PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW

LADY PATRICIA

PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

DON. By Rudolf Besier.

“Mr. Besier is a man who can see and think for himself, and constructs as setting for the result of that activity a form of his own. The construction of ‘Don’ is as daring as it is original.”—Mr. Max Beerbohm in The Saturday Review.

“It is a fresh and moving story ... and full of good things.”—Mr. A. B. Walkley in The Times.

“‘Don’ is a genuine modern comedy, rich in observation and courage, and will add to the author’s reputation as a sincere dramatist.”—Mr. E. F. Spence in The Westminster Gazette.

“If the essence of drama be conflict, the wrestle of will, then ‘Don,’ by Rudolf Besier, comes as near as any play I know to essential drama. It is a sparring match in heaven knows how many rounds.”—Mr. William Archer in The Nation.

THE EARTH. By James B. Fagan.

“A magnificent play—at one and the same time a vital and fearless attack on political fraud, and a brilliantly written strong human drama. Moreover, the lighter interludes are written with a brilliance and a polished humour with which one had not credited Mr. Fagan hitherto”—The Daily Chronicle.

“‘The Earth’ must conquer every one by its buoyant irony, its pungent delineations, and not least by its rich stores of simple and wholesome moral feeling.... The credit may be equally divided between the vivacity and iridescence of its witty and trenchant dialogue and the tenacious grip of its searching and most substantial issues.”—The Pall Mall Gazette.

“An interesting and remarkable achievement.”—The Westminster Gazette.

LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & CO.

LADY
PATRICIA

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

BY
RUDOLF BESIER
Author of “Don”

NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & COMPANY
36-38 WEST 37th STREET

TO
ELIZABETH FAGAN

(All rights reserved.)

CHARACTERS

• Dean Lesley
• Michael Cosway
• William O’Farrel (Bill)
• Baldwin
• Ellis
• John
• Lady Patricia Cosway
• Mrs. O’Farrel
• Clare Lesley

The Cast of the play as it was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, on March 22, 1911, under the management of Mr. Herbert Trench.

SCENERY

The First Act.

The platform and summer-house built on an oak-tree in the grounds of “Ultima Thule,” Michael Cosway’s country seat at Norman Arches.

The Second Act.

The same.

The Third Act.

The Deanery garden, Norman Arches.

Five weeks elapse between Acts I. and II., and one night between Acts II. and III.

CAUTION

Professionals and Amateurs are hereby warned that “LADY PATRICIA,” being fully protected under the Copyright Laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, and anyone presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized agent will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to produce “LADY PATRICIA” must be made to Charles Frohman, Empire Theatre, New York City.

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]

THE FIRST ACT

The scene shows the summer-house and platform built in an oak-tree at “Ultima Thule.” The stage, slightly raised, represents the platform. In the right-hand corner is the summer-house, built on branches a few feet higher than the platform. The entrance to the platform is through a square hole, reached by a ladder from beneath. The tree, a vast, ancient, and mossy oak, comes straight through the centre of the platform, its branches spreading aloft in every direction.

(Lady Patricia, in a loose and exquisite costume, lies full length in a deck-chair, reading aloud from some beautiful vellum MSS. She is a woman of about thirty-five, languid, elegant, exotic, romantic, and sentimental. Beside her is a tall vase with arum-lilies and a table with a samovar. It is a late afternoon in May.)

Lady Patricia.

(Reading with fine feeling.)

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore

Alone upon the threshold of my door

Of individual life shall I command

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the sense of that which I forebore—

Thy touch upon the palm——

(Ellis, the footman, enters carrying a tray with a cup and saucer, and some sliced lemon. Lady Patricia raises her hand to command silence. He stands rigid. She continues with scarcely a break:)

The widest land

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine,

With pulses that beat double. What I do

And what I dream include thee as the wine

Must taste of its own grape. And when I sue

God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

And sees within my eyes the tears of two....

(A pause; she repeats in a deep voice)

And sees within my eyes the tears of two ...

... the tears of two....

What is it, Browning?

(Ellis stands motionless; a pause; she looks round at him.)

Did I call you Browning? How absurd! I meant Ellis.... Oh, the tea! Yes, of course. Please put everything near me on the table.

(He does so.)

(She repeats dreamily) ... the tears of two....

Ellis.

I beg your pardon, my lady?

Lady Patricia.

Nothing. I will look after myself.

(Ellis turns to go.)

Oh, Ellis....

Ellis.

Yes, my lady?

Lady Patricia.

You have brought only one cup.

Ellis.

I thought you were taking tea by yourself, my lady.

Lady Patricia.

Please bring another cup.

Ellis.

Yes, my lady. And milk and cream, my lady?

Lady Patricia.

Milk and cream.... (After a dreamy pause.) Yes, I am afraid so. But don’t put it on the table. Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send Baldwin to me?

Ellis.

Yes, my lady.

(He goes out.)

Lady Patricia.

(Turns over the pages of a MS., and then reads with thrilling beauty.)

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me,

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress-tree.

Be green the grass above me,

With showers and dewdrops wet,

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

I shall not feel the rain,

I shall not hear the nightingale

Sing on as if in pain.

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise or set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.

(With dramatic emphasis.)

When I am dead, my dearest——

(Enter Baldwin, a gardener of about seventy, heavy, slow, phlegmatic.)

Baldwin.

(In spite of Lady Patricia’s raised hand.) Beg pardon, m’lady?

Lady Patricia.

Sing no sad songs—— (Fretfully.) Oh, Baldwin, what do you want?

Baldwin.

Mr. Ellis said as you wished to speak to me, mum.

Lady Patricia.

Mr. Ellis?... Oh, yes, I remember now. What is it I wanted to tell you?

Baldwin.

Mr. Ellis didn’t make mention, m’lady.

Lady Patricia.

How stupid of him! (She regards Baldwin dreamily.) Baldwin....

Baldwin.

Yes, ’um?

Lady Patricia.

You ought to be very happy.

Baldwin.

Yes, ’um.

Lady Patricia.

Very happy. Because you are a gardener. I can imagine no calling more beautiful. You are the father of innumerable children, and they are all lovely.

Baldwin.

Thank ’ee, m’lady. I’ve ’ad thirteen—and two of ’em by my first wife.

Lady Patricia.

Thir-teen!... Good heavens, Baldwin, what are you talking about?

Baldwin.

You made mention of my family, m’lady.

Lady Patricia.

Oh, but I meant the flowers you tend and rear. The gillyflowers and eglantine, myrtle, rosemary, columbine, and daffydowndillies. Not—how strange and dreadful! Thirteen!

Baldwin.

I’ve ’eard tell that thirteen’s an unlucky number, m’lady. But I ain’t suspicious.

Lady Patricia.

Suspicious?

Baldwin.

Yes, ’um. And if I was, fac’s won’t change for the wishin’. Thirteen’s the number, and thirteen it’s like to remain, seeing as Mrs. Baldwin’s turned sixty-three.

Lady Patricia.

I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about.

Baldwin.

I——

Lady Patricia.

You needn’t repeat it.... Oh, I remember now why I sent for you, Baldwin. I wonder if, without hurting the beauty of the tree, you could open a window to the sunset?

Baldwin.

Open a winder?...

Lady Patricia.

You don’t understand me? Let me put it differently! I should like you to cut away some of the foliage so that I can watch the sun dropping behind the hills.

Baldwin.

Yes, m’lady. But——

Lady Patricia.

I know what you are going to say. When we built this place in the tree, I gave you special directions not to touch the western foliage as it hid the view of Ashurst Manor, which I found distressingly unsightly. Yes! But since my aunt, Mrs. O’Farrel, has taken the house, it seems to me far less offensive. Likes and dislikes are, after all, so much a matter of temperament and association! The former owner was an impossible person.

Baldwin.

The Scotch gentleman?

Lady Patricia.

He was a Jew, Baldwin, though his name was Mackintosh. I don’t wish to speak of him. When you cut the foliage, please use restraint and feeling. On no account disfigure the tree. Watch from this spot the sun going down, and lop away a little branch here and a little branch there, so as to give me some perfect glimpses of gold and rose.

(Ellis enters with cup and saucer, milk, cream, whisky, soda, and a tumbler.)

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

Lady Patricia.

(To Ellis.) What have you got there?

Ellis.

The cup and saucer and the milk and cream, my lady. And I thought I had better bring whisky and soda as well, my lady.

Lady Patricia.

I never told you to. I wish you wouldn’t be so enterprising. Please hide it with the cream in the summer-house. (Ellis does so.) So you think I can safely trust you with this important piece of work, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

(Ellis goes out.)

Lady Patricia.

Do it as soon as possible, as I shall often be sitting here during these adorable summer evenings—

(Bill O’Farrel enters during the rest of her sentence. He is a wholesome, typically English young man of about twenty-six.)

—and I couldn’t bear to miss many sunsets like yesterday’s.

Bill.

Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

(Without rising.) Bill!

Bill.

(Seizing her hands.) Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

Bill!... That will do, Baldwin.

Bill.

Quite well, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Pretty middlin’, Mr. O’Farrel, sir, thank you.... Then it don’t matter showin’ up Ashurst Manor, m’lady?

Bill.

(With a laugh, to Patricia.) Hullo! what’s this?

Lady Patricia.

No, no, Baldwin! I wish to see it. It has suddenly grown beautiful! A fairy palace!

Bill.

Great Scott!

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m. But——

Lady Patricia.

That will do, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

(He goes out.)

Bill.

What’s this about Ashurst?

Lady Patricia.

I have asked Baldwin to cut away some of those branches so that I can see it. I used to loathe the sight of the house. Then your mother bought it, and I liked it. I love it now that you have come to stay there.... You may kiss me, Bill.

Bill.

May I?

(He kisses her forehead.)

Lady Patricia.

You may kiss me again.

Bill.

May I?

(He kisses her cheek.)

Lady Patricia.

You may kiss me again.

Bill.

Patricia!

(He kisses her mouth.)

Lady Patricia.

(Clinging to him.) Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment—how I’ve longed for it!... All these weary months I’ve lived in the past and future, on memories and anticipations. Now, at last I have the present—I have reality—you—to have and to hold—you—you.... Kiss me.

Bill.

(Embracing her ardently.) Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

Hush! (Disengaging herself.) We mustn’t be foolish.... Sit down.... (He sits at her feet.) So you got my telegram?

Bill.

Directly the boat came alongside. But it took me a deuce of a time to make out! My French is a bit rusty, and the rotters had jumbled up some of the words. As it is, I only made out the gist of it—to take an earlier train from London than I’d intended, and to call on you before going on to Ashurst, as I’d find you alone in a summer-house you’d built on some tree or other. The twiddly bits of the message didn’t somehow seem to make sense....

Lady Patricia.

The ... twiddly bits?

Bill.

Yes; something about a star in red water, and horses with white manes. Couldn’t make it out at all.

Lady Patricia.

That was a quotation from De Musset, my poor boy.

Bill.

Great Scott! I thought it was a cypher. People don’t generally quote poetry in their telegrams.

Lady Patricia.

I do.

Bill.

In any case, it seemed to me a bit rash of you to send the wire at all—even in French.

Lady Patricia.

Oh, did it? As a matter of fact, I used French, not to conceal the message, but because the language seemed to me so beautifully appropriate for making a clandestine meeting.

Bill.

By Jove! Fancy thinking of that!

Lady Patricia.

To sin beautifully is the less a sin. Don’t forget, dear, that, however innocent, our love is wrong. We should never neglect an opportunity of ennobling it with little touches of beauty, should we?

Bill.

Rather not!... So Michael’s away?

Lady Patricia.

Only this afternoon. He has gone to a garden party at the Fitzgeralds’. Your mother’s there as well. Everybody’s there. But I wanted to see you for a little while before any one else, so I sent you that wire and pretended a headache. A petty deceit that avenged itself! For directly I told it, I felt a slight twinge of neuralgia.

Bill.

Hard luck! But it’s better, dear, isn’t it?

Lady Patricia.

I suppose it is. But you mustn’t say “hard luck.” My life, alas! is so full of deceits that when one of them is punished, I always try to be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself—everything that has happened these last months. Your letters have been too full of facts to tell me anything. And I do so long to hear all your news....

Bill.

Patricia....

Lady Patricia.

Yes, dear?

Bill.

What an awfully good woman you are!

Lady Patricia.

Am I?... I wonder!

Bill.

And your eyes are simply ripping.

Lady Patricia.

Are they?

Bill.

And your hands, by Jove!

Lady Patricia.

What of my hands, dear?

Bill.

They’re simply ripping.

Lady Patricia.

Dear heart! (Stroking his head.) Dear soft hair. But I’m waiting.

Bill.