ACT III
SCENE I
Parlour in Janet's house in Putney. A perfectly ordinary suburban interior of a small house; but comfortable. Table in centre. Door, R., up stage, leading to hall. Door, L., down stage, leading to kitchen and back premises.
Time.—Morning in early autumn. Rather more than two years have elapsed.
Discovered—Carve reading newspaper at breakfast-table. Janet in an apron is hovering busily near him.
Janet. (Putting cigarettes and matches down beside Carve.) Want anything else, dear? (No answer from Carve.) Because I must set about my morning's work. (Carve continues to read.) Albert, are you sure you don't want anything else?
(As he still gives her no sign of attention, she snatches the paper away from him, and throws it on the floor.)
Carve. (Not having moved his eyes.) The pattern of this jug is really not so bad.... Yes, my soul?
Janet. I've asked you I don't know how many times whether you want anything else, because I must set about my morning's work.
Carve. Is there any more coffee?
Janet. Yes, plenty.
Carve. Hot?
Janet. Yes.
Carve. Then I don't want any. Got any bacon?
Janet. No, but I can cook a slice in a minute.
Carve. (With an affectation of martyrdom.) Doesn't matter.
Janet. Oh yes, I will. (Moving away.)
Carve. (Drawing her to him by her apron.) Can't you see he's teasing you?
Janet. She's got no time in the morning for being teased.
(She takes a cigarette, lights it and immediately puts it in his mouth.)
Carve. And now you're going to leave me?
Janet. Sure you're all right? (He nods.) Quite sure you're happy?
Carve. Jane—
Janet. I wish you wouldn't call me Jane.
Carve. But I will call you Jane. Jane, why do you ask me if I'm sure I'm happy? When a man has first-class food and first-class love, together with a genuine French bed, really waterproof boots, a constant supply of hot water in the bathroom, enough money to buy cigarettes and sixpenny editions, the freedom to do what he likes all day and every day—and—let me see, what else—a complete absence of domestic servants—then either that man is happy or he is a silly cuckoo!
Janet. You aren't getting tired—
Carve. My sweet child, what's the matter with you?
Janet. Nothing, nothing. Only to-day's the second anniversary of our wedding—and you've—you've said nothing about it.
Carve. (After a shocked paused.) And I forgot it last year, didn't I? I shall be forgetting my dinner next.
Janet. Oh no, you won't!
Carve. And yet all last week I was thinking about this most important day, and telling myself I must remember it.
Janet. Very easy to say that. But how can you prove it?
Carve. Well, it does just happen that the proof is behind the sideboard.
Janet. A present?
Carve. A present. It was all ready and waiting five days ago.
Janet. (Drawing a framed picture from behind the sideboard, and trying to hide her disappointment, but not quite succeeding.) Oh! A picture! Who is it? (Examines it with her nose close to it.)
Carve. No, no. You can't take a picture like snuff! Get away from it. (He jumps up, snatches the picture from her, and exposes it on a chair at the other side of the room.) Now! (He sits down again.)
Janet. Yes, it doesn't look quite so queer like that. Those are my cooking sleeves, and that seems a bit like my kitchen—that's my best copper pan! Is the young woman meant to be me?
Carve. Well, not to beat about the bush, yes.
Janet. I don't consider it very flattering.
Carve. How many times have you told me you hate flattery?
Janet. (Running to him.) Now he's hurt. Oh, he's hurt. (Kissing him.) It's a beautiful picture, and the frame's lovely! And she's so glad he didn't forget.
Carve. It is pretty good. In fact it's devilish good. It's one of the best things I ever did in my life. Old Carve would have got eight hundred for that like a shot.
[94]Janet. (Sceptically.) Would he? It's wonderful how wonderful people are when they're dead.
Carve. And now will she let him finish reading his paper?
Janet. (Handing him the paper, then putting her head close to his and looking at the paper.) What was it he was reading that made him so deaf he couldn't hear his wife when she spoke to him?
Carve. This.
Janet. (Reading.) "Ilam Carve's princely bequest. The International Gallery of Art. Foundation stone laying. Eloquent speech by Lord Rosebery." Oh! So they've begun it at last?
Carve. Yes, they've begun it at last.
Janet. Well, if you ask me, I should have thought he could have found something better to do with his money.
Carve. As for example?
Janet. Well, I should have thought there were more than enough picture galleries as it is. Who wants 'em? Even when they're free, people won't go into them unless it's a wet day. I've never been in a free picture gallery yet that wasn't as empty as a church. Stands to reason! It isn't even a cinematograph. When I see rows of people in Trafalgar Square waiting to get into the
[95]National Gallery, then I shall begin to think it's about time we had some more galleries. If I'd been Ilam Carve——
Carve. Well, what should you have done, witch?
Janet. I should have left a bit more to you, for one thing.
Carve. I don't want more. If he'd left me eight hundred a year instead of eighty, I shouldn't be any happier. That's just what I've learnt since I took lodgings in your delightful wigwam, Jane—money and fame have no connection whatever with happiness.
Janet. Money has, when you haven't got enough.
Carve. But I have. You won't hear of me paying more than half the household expenses, and you say they're never more than thirty shillings a week. Half thirty—fifteen. Look at the balance it leaves me.
Janet. And supposing I had to ask you to pay more?
Carve. (In a serious sympathetic tone, startled.) Anything wrong?
Janet. Well, there's nothing wrong, as it were—yet——
Carve. Jane, I do believe you've been hiding something from me.
[96]Janet. (With difficulty pulls a letter from her pocket.) No—
Carve. I've felt it for several days.
Janet. You just haven't then. Because I only got it this morning. Here, you may as well read it. (Handing him the letter.) It's about the brewery.
Carve. (Reading.) "Mrs. Albert Shawn. Sir or Madam."—Why are shareholders never supposed to have any particular sex?—"Sir or Madam. Cohoon's Brewery, Ltd.,—I am directed by the shareholders' provisional committee of investigation to request your attendance at an informal meeting of shareholders to be held in room 2009 Winchester House on Friday the 20th inst. at noon. If you cannot be present, will you kindly write stating whether or not you will be prepared to support the committee of investigation at the annual meeting. In view of the probability that the directors' report will be unfavourable, and the ordinary dividend either passed or much reduced, the committee wishes to be thoroughly prepared and armed. Believe me, Sir or Madam." Oh! So that's it, is it?
Janet. Yes. My father said to me before he died, "Keep the money in beer, Janet"; he said, "Beer'll never fail in this country." And there you are!
(She goes to fireplace, opens coal scuttle, takes out a piece of paper ready placed within, and sticks it on the handle so as to keep her hands from being soiled as she replenishes the fire.)
Carve. (Lightly.) Oh, well! We must wait and see what happens.
Janet. Supposing the dividend doesn't happen?
Carve. I never worry about money.
Janet. But we shall want to eat once or twice pretty nearly every day, I suppose?
Carve. Personally, I am quite satisfied with a plain but perfect table.
Janet. You needn't tell me what you are satisfied with. You're satisfied with the very best at one shilling and sixpence a pound.
Carve. I can place eighty pounds per annum at your absolute disposal. That alone will pay for over a thousand best cuts.
Janet. Yes, and what about your clothes and my clothes, and the rates and taxes, and bus-fares, and holidays, and your cigarettes, and doctor, and errand boys' Christmas-boxes, and gas, and coal, and repairs? Repairs! A hundred and eighty is more like what we want.
Carve. And yet you have several times taken your Bible oath that my half-share of it all came to less than forty pounds.
Janet. Well—er—I was thinking of food. (She begins to collect the breakfast things.)
Carve. Jane, you have been a deceitful thing. But never mind. I will draw a veil over this sinful past. Let us assume that beer goes all to pieces, and that you never get another cent out of Cohoon's. Well, as you need a hundred and eighty a year, I will give you a hundred and eighty a year.
Janet. And where shall you get the extra hundred?
Carve. I shall earn it.
Janet. No, you don't. I won't have you taking any more situations.
Carve. I shall earn it here.
Janet. How?
Carve. Painting!
Janet. (Stopping her work and coming towards him, half-caressing and half-chiding.) I don't mind this painting business. Don't think I object to it in the least. There's a strong smell with it now and then, but it does keep you quiet in the attic while I'm cleaning the house, and that's something. And then going out making sketches you get exercise and fresh air. Being with Ilam Carve so long, I expect you picked up the habit as it were, and I'm sure I don't want you to drop it. I love to see you enjoying yourself. But you don't suppose people'll buy these things
[99](pointing vaguely to picture on chair), do you? No; there's far too many amateur artists about for that!
Carve. If I wanted, I could take a cab and sell that in Bond Street inside sixty minutes at my own price. Only I don't want.
Janet. Now, just listen to me. You remember that picture you did of Putney Bridge with the saloon entrance of the Reindeer Public House showing in the corner? It was one of the first you did here.
Carve. Yes, I was looking for it the other day, and I couldn't find it.
Janet. I'm not surprised. Because it's sold.
Carve. Sold? (Excited.) What in the name of——
Janet. (Soothing him.) Now—now! Do you remember you said Ilam Carve would have got £1000 for a thing just like that?
Carve. So he would. It was absolutely characteristic.
Janet. Well, I said to myself, "He seems mighty sure of himself. Supposing it's me that's wrong?" So one day I quietly took that picture round to Bostock's, the second-hand furniture man, you know,—he was a friend of father's,—and I asked him what he'd give me for it. He wouldn't take it at any price. Not at any price. Then I asked him if he'd keep it in his shop and sell it for me
[100]on commission. Well, it stuck in Bostock's shop—in his window and out of his window—for twelve months and more, and then one day the landlord of the Reindeer saw it and he bought it for six shillings, because his public-house was in it. He was half-drunk. Mr. Bostock charged me eighteenpence commission, and I bought you two neckties with the four and six, and I said nothing because I didn't want your feelings to be hurt. And that reminds me, last week but one they took the landlord of the Reindeer off to the lunatic asylum.... So, you see!
Carve. (Serious, preoccupied.) And where's the picture now?
Janet. I shouldn't be surprised if it's in the private bar of the Reindeer.
Carve. I must get hold of it.
Janet. Albert, you aren't vexed, are you?
Carve. (Forcing himself to adopt a light tone.) How could I be vexed with two neckties to the good? But don't do it again, Jane. I shall go round to the Reindeer this morning and have a drink. If that picture ever found its way to a Bond Street expert's, the consequences might be awkward—devilish awkward. Because it's dated, you see.
Janet. No, I don't see. I shouldn't have said
[101]a word about it, only I wanted to save you from being disappointed later on.
Carve. (In a new casual tone.) Just get me my cash-box, will you?
(Janet at once produces the cash-box from a drawer.)
Janet. And what now? I'm not broke yet, you great silly. (Laughs, but is rather intimidated by Carve's air.)
Carve. (Having unlocked box and taken a bag from it.) You see that? (He showers gold out of it.) Well, count it!
Janet. Gracious! Ten—fifteen—eighteen—twenty?—two—four—twenty-six pounds. These your savings?
Carve. That's what I've earned with painting, just at odd times.
Janet. Really? (Carve nods.) You could knock me down with a feather!
Carve. I'll tell you. You know the framemaker's next to Salmon and Gluckstein's. I buy my colours and canvases and things there. They cost money. I owed the chap two pounds once, and one morning, in the shop, when I was opening my box to put some new tubes in, he saw one of my pictures all wet. He offered of his own accord to take it for what I owed him. I wouldn't let him have it.
[102]But I was rather hard up, so I said I'd do him another instead, and I did him one in a different style and not half as good, and of course he liked it even better. Since then, I've done him quite a few. It isn't that I've needed the money; but it's a margin, and colours and frames, etc. come to a dickens of a lot in a year.
Janet. (Staggered.) And whatever does he do with them?
Carve. With the pictures? Don't know. I've never seen one in his window. I haven't been selling him any lately.
Janet. Why?
Carve. Oh, I didn't feel like it. And the things were getting too good. But, of course, I can start again any time.
Janet. (Still staggered.) Two pounds a piece? (Carve nods.) Would he give you two pounds for that? (Pointing to portrait.)
Carve. You bet he would.
Janet. Why! Two pounds would keep us for the best part of a week. How long does it take you to do one?
(Noise of motor car outside.)
Carve. Oh, three or four hours. I work pretty quickly.
Janet. Well, it's like a fairy tale. Two
[103]pounds! I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my heels!
(Violent ringing at front door bell.)
Carve. There's one of your tradesmen.
Janet. It isn't. They know better than come to my front door. They know I won't have it.
(Exit, throwing off apron.)
(Carve examines the portrait of his wife with evident pleasure.)
Carve. (To himself.) That 'ud make 'em sit up in Bond Street. (Laughs grimly.)
(Voices off. Re-enter Janet, followed by Ebag carrying a picture.)
Janet. Well, it never rains but it pours. Here's a gentleman in a motor car wants to know if you've got any pictures for sale. (She calmly conceals her apron.)
Ebag. (With diplomatic caution and much deference.) Good-morning.
Carve. (Whose entire demeanour has suddenly changed into hostility.) Good-morning.
Ebag. I've been buying some very delightful little things of yours from a man that calls himself a picture-dealer and frame-maker (ironically) in the High Street here. I persuaded him—not without difficulty—to give me your address. And I've ventured to
[104]call just to see if by chance you have anything for sale.
Carve. By chance I haven't!
Ebag. Nothing at all?
Carve. Not a square inch.
Ebag. (Catching sight of Janet's portrait.) Pardon me. May I look?
Janet. Oh, do!
Ebag. A brilliant likeness.
Janet. Who of?
Ebag. Why, madam—yourself? The attitude is extraordinarily expressive. And if I may say so (glancing at Carve) the placing of the high lights—those white sleevelets—what d'you call them?
Janet. Why! Those are my cooking-sleeves!
Ebag. (Quietly.) Yes—well—it's genius—mere genius.
Janet. (Looking at picture afresh) It is rather pretty when you come to look at it.
Ebag. It is a masterpiece, madam. (To Carve.) Then I may not make an offer for it?
Carve. No.
Janet. Excuse me, Albert. Why shouldn't the gentleman make an offer for it?
Ebag. (Quickly seizing an opportunity) If you cared to consider, say, five hundred pounds.
Janet. Five hundred p——
Ebag. I came down quite prepared to spend—and to pay cash. (Fingers his pocket-book.)
Janet. (Sitting down.) And if it isn't a rude question—do you generally go about with five hundred pounds in your pocket, as it were?
Ebag. (Raising his hands.) In my business, madam—
Carve. It's not for sale. (Turns it round.)
Janet. (Vivaciously.) Oh yes, it is. Somebody in this house must think about the future. (Cajolingly.) If this gentleman can show me five hundred pounds it's for sale. After all, it's my picture. And you can do me another one. I'd much sooner be done without the cooking-sleeves. (Entreating.) Albert!
Carve. (Shy, nervous, and tongue-tied.) Well!
Janet. (Endearingly.) That's right! That's all right!
Ebag. (Putting down notes.) If you will kindly count these—
Janet. (Taking the notes.) Nay, I'm too dizzy to count them. (As if giving up any attempt to realize the situation.) It fairly beats me! I never did understand this art business, and I never shall....(To Ebag.) Why are you so interested in my portrait? You've never seen me before.
Ebag. Madam, your portrait happens to be one of the very finest modern paintings I ever saw. (To Carve.) I have a picture here as to which I should like to ask your opinion. (Exposing picture.) I bought it ten years ago.
Carve. (After seeing picture.) Janet, would you mind leaving us a minute.
Janet. (Triumphant with her money.) Not a bit.
(Exit, L.)
Ebag. (Bowing to Janet. Then to Carve.) It's signed "Ilam Carve." Should you say it's a genuine Carve?
Carve. (More and more disturbed.) Yes.
Ebag. Where was it painted?
Carve. Why do you ask me?
Ebag. (Quietly dramatic.) Because you painted it. (Pause. He approaches Carve.) Master——
Carve. What's that?
Ebag. Master!
(Pause.)
Carve. (Impulsively.) Look here! I never could stick being called "master"! It's worse even than "maître." Have a cigarette? How did you find out who I was?
Ebag. (Pointing to Janet's portrait.) Isn't that proof enough?
Carve. Yes, but you knew before you saw that.
Ebag. (After lighting-cigarette.) I did. I knew from the very first picture I bought from our friend the "picture-dealer and frame-maker" in the early part of last year.
[107]Carve. But I'd completely altered my style. I altered it on purpose.
Ebag. (Shaking his head.) My dear sir, there was once a well-known man who stood six feet ten inches high. He shaved off his beard and dyed his hair, and invented a very ingenious costume, and went to a Fancy Dress Ball as Tom Thumb. Strange to say, his disguise was penetrated immediately.
Carve. Who are you?
Ebag. My name is Ebag—New Bond Street.
Carve. What! You're my old dealer!
Ebag. And I'm delighted at last to make your acquaintance, sir. It wasn't until I'd bought several of those small canvases from the Putney man that I began to inquire closely into their origin. As a general rule it's a mistake for a dealer to be too curious. But my curiosity got the better of me. And when I found out that the pictures were being produced week by week, fresh, then I knew I was on the edge of some mystery.
Carve. (Awkwardly.) The fact is, perhaps, I ought to explain.
Ebag. Pardon me. I ask nothing. It isn't my affair. I felt certain, solely from the evidence of what I was buying, that the great painter who was supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and whose somewhat premature funeral I attended, must be alive
[108]and painting vigorously. I wanted the assurance from your lips. I have it. The rest does not concern me—at any rate, for the moment.
Carve. I'll say this—you know a picture when you see it.
Ebag. (Proudly.) I am an expert, nothing else.
Carve. All right! Well, I'll only ask you to persevere in your discretion. As you say, it isn't your affair. Thank goodness, I didn't put a date on any of these things. I won't sell any more. I'd take an oath never to paint again, only I know I should go and break it next week. I shall rely on this famous discretion of yours to say nothing—nothing whatever.
Ebag. I'm afraid it's too late.
Carve. How too late?
Ebag. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to state publicly that you are Ilam Carve, and that there must have been—er—some misapprehension, somewhere, over that funeral.
Carve. (Aghast.) Publicly? Why?
Ebag. It's like this, I've been selling those pictures to Texel in New York. You remember, he's always been one of your principal collectors. He's getting old, and he's half-blind, but he still buys. Now, I rely on my judgment, and I guaranteed those pictures to
[109]be genuine Carves. Well, somebody over there must have had suspicions.
Carve. What does that matter? There isn't a date on any of them.
Ebag. Just so. But in one of those pictures there's most distinctly a taxi-cab. It isn't a private motor car. It's a taxi.
Carve. And if there is? No law against painting a taxi, I hope!
Ebag. (Again quietly dramatic.) No. But at the date of your funeral there wasn't a single taxi on the streets of London.
Carve. The devil!
Ebag. Exactly. Texel is bringing an action against me for misrepresentation. I shall have to ask you to give evidence and say who you are.
Carve. (Angrily.) But I won't give evidence! You've brought this on yourself. How much did you sell those little pictures for?
Ebag. Oh, an average of between four and five hundred.
Carve. And what did you pay for them? I ask you, what did you pay for them?
Ebag. (Smoothly.) Four pounds a piece. The fact is—I did rather well out of them.
Carve. Damned Jew!
Ebag. (Smoothly.) Damned—possibly. Jew—most decidedly. But in this particular instance I behaved just like a Christian. I
[110]paid a little less than I was asked, and sold for the highest I could get. I am perfectly innocent, and my reputation is at stake.
Carve. I don't care.
Ebag. But I do. It's the reputation of the greatest expert in Europe. And I shall have to insist on you going into the witness-box.
Carve. (Horrified.) Me in the witness-box! Me cross-examined! No. That's always been my nightmare!
Ebag. Nevertheless—
Carve. Please go. (Commandingly.) Please go.
(Ebag, intimidated by Carve's demeanour, picks up his pictures to depart.)
Ebag. (At door.) Your wife will perhaps be good enough to post me a receipt for that trifle. (Very respectfully.) Good-morning.
(Exit, R.)
(Carve goes to door, L., and opens it. Janet is standing behind it.)
(Enter Janet.)
Carve. You've been listening?
Janet. (Counting her banknotes.) Well, naturally! (Putting notes in her purse.)
Carve. Here's a perfect Hades of a mess.
Janet. And it all comes of this painting. Art as it's called. (She finds her apron and puts it on.)
Carve. (With an air of discovery.) Your faculty for keeping calm really is most singular.
Janet. Somebody has to keep calm.
(Voice off: "Butcher.")
Carve. Anybody would say you didn't care a cent whether I'm Ilam Carve or whether I'm somebody else.
Janet. What does it matter to me who you are, so long as you're you? Men are so unpractical. You can be the Shah of Persia if you like—I don't mind.
Carve. But aren't you convinced now?
(Voice off: "Butcher.")
Janet. (With an enigmatic smile at Carve.) Coming! Coming!
(Exit.)
(The stage is darkened to indicate the passage of several months.)
SCENE 2
Time.—Before daylight on a morning in February. Fire burning in grate. Also a speck of gas. Otherwise it is dark.
Carve is discovered reposing-in an easy-chair. Enter Janet with a candle.
Janet. (Stiffly.) So you've not been to sleep either?
Carve. (Stiffly.) Oh yes; had an excellent night in this chair.
Janet. (Going to fire.) Now, you're only boasting. If you've had such an excellent night (imitating him), who's kept up such an excellent fire?
Carve. (Lamely.) Well, of course I looked after it now and then. I didn't want to perish in my solitude.
Janet. Then why didn't you come to bed, great baby?
Carve. (Sitting up with solemnity.) Janet, we are a pair of great babies to have quarrelled like that,—especially at bedtime.
Janet. (Simply.) Quarrelled?
Carve. Well, didn't we?
Janet. I didn't. I agreed with everything you said.
Carve. What did you agree with? I should like to know.
Janet. You said I didn't really believe after all that you are Ilam Carve, and I assured you in the most soothing manner that I did believe you are Ilam Carve!
Carve. And do you call that agreeing with me? I know perfectly well from your tone that in spite of all my explanations and reiterations during the last three months you don't believe I'm Ilam Carve. You only say you do in order to soothe me. I hate being soothed. You're as convinced as ever that Ebag is a rascal, and that I've got a bee in my bonnet.
Janet. But what does it matter?
Carve. (Cold and hard.) Well, I like that!
Janet. (Weeping.) It's not my fault if I don't believe you're Ilam Carve. I would if I could, but I can't! You're very cruel.
Carve. (Jumping up and embracing her.) Hush, hush! There! (Cajolingly.) Who's being an infant now?
Janet. I don't pretend to understand this art.
Carve. I hope you never will. One of the chief charms of existence in your wigwam, my child, is that I never hear any confounded chatter about art. Now—are we pals?
Janet. (Smiling reconciliation.) Darling, do turn the gas up.
[114]Carve. (Obeying, struck by her attire.) Why—what are you dressed like that for?
Janet. I was thinking of going away.
(Exit, L.)
(She re-enters immediately with kettle and puts it on fire.)
Carve. Going away?
Janet. (Smiling.) Now do listen, darling. Let's go away. We can't stop here. This Ebag case is getting more and more on your nerves, and on mine too. I'm sure that's what's the matter with us. What it'll be next week when the trial comes on, I don't know—upon my soul I don't. It's all very well for you to refuse to see callers and never go out. But I can tell you one thing—we shall have those newspaper people on the roof in a day or two, and looking down the chimney to see how I lay the fire. Lawyers are nothing to them. Do you know—no you don't, because I didn't want you to be upset—last night's milk was brought by a journalist—with a camera. They're beginning to bribe the tradesmen. I tremble to think what will be in this morning's papers.
Carve. (Trying to make light of it.) Oh, nothing will upset me now. But you might let me know at once if the editor of the Spectator calls round with the bread.
[115]Janet. And I'll tell you another thing. That Mr. Horning—you know the breathless man on the Evening Courier that came to the Grand Babylon—he's taken lodgings opposite—arrived last night.
Carve. Oh, for a machine gun—one simple little machine gun!
(Exit Janet, L.)
She immediately returns with a tray containing bread, etc., and a toasting-fork.
Janet. So I thought if we just vanished—
Carve. It's too late—I've had the subpoena. If I hooked it, everybody would say I was an adventurer.
Janet. We could come back for the trial.
Carve. We should be followed.
Janet. Not if we start now.
Carve. Now?
Janet. Yes, now! The back door. Before it gets light.
Carve. Creep away in the dark! No! I'll go through with the thing.
Janet. Well, I shall travel alone, then. Here's my bunch of keys. I'll just explain to you where everything is. I daresay Mrs. Simpson will come in and clean up. She's not bad, as charwomen go.
Carve. Jane!
Janet. Well!
Carve. You're taking an unfair advantage of me.
Janet. (Putting tea leaves in teapot.) What if I am?
Carve. You're only a woman after all.... And I'd thought so highly of you!
Janet. (Sweetly.) Then you'll come. Better brush yourself up first.
Carve. What time is it?
Janet. (Looking at clock.) Seven o'clock.
Carve. Where do you mean to drag me to?
Janet. Well, what about this Continent of yours that I've heard so much of?
Carve. There's a train from Victoria at 8.30.
Janet. Very well then. We'll have another breakfast at Victoria.
Carve. And the cab?
Janet. There isn't going to be any cab—nor luggage—rousing the whole street! (Carve goes to window.) For goodness' sake don't draw those curtains—with the gas flaring up!
Carve. Why not?
Janet. (Conspiratorial.) Supposing there's some journalist on the watch outside!
Carve. I wanted to look at the weather.
Janet. Well, go to the front door, and mind you open it quietly.
(Exit Carve, R.)
(Janet pours water on tea.)
(Exit, L.)
(Re-enter Carve quickly.)
Carve. I say, here's a curate pushed himself in at the front door!
(Re-enter Janet, L.)
Janet. No, he's come in at the back.
Carve. But I tell you he's here!
(Enter James Shawn, L. Then enter John Shawn, R. Pause.)
James. Now let me entreat everybody to remain perfectly calm.
Janet. Oh, don't worry about that. Nothing startles us now. A few curates more or less....
Carve. (Sinking into chair.) I suppose this is the very newest journalism. Would you mind me asking a question?
James. What is it?
(Janet makes the tea.)
Carve. Why did you wait till the door was opened? Seems a pity to stand on ceremony. Why not have broken a window or so and climbed right in?
James. John, is mother there?
[118]John. (At door, R.) Mother, how often shall I have to ask you to keep close to me?
(Enter Mrs. Shawn, R.)
Mrs. S. I'm all of a tremble.
John. (Firmly.) Come now, you mustn't give way. This is he (pointing to Carve). Do you recognise him as our father? (Janet, who is cutting a slice of bread, stops and looks from one to the other.)
Mrs. S. (To Carve.) Albert, don't you know me? To think that next Tuesday it'll be six and twenty years since you walked out o' the house casual like and—and—(Stops from emotion.)
Carve. Go on. Go on.... To think that I was once shy!
Janet. (To Mrs. Shawn.) Here, you'd better come and sit a bit nearer the fire. (Very kindly.) Come along now!
Mrs. S. (Obeying.) Thank you, m'm.
Janet. (To John.) And which of you boys was it that had the idea of keeping a middle-aged woman perishing on a doorstep before daylight in February?
John. How else could we—
James. (Interrupting him.) Excuse me, John.
John. (Subsiding.) I beg your pardon, James.
James. (To Janet.) All questions should be addressed to me. My brother John is here
[119]solely to take charge of our mother. We have done our best, by careful forethought, to ensure that this painful interview shall be as brief and as dignified as possible.
Janet. And couldn't you think of anything cleverer than to give your poor mother her death of cold for a start?
James. How else could we have arranged it? I myself rang at your door for a quarter of an hour yesterday afternoon.
Janet. We never heard you.
James. Strange!
Janet. No, it isn't. We took the bell off three days ago.
James. I was told that it was impossible to effect an entrance in the ordinary way. Hence, we had to use craft. I argued that food must come into the house, and that it probably came in early.
Janet. Well, it's a good thing for you I happened to hear the cat mewing, or you might have had another couple of hours in my back yard. You're the eldest, I suppose.
James. We are twins.
Janet. Really!
Carve. As you say—really!
James. I am the older, but the difference between us is not considerable.
John. Now, mother, please don't cry.
Janet. (Having poured out a cup of tea, holds
[120]it before Mrs. Shawn.) Sugar? (Mrs. Shawn signifies an affirmative—Janet drops sugar into cup, which Mrs. Shawn takes.) You'll drink it easier if you lift your veil.
James. Now, mother—you are sure you recognise this gentleman?
Mrs. S. (Not very positively.) Yes—yes. It's a rare long while....
James. He is your husband and our father?
Mrs. S. (More positively.) Yes. And sorry I am to say it. (Janet eyes her carefully.)
James. I think that suffices. (To Janet.) Madam, you are in a most unfortunate position. You supposed yourself to be a married woman, whereas you are nothing of the kind. I needn't say that as the victim of a heartless bigamist you have our deepest....
Janet. (Handing him a slice of bread on toasting-fork.) Just toast this for your mother, will you, and mind the bars. I'll get another cup or two. (Goes to sideboard and gets crockery.)
Carve. And so these are my two sons! They show little emotion in beholding the author of their being for the first time. As for me, I hardly recognise them.
Mrs. S. And is it likely, seeing they were born six months after you deserted me, Albert?
[121]Carve. I see. If it isn't indiscreet, am I a grandfather?
James. (Toasting.) No, sir.
Carve. I only wanted to know the worst. Silly joke about the fertility of curates—you've met with it, no doubt!
James. Your tone is simply lamentable, sir.
Janet. (To James.) Mind! You can do the other side. Now, take care; the fire's very hot. (In the same mild tone to Mrs. Shawn.) Twenty-six years, you say?
Mrs. S. Yes. Albert was twenty-two then, weren't you, Albert?
Carve. Undoubtedly.
Janet. And how did you come to find us out at last?
Mrs. S. It was through an advertisement put in the paper by that Mr. Texel—him that's in this law case—offering a reward for information about a Mr. Albert Shawn who'd been valet to that artist man that died.
Janet. Oh! So Mr. Texel has been advertising, has he? (Giving a cup of tea to John Shawn.)
Mrs. S. Yes, for anybody that knew Albert Shawn when he was young. "Albert Shawn," I says, "that's my husband's name." I'd been told he'd gone off in service with a painter or something of that kind. I married him as a valet.
Janet. (Pouring out tea.) A valet?
Mrs. S. A valet, ma'am.... And the struggle I've had to bring up my children. (Whimpering.)
James. Now, mother!
Janet. (Stopping James.) That will do now! Give it me. (Taking toast and fork.) Here's some tea. Now don't pretend you've never seen a cup of tea before—you a curate!
(James accepts tea.)
Mrs. S. Yes, they would go into the church, both of them! I don't know how we've managed it, but managed it we have, surplices and all. And very happy they were, I'm sure. And now there's this dreadful scandal. Oh, Albert, you might at least have changed your name! I—I—— (Partially breaks down.)
John. Mother, I beg——(Mrs. Shawn breaks down entirely.) Mother, I absolutely insist. You know you promised not to speak at all except in answer to questions.
James. I think, mother, you really might try——
John. Leave her to me! Now, mother!
(Loud double knock off.)
Janet. (To John Shawn.) There's the post! Just go and bring me the letters in, will you?
[123](John hesitates?) You'll find them scattered about the floor in the hall. Don't miss any.
(Exit John Shawn, R.)
(Mrs. Shawn recovers.)
James. And what do you propose to do, madam?
Janet. (Who has been soothing Mrs. Shawn.) Me? What about?
James. About this—this bigamy.
Janet. Oh, nothing. What are you thinking of doing?
(Re-enter John Shawn with post, which Carve takes and begins to read.)
James. Well, I suppose you're aware that bigamy is a criminal offence?
Janet. There's a police-station in the Upper Richmond Road. Better call there. It'll be so nice for you two, when you're flourishing about in the pulpit, to think of your father in prison—won't it now?
James. We, of course, should not prosecute. If you are prepared to go on living with this gentleman as though nothing had happened—
Janet. Oh, I don't mind.
James. Well, then, I doubt if we should interfere.
[124]But Mr. Texel's lawyers are already in communication with the police.
Janet. (Stiffly.) I see. (An awkward pause during which everybody except Carve, who is reading his post, looks at everybody else.) Well, then, I think that's about all, isn't it? (A shorter pause.) Good-morning. (She bows to the curates, and shakes hands with Mrs. Shawn.) (To Mrs. Shawn.) Now do take care of yourself.
Mrs. S. (Weakly.) Thank you.
John. Good-morning. Mother, take my arm, please.
James. Good-morning.
Janet. Albert, they're going.
Carve. (Looking up absently and only half rising, perfunctorily and quickly) Good-morning. Good-morning. (Sits down.)
Janet. (To James Shawn, who is hovering near door L, uncertain of his way out.) This way, this time!
(Exeunt the Shawns followed by Janet.)
(Carve rises and draws curtains of window apart)
(Re-enter Janet.)
Janet. (Cheerfully) Oh, it's quite light! (Turns out gas.)
[125]Carve. (Gazing at her.) Incomparable woman!
Janet. So it's true after all!
Carve. What?
Janet. All that rigmarole about you being Ilam Carve?
Carve. You're beginning to come round at last?
Janet. Well, I think they were quite honest people—those three. There's no doubt the poor creature once had a husband who did run off. And it seems fairly clear his name was Albert Shawn, and he went away as valet to an artist. But then, on the other hand, if there is one thing certain in this world, it is that you were never married before you married me. That I will swear to.
Carve. And yet she identified me. She was positive.
Janet. Positive? That's just what she wasn't! And didn't you notice the queer way she looked at you as they went out? As much as to say, "I wonder now whether it is him—after all?"
Carve. Then you really think she could be mistaken on such a point?
Janet. Pooh! After twenty-six years. Besides, all men of forty-seven look more or less alike.... And so I'm the wife of Ilam Carve
[126]that's supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey and royalty went to his funeral! We'll have some tea ourselves. I say, why did you do it? (Pours out tea.)
Carve. (Casually.) I don't know. It was to save worry to begin with, and then it went on by itself and somehow I couldn't stop it.... I don't know!
Janet. (Endearingly.) Well, I've always told you frankly you've got a bee in your bonnet. (Drinking tea and turning over the post.) More letters from these newspaper people! What's this lovely crest on this envelope?
Carve. It's from Lord Leonard Alcar. He says if we'll go up and see him to-morrow afternoon he'll be very much obliged indeed, and he may be able to be of assistance to us.
Janet. (Deeply impressed.) Lord Leonard Al ... Where's the letter? (Searches for it hurriedly. As she reads it.) Well I never! (Reading) "And Mrs. Shawn." I've got nothing to go in.
Carve. Oh, I shan't go!
Janet. Why not?
Carve. Well, what about this trip to the Continent?
Janet. Continent fiddlesticks. I've never been asked to go and see a Lord before....
[127]Carve. Now listen, Jane. What earthly good can it do? I shan't go.
Janet. I shall. So there! Six Dukes in the family! I wouldn't miss it for anything.
CURTAIN.