HIS FIRST AND LAST PLAY
Ralph Essendean, aged about fifty, is discovered at a writing-desk. He studies a newspaper, from which he reads aloud, thoughtfully:—"So that a successful play may bring its author anything from five to twenty thousand pounds." He lays down the paper, mutters, "H'm!" and taking up a pencil bites it meditatively. Enter Mrs. Essendean.
Mrs. Essendean (crossing to Ralph, and placing her hand on his shoulder, asks affectionately). Well, dear, and how is the play getting on?
Ralph (irritably). You talk of the play, Matilda, as though it were possible to write a four-act drama in ten minutes. The play is not getting on at all well, for the simple reason that I am only just thinking out the idea.
Mrs. Essendean (seating herself by the table). How nice, dear! And what is the idea?
Ralph (grimly). That is just what I am wondering about. Now if you will kindly retire to the kitchen and make an omelette, or discharge the cook, I shall be obliged.
[Leans over his desk.
Mrs. E. But, dear, I am sure the cook is a most excellent servant, and——
Ralph (turning round and speaking with repressed exasperation). That was simply my attempt at a humorous explanation of my wish to be alone, Matilda.
Mrs. E. (smiling indulgently and rising). Well, dear, of course if it's going to be a funny play, I know you would like to be alone. (Pausing at the open door.) And will you read it to us after dinner? You know the Willoughby-Smythes will be here, and Mr. and Mrs. Vallance from the Bank are coming in afterwards. I am sure they would like to hear it.
Ralph (irritably). The play isn't written yet. (Plaintively.) Do go!
Mrs. E. (sweetly). I'm sure you'd like to be alone. Don't keep dinner waiting.
[Beams on him affectionately and exits. Ralph gives a sigh of relief, rumples his hair, and then writes for a few minutes. Then pauses, leans back, biting his pencil, when the door is flung open, and a very good imitation of a whirlwind bursts into the room. The whirlwind is a robust person of forty, he has a large round red face fringed with sandy whiskers, and is one mass of health and happiness. He wears Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, gaiters and thick boots, and carries a golfing bag. He slaps Ralph heartily on the back, and laughs boisterously. Ralph collapses.
Tom (heartily). How are you? Going strong—what? Asked the wife for you, and she told me you were in here writing a play. Rippin' idea—what?
Ralph (worried, but striving to be pleasant and polite). What do you want, old chap?
Tom (cheerfully). Nothin' particular, only just to see how you were gettin' on—what? Do you good to have half an hour out, just a few holes—golf—what?
Ralph (with great self-restraint). Thanks, old man. Not now. You don't mind my asking you to leave me to myself a bit?
Tom (amiably rising and picking up his bag). All right, old chap, you know best—what? Thought I'd just look in—hey?—what? Well, I'm off. (Goes to door, thinks for a moment, and then turns round.) I say, I know Thingummy's acting manager. If I can put in a word about your play—hey?—what?
Ralph (rises hurriedly. Shakes hands with Tom, and skilfully manœuvres him into the passage, then calls after him). Good-bye, old man, and many thanks. (Closes the door and returns to his desk, grinding his teeth.) Confound him! (Takes up paper and writes a few lines, then reads aloud.) "Puffington puts the letter in his pocket and passes his hand through his hair. He groans 'O, why did I ever write those letters? I know Flossie, and this means fifty pounds at least, and if ever my mother-in-law gets to hear of it! O lor, here she is'" (Puts down the paper and looks up at the ceiling.) Now, speaking to myself as one man to another, I can't help thinking that this sort of thing has been done before. I seem to have heard it somewhere. I'll—I'll—try a fresh start. (Writes hurriedly for a few minutes and then reads.) "Scene.—Fashionable watering place, the beach is crowded; on the pier the band is playing a dreamy waltz. Edwin and Maud are discovered in an open boat. Edwin. You must be tired of rowing, sweetest; come and steer. Maud. Just as you like, darling. (As they change seats the boat capsizes. After clinging for twenty minutes to the upturned keel, they are rescued by a passing steamer.)" That's all right for a "situation," but there seems a lack of dialogue. They can't very well talk while they are clinging to the boat; and what the deuce could they be talking about before? If I let them drown I shall have to introduce fresh characters. Bother! (Meditates with frowning brow.) Playwriting appears to present more difficulties than I thought. (Takes up a newspaper.) "May bring in anything from five to twenty thousand pounds!" Sounds tempting, but I wonder how it's done?
[Takes a cigar from the mantelpiece, lights it, and, seating himself near the fire, smokes thoughtfully. Gradually his head sinks back on to the top of the chair, the cigar drops from his relaxed fingers, and as he sleeps, the shadow of a smile breaks across his face. An hour elapses; he is still sleeping. Enter Mrs. Essendean, who brushes against the writing-table and sweeps the sheets of manuscript to the ground.
Mrs. Essendean (crossing to Ralph and lightly shaking him). My dear, my dear, not dressed yet! Do you know the time—just the half-hour.
(Ralph starts up.) Eh? (Looks at the clock.) Nearly half past, by Jove! I shan't be two seconds.
[Rushes hastily from the room.
Mrs. Essendean (picks up the extinguished cigar, and drops it daintily into the fire. Looks round the room and sees the littering manuscript.) What an untidy old thing it is! (Picks up the sheets, crumples them into a ball and throws them into the waste-paper basket.) There, that looks better.
[Gazes into the mirror, pats her hair, and exit.
(End of the play.)
