getting up) But you must have _your_ lunch. SIR JAMES. Well, one oughtn't to neglect one's health, of course. But I insist on your having a glass of claret anyhow, Mary. What about you, Gerald? GERALD. I'm all right. I'll wait for Bob. I've had something. LADY FARRINGDON. You won't let Bob go without seeing us? GERALD. Of course not, dear. (He goes with them to the door and sees them out.) GERALD (coming back to WENTWORTH). Three months. By Jove! that's nothing. WENTWORTH. It's long enough for a man with a grievance. It gives him plenty of time to brood about it. GERALD (anxiously). Who has Bob got a grievance against particularly? WENTWORTH. The world. GERALD (relieved). Ah! Still, three months, Wentworth. I could do it on my head. WENTWORTH. You're not Bob. Bob will do it on his heart. GERALD. We must buck him up, Wentworth. If he takes it the right way, it's nothing. I had awful thoughts of five years. WENTWORTH. I'm not the judge, you know. It may be six months. GERALD. Of course. How does he decide? Tosses up for it? Three months or six months or six years, it's all the same to him, and there's the poor devil in the dock praying his soul out that he'll hit on the shortest one. Good Lord! I'm glad I'm not a judge. WENTWORTH (drily). Yes; that isn't quite the way the Law works. GERALD. Oh, I'm not blaming the Law. (Smiling) Stick to it, Wentworth, by all means. But I should make a bad judge. I should believe everything the prisoner said, and just tell him not to do it again. [BOB comes in awkwardly and stops at the door.] WENTWORTH (getting up). Come along, Bob. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette. BOB (gruffly). No, thanks. (He takes out his pipe.) GERALD (brightly but awkwardly). Hullo, Bob, old boy. BOB. Where's Pamela? She said she'd be here. (He sits down in the large armchair.) GERALD. If she said she'd be here, she will be here. BOB (with a grunt). 'M! (There is an awkward silence.) BOB (angrily to GERALD). Why don't you say something? You came here to say good-bye to me, I suppose--why don't you say it? WENTWORTH. Steady, Bob. GERALD (eagerly). Look here, Bob, old son, you mustn't take it too hardly. Wentworth thinks it will only be three months--don't you, Wentworth? You know, we none of us think any the worse of you for it. BOB. Thanks. That will console me a lot in prison. GERALD. Oh, Bob, don't be an old fool. You know what I mean. You have done nothing to be ashamed of, so what's the good of brooding in prison, and grousing about your bad luck, and all that sort of thing? If you had three months in bed with a broken leg, you'd try and get some sort of satisfaction out of it--well, so you can now if you try. WENTWORTH (after waiting for BOB to say something). There's a good deal in that, Bob, you know. Prison is largely what you make it. BOB. What do either of you know about it? GERALD. Everything. The man with imagination knows the best and the worst of everything. BOB (fiercely). Imagination? You think _I_ haven't imagined it? GERALD. Wentworth's right. You can make what you like of it. You can be miserable anywhere, if you let yourself be. You can be happy anywhere, if you try to be. WENTWORTH (to lead him on). I can't quite see myself being actually happy in prison, Gerald. GERALD. I could, Wentworth, I swear I could. BOB. He'd get popular with the warders; he'd love that. GERALD (smiling). Silly old ass! But there are lots of things one can do in prison, only no one ever seems to think of them. (He gets interested and begins to walk up and down the room.) Now take this solitary confinement there's so much fuss about. If you look at it the right way, there's nothing in it at all. WENTWORTH. A bit boring, perhaps. GERALD. Boring? Nonsense. You're allowed one book a week from the prison library, aren't you? WENTWORTH. You know, you mustn't think that, because I'm a barrister, I know all about the inside of a prison. GERALD. Well, suppose you are allowed one, and you choose a French dictionary, and try to learn it off by heart before you come out. Why, it's the chance of a lifetime to learn French. WENTWORTH. Well, of course, if you _could_ get a French dictionary-- GERALD. Well, there'd be _some_ book there anyway. If it's a Bible, read it. When you've read it, count the letters in it; have little bets with yourself as to which man's name is mentioned most times in it; put your money on Moses and see if you win. Anything like that. If it's a hymn-book, count how many of the rhymes rhyme and how many don't; try and make them _all_ rhyme. Learn 'em by heart; I don't say that that would be particularly useful to you in the business world afterwards, but it would be amusing to see how quickly you could do it, how many you could keep in your head at the same time. WENTWORTH. This is too intellectual for me; my brain would go in no time. GERALD. You aren't doing it all day, of course; there are other things. Physical training. Swedish exercises. Tell yourself that you'll be able to push up fifty times from the ground before you come out. Learn to walk on your hands. Practise cart-wheels, if you like. Gad! you could come out a Hercules. WENTWORTH. I can't help feeling that the strain of improving myself so enormously would tell on me. GERALD. Oh, you'd have your games and so on to keep you bright and jolly. WENTWORTH (sarcastically). Golf and cricket, I suppose? GERALD. Golf, of course; I'm doubtful about cricket. You must have another one for cricket, and I'm afraid the warder wouldn't play. But golf, and squash rackets, and bowls, and billiards--and croquet-- WENTWORTH (in despair). Oh, _go_ on! GERALD. Really, you're hopeless. What the Swiss Family Wentworth would have done if they'd ever been shipwrecked, I can't think. Don't you _ever_ invent _any_thing for yourself? (Excitedly) Man alive! you've got a hymn-book and a piece of soap, what more do you want? You can play anything with that. (Thoughtfully) Oh, I forgot the Olympic games. Standing long jump. And they talk about the boredom of it! WENTWORTH (thoughtfully). You've got your ideas, Gerald. I wonder if you'd act up to them. GERALD. One never knows, but honestly I think so. (There is silence for a little.) BOB. Is that all? GERALD. Oh, Bob, I know it's easy for me to talk-- BOB. I wonder you didn't say at once: "Try not to think about it." You're always helpful. GERALD. You're a little difficult to help, you know Bob. (Awkwardly) I thought I might just give you an idea. If I only could help you, you know how-- BOB (doggedly). I asked you to help me once. GERALD (distressed). Oh, I didn't realize then--besides, Wentworth says it would have been much too late--didn't you, Wentworth? WENTWORTH (taking up his hat). I think I must be getting along now. (Holding out his hand) Good-bye, Bob. I can only say, "The best of luck," and--er--whatever happens, you know what I feel about it. BOB (shaking his hand). Good-bye, Wentworth, and thanks very much for all you've done for me. WENTWORTH (hurriedly). That's all right. (TO GERALD, quietly, as he passes him on the way to the door) You must bear with him, Gerald. Naturally he's--(Nodding) Good-bye. [He goes out.] GERALD (going back to BOB). Bob-- BOB. Why doesn't Pamela come? I want Pamela. GERALD (speaking quickly). Look here, think what you like of me for the moment. But you must listen to what I've got to say. You can imagine it's somebody else speaking Pamela, if you like--Pamela would say just the same. You _must not_ go to prison and spend your time there brooding over the wrongs people have done to you, and the way the world has treated you, and all that sort of thing. You simply must make an effort--and--and--well, come out as good a man as you went in. I know it's easy for me to talk, but that doesn't make it any the less true. Oh, Bob, be a--be a Sportsman about it! You can take it out of me afterwards, if you like, but don't take it out of me now by--by not bucking up just because I suggest it. BOB. I want Pamela. Why doesn't she come? (PAMELA has come in while he is saying this.) PAMELA. Here I am, Bob. BOB (getting up). At last! I began to be afraid you were never coming. PAMELA. You couldn't think that. I told you I was coming. GERALD. Look here, Pamela, we've got to cheer old Bob up. BOB (almost shouting). Good Lord! can't you see that I don't want _you_? I want Pamela alone. PAMELA (putting her hand on GERALD'S shoulder). Gerald, dear, you mustn't be angry with Bob now. Let me be alone with him. GERALD (with a shrug). All right. Poor old Bob! (He goes over to his brother and holds out his hand.) Good-bye, old boy, and--good luck. BOB (coldly). Good-bye. GERALD. Shake hands, Bob. BOB. No. I've been nothing to you all your life. You could have saved me from this, and you wouldn't help me. GERALD (angrily). Don't talk such rot! PAMELA (coming between them). Gerald, dear, you'd better go. Bob won't always feel like this towards you, but just now-- GERALD (indignantly). Pamela, you don't believe this about me? PAMELA. I can't think of you, dear, now; I can only think of Bob. [GERALD gives a shrug and goes out.] BOB. Pamela. PAMELA (coming to him). Yes, dear? BOB. Come and sit near me. You're the only friend I've got in the world. PAMELA. You know that isn't true. (She sits down in the armchair and he sits on the floor at her feet.) BOB. If it hadn't been for you, I should have shot myself long ago. PAMELA. That would have been rather cowardly, wouldn't it? BOB. I am a coward. There's something about the Law that makes people cowards. It's so--what's the word? It goes on. You can't stop it, you can't explain to it, you can't even speak to it. PAMELA. But you can stand up to it. You needn't run away from it. BOB. I think I would have broken my bail and run, if it hadn't been for you. But you would have thought less of me if I had. Besides, I shouldn't have seen you again. PAMELA. Bob, you mustn't just do, or not do, things for _me_; you must do them because of yourself. You must be brave because it's you, and honourable because it's you, and cheerful because it's you. You mustn't just say, "I won't let Pamela down." You must say, "I won't let myself down." You must be proud of yourself. BOB (bitterly). I've been taught to be proud of myself, haven't I? Proud of myself! What's the family creed? "I believe in Gerald. I believe in Gerald the Brother. I believe in Gerald the Son. I believe in Gerald the Nephew. I believe in Gerald the Friend, the Lover, Gerald the Holy Marvel." There may be brothers who don't mind that sort of thing, but not when you're born jealous as I was. Do you think father or mother cares a damn what happens to me? They're upset, of course, and they feel the disgrace for themselves, but the beloved Gerald is all right, and that's all that really matters. PAMELA. Bob, dear, forget about Gerald now. Don't think about him; think about yourself. BOB. I shan't think about myself or about Gerald when I'm in prison. I shall only think of you. PAMELA. Will it help you to think of me? BOB. You're the only person in the world I've got to think of. I found you first--and then Gerald took you from me. Just as he's always taken everything from me. PAMELA. No, no. Not about Gerald again. Let's get away from Gerald. BOB. You can't. He's a devil to get away from. (There is silence for a little.) When I was a small boy, I used to pray very hard on the last day of the holidays for a telegram to come saying that the school had been burnt down.... It never had. PAMELA. Oh, Bob! BOB. I suppose I've got about ten minutes more. But nothing will happen. PAMELA (in a hopeless effort to be hopeful). Perhaps after all you might-- BOB. Why can't the world end suddenly now? It wouldn't matter to anybody. They wouldn't know; they wouldn't have time to understand. (He looks up and sees her face of distress and says) All right, Pamela, you needn't worry. I'm going through with it all right. PAMELA. You must keep thinking of the afterwards. Only of the afterwards. The day when you come back to us. BOB. Will that be such a very great day? (PAMELA is silent.) Triumphant procession through the village. All the neighbours hurrying out to welcome the young squire home. Great rush in the City to offer him partnerships. PAMELA (quietly). Do you want to go back to the City? BOB. Good God, no! PAMELA. Then why are you being sarcastic about it? Be honest with yourself, Bob. You made a mess of the City. Oh, I know you weren't suited to it, but men have had to do work they didn't like before now, and they haven't _all_ made a mess of it. You're getting your punishment now--much more than you deserve, and we're all sorry for you--but men have been punished unfairly before now and they have stood it. You'll have your chance when you come back; I'll stand by you for one, and you've plenty of other friends; but we can't help a man who won't help himself, you know. Bon (sulkily). Thank you, Pamela. PAMELA (shaking him). Bob, Bob, don't be such a baby. Oh, I want to laugh at you, and yet my heart just aches for you. You're just a little boy, Bob (with a sigh), on the last day of his holidays. BOB (after a pause). Are you allowed to have letters in prison? PAMELA. I expect so. Every now and then. BOB. You will write to me? PAMELA. Of course, dear; whenever I may. BOB. I suppose some beast will read it. But you won't mind that, will you? PAMELA. No, dear. BOB. I'll write to you whenever they let me. That will be something to look forward to. Will you meet me when I come out? PAMELA (happily). Yes, Bob. So very gladly. BOB. I'll let you know when it is. I expect I'll be owed to. PAMELA. You must just think of that day all the time. Whenever you are unhappy or depressed or angry, you must look forward to that day. BOB. You'll let it be a fine day, won't you? What shall we do? PAMELA (rather startled). What? BOB. What shall we do directly after I come out? PAMELA. Well, I suppose we--I mean you--well, we'll come up to London together, I suppose, and you'll go to your old rooms. At least, if you still have them. BOB (instantly depressed again). My old rooms. That'll be lively. PAMELA. Well, unless you'd rather-- BOB. I'm not going home, if that's what you mean. The prodigal son, and Gerald falling on my neck. PAMELA (stroking his head). Never mind Gerald, Baby. (He turns round suddenly and seizes her hands.) BOB (in a rush). Whatever happens, you mustn't desert me when I come out. I want you. I've got to know you're there, waiting for me. I'm not making love to you, you're engaged to somebody else, but you were my friend before you were his, and you've got to go on being my friend. I want you--I want you more than he does. I'm not making love to you; you can marry him if you like, but you've got to stand by me. I want you. PAMELA. Haven't I stood by you? BOB (in a low voice). You've been an angel. (He kisses her hands and then gets up and walks away from her; with his back to her, looking out of the window, he says) When are you marrying him? PAMELA (taken by surprise). I--I don't know, Bob. We _had_ thought about--but, of course, things are different now. We haven't talked about it lately. BOB (casually). I wonder if you'd mind promising me something. PAMELA. What is it? BOB. Not to get married till after I come out. (After waiting for PAMELA to speak) You will have about forty years together afterwards. It isn't much to ask. PAMELA. Why should it make a difference to you? BOB. It would. PAMELA. It isn't a thing I like making promises about. But I don't suppose for a moment--Would it help you very much, Bob? BOB (from the bottom of his heart). I don't want Gerald's wife to be waiting for me when I come out; I want my friend. PAMELA (standing up and facing him as he turns round towards her). All right, Bob, she shall be there. (They stand looking at each other intently for a moment. Voices are heard outside, and SIR JAMES, LADY FARRINGDON, and GERALD come into the room.) _ |
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