Valentine comes back with his landlord. Mr Fergus Crampton is a man of about sixty, with an atrociously obstinate ill tempered grasping mouth, and a dogmatic voice. There is no sign of straitened means or commercial diffidence about him: he is well dressed, and would be classed at a guess as a prosperous master-manufacturer in a business inherited from an old family in the aristocracy of trade. His navy blue coat is not of the usual fashionable pattern. It is not exactly a pilot’s coat; but it is cut that way, double breasted, and with stout buttons and broad lappels: a coat for a shipyard rather than a counting house. He has taken a fancy to Valentine, who cares nothing for his crossness of grain, and treats him with a disrespectful humanity for which he is secretly grateful.
VALENTINE. May I introduce? This is Mr Crampton: Miss Dorothy Clandon, Mr Philip Clandon, Miss Clandon. [Crampton stands nervously bowing. They all bow]. Sit down, Mr Crampton.
DOLLY [pointing to the operating chair] That is the most comfortable chair, Mr Ch – crampton.
CRAMPTON. Thank you; but wont this young lady – [indicating Gloria, who is close to the chair] ?
GLORIA. Thank you, Mr Crampton: we are just going.
VALENTINE [bustling him across to the chair with good-humored peremptoriness] Sit down, sit down. Youre tired.
CRAMPTON. Well, perhaps, as I am considerably the oldest person present, I – [he finishes the sentence by sitting down a little rheumatically in the operating chair. Meanwhile Phil, having studied him critically during his passage across the room, nods to Dolly; and Dolly nods to Gloria].
GLORIA. Mr Crampton: we understand that we are preventing Mr Valentine from lunching with you by taking him away ourselves. My mother would be very glad indeed if you would come too.
CRAMPTON [gratefully, after looking at her earnestly for a moment] Thank you. I will come with pleasure.
GLORIA DOLLY PHILIP} [politely murmuring] {Thank you very much – er – So glad – er – Delighted, I’m sure – er –
The conversation drops. Gloria and Dolly look at one another; then at Valentine and Phil. Valentine and Phil, unequal to the occasion, look away from them at one another, and are instantly so disconcerted by catching one another’s eye, that they look back again and catch the eyes of Gloria and Dolly. Thus, catching one another all round, they all look at nothing and are quite at a loss. Crampton looks at them, waiting for them to begin. The silence becomes unbearable.
DOLLY [suddenly, to keep things going] How old are you, Mr Crampton?
GLORIA [hastily] I am afraid we must be going, Mr Valentine. It is understood, then, that we meet at half past one. [She makes for the door. Phil goes with her. Valentine retreats to the bell].
VALENTINE. Half past one. [He rings the bell]. Many thanks. [He follows Gloria and Phil to the door, and goes out with them].
DOLLY [who has meanwhile stolen across to Crampton] Make him give you gas. It’s five shillings extra; but it’s worth it.
CRAMPTON [amused] Very well. [Looking more earnestly at her] So you want to know my age, do you? I’m fifty-seven.
DOLLY [with conviction] You look it.
CRAMPTON [grimly] I dare say I do.
DOLLY. What are you looking at me so hard for? Anything wrong? [She feels whether her hat is right].
CRAMPTON. Youre like somebody.
DOLLY. Who?
CRAMPTON. Well, you have a curious look of my mother.
DOLLY [incredulously] Your mother!!! Quite sure you dont mean your daughter?
CRAMPTON [suddenly blackening with hate] Yes: I’m quite sure I dont mean my daughter.
DOLLY [sympathetically] Tooth bad?
CRAMPTON. NO, no: nothing. A twinge of memory, Miss Clandon, not of toothache.
DOLLY. Have it out. ‘Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow.’ With gas, five shillings extra.
CRAMPTON [vindictively] No, not a sorrow. An injury that was done me once: thats all. I dont forget injuries: and I dont want to forget them. [His features settle into an implacable frown].
DOLLY [looking critically at him] I dont think we shall like you when you are brooding over your injuries.
PHILIP [who has entered the room unobserved, and stolen behind her] My sister means well, Mr Crampton; but she is indiscreet. Now Dolly: outside! [He takes her towards the door].
DOLLY [in a perfectly audible undertone] He says he’s only fifty-seven and he thinks me the image of his mother and he hates his daughter and – [She is interrupted by the return of Valentine].
VALENTINE. Miss Clandon has gone on.
PHILIP. Dont forget half past one.
DOLLY. Mind you leave Mr Crampton enough teeth to eat with. [They go out].
Valentine comes to his cabinet, and opens it.
CRAMPTON. Thats a spoiled child, Mr Valentine. Thats one of your modern products. When I was her age, I had many a good hiding fresh in my memory to teach me manners.
VALENTINE [taking up his dental mirror and probe] What did you think of her sister?
CRAMPTON. You liked her better, eh?
VALENTINE [rhapsodically] She struck me as being – [He checks himself, and adds, prosaically] However, thats not business. [He assumes his professional tone]. Open, please. [Crampton opens his mouth. Valentine puts the mirror in, and examines his teeth]. Hm! Youve smashed that one. What a pity to spoil such a splendid set of teeth! Why do you crack nuts with them? [He withdraws the mirror, and comes forward to converse with his patient].
CRAMPTON. Ive always cracked nuts with them: what else are they for? [Dogmatically] The proper way to keep teeth good is to give them plenty of use on bones and nuts, and wash them every day with soap: plain yellow soap.
VALENTINE. Soap! Why soap?
CRAMPTON. I began using it as a boy because I was made to; and Ive used it ever since. And Ive never had toothache in my life.
VALENTINE. Dont you find it rather nasty?
CRAMPTON. I found that most things that were good for me were nasty. But I was taught to put up with them, and made to put up with them. I’m used to it now: in fact I like the taste when the soap is really good.
VALENTINE [making a wry face in spite of himself] You seem to have been very carefully educated, Mr Crampton.
CRAMPTON [grimly] I wasnt spoiled, at all events.
VALENTINE [smiling a little to himself] Are you quite sure?
CRAMPTON [crustily] What d’y’ mean?
VALENTINE. Well, your teeth are good, I admit. But Ive seen just as good in very self-indulgent mouths. [He goes to the cabinet and changes the probe for another one].
CRAMPTON. It’s not the effect on the teeth: it’s the effect on the character.
VALENTINE [placably] Oh, the character! I see. [He recommences operations]. A little wider, please. Hm! Why do you bite so hard? youve broken the tooth worse than you broke the Brazil nut. It will have to come out: it’s past saving. [He withdraws the probe and again comes to the side of the chair to converse]. Dont be alarmed: you shant feel anything. I’ll give you gas.
CRAMPTON. Rubbish, man: I want none of your gas. Out with it! People were taught to bear necessary pain in my day.
VALENTINE. Oh, if you like being hurt, all right. I’ll hurt you as much as you like, without any extra charge for the beneficial effect on your character.
CRAMPTON [rising and glaring at him] Young man: you owe me six weeks rent.
VALENTINE. I do.
CRAMPTON. Can you pay me?
VALENTINE. No.
CRAMPTON [satisfied with his advantage] I thought not. [He sits down again]. How soon d’y’ think youll be able to pay me if you have no better manners than to make game of your patients?
VALENTINE. My good sir: my patients havnt all formed their characters on kitchen soap.
CRAMPTON [suddenly gripping him by the arm as he turns away again to the cabinet] So much the worse for them! I tell you you dont understand my character. If I could spare all my teeth, I’d make you pull them out one after another to shew you what a properly hardened man can go
through with when he’s made up his mind to it. [He nods at Valentine to emphasize this declaration, and releases him].
VALENTINE [his careless pleasantry quite unruffled] And you want to be more hardened, do you?
CRAMPTON. Yes.
VALENTINE [strolling away to the bell] Well, youre quite hard enough for me already – as a landlord. [Crampton receives this with a growl of grim humor. Valentine rings the bell, and remarks in a cheerful casual way, whilst waiting for it to be answered] Why did you never get married, Mr Crampton? A wife and children would have taken some of the hardness out of you.
CRAMPTON [with unexpected ferocity] What the devil is that to you?
The parlormaid appears at the door.
VALENTINE [politely] Some warm water, please. [She retires; and Valentine comes back to the cabinet, not at all put out by Crampton’s rudeness, and carries on the conversation whilst he selects a forceps and places it ready to his hand with a gag and a tumbler]. You were asking me what the devil that was to me. Well, I have an idea of getting married myself.
CRAMPTON [with grumbling irony] Naturally, sir, naturally. When a young man has come to his last farthing, and is within twenty four hours of having his furniture distrained upon by his landlord, he marries. Ive noticed that before. Well, marry; and be miserable.
VALENTINE. Oh come! what do you know about it?
CRAMPTON. I’m not a bachelor.
VALENTINE. Then there is a Mrs Crampton?
CRAMPTON [wincing with a pang of resentment] Yes: damn her!
VALENTINE [unperturbed] Hm! A father, too, perhaps, as well as a husband, Mr Crampton?
CRAMPTON. Three children.
VALENTINE [politely] Damn them? eh?
CRAMPTON [jealously] No, sir: the children are as much mine as hers.
The parlormaid brings in a jug of hot water.
VALENTINE. Thank you. [She gives him the jug and goes out. He brings it to the cabinet, continuing in the same idle strain] I really should like to know your family, Mr Crampton. [He pours some hot water into the tumbler].
CRAMPTON. Sorry I cant introduce you, sir. I’m happy to say that I dont know where they are, and dont care, so long as they keep out of my way. [Valentine, with a hitch of his eyebrows and shoulders, drops the forceps with a clink into the hot water]. You neednt warm that thing to use on me. I’m not afraid of the cold steel. [Valentine stoops to arrange the gas pump and cylinder beside the chair]. Whats that heavy thing?
VALENTINE. Oh, never mind. Something to put my foot on, to get the necessary purchase for a good pull. [Crampton looks alarmed in spite of himself. Valentine stands upright and places the glass with the forceps ready to his hand, chatting on with provoking indifference]. And so you advise me not to get married, Mr Crampton? [He puts his foot on the lever by which the chair is raised and lowered].
CRAMPTON [irritably] I advise you to get my tooth out and have done reminding me of my wife. Come along, man. [He grips the arms of the chair and braces himself].
VALENTINE. What do you bet that I dont get that tooth out without your feeling it?
CRAMPTON. Your six weeks rent, young man. Dont you gammon me.
VALENTINE [jumping at the bet and sending him aloft vigorously] Done! Are you ready?
Crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in his alarm at its sudden ascent, folds his arms; sits stiffly upright; and prepares for the worst, Valentine suddenly lets down the back of the chair to an obtuse angle.
CRAMPTON [clutching at the arms of the chair as he falls back] P! take care, man! I’m quite helpless in this po –
VALENTINE [deftly stopping him with the gag, and snatching up the mouthpiece of the gas machine] Youll be more helpless presently.
He presses the mouthpiece over Crampton’s mouth and nose, leaning over his chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair. Crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to lay hands on Valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. After a moment his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. He is quite insensible. Valentine throws aside the mouthpiece quickly; picks the forceps adroitly from the glass; and –.
ACT II
On the terrace at the Marine Hotel. It is a square flagged platform, glaring in the sun, and fenced on the seaward edge by a parapet. The head waiter, busy laying napkins on a luncheon table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his left, in the corner nearest the sea, a flight of steps leading down to the beach. When he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees, a little to his left, a middle aged gentleman sitting on a chair of iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar on it, reading an ultra-Conservative newspaper, with his umbrella up to defend him from the sun, which, in August and at less than an hour after noon, is toasting his protended insteps. At the hotel side of the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern. Access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of its façade. Nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by a little trellis porch. The table at which the waiter is occupied is a long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at each side and one at the end next the hotel. Against the parapet another table is prepared as a buffet to serve from.
The waiter is a remarkable person in his way. A silky old man, white haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that in his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of the actual. He has a certain expression peculiar to men who are preeminent in their callings, and who, whilst aware of the vanity of success, are untouched by envy.
The gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. He wears his London frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table beside the sugarbowl. The excellent condition and quality of these garments and the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading, testify to his respectability. He is about fifty, clean-shaven and close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to let them have their way. He keeps his brow resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never succeeded in making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious. Still, he is by no means to be laughed at. There is no sign of stupidity or infirmity of will about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere at sight as a man of more than average professional capacity and responsibility. Just at present he is enjoying the weather and the sea too much to be out of patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his paper, and is at present reduced to the advertisements, which are not sufficiently succulent to induce him to persevere with them.
THE GENTLEMAN [yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job] Waiter!
WAITER. Sir? [coming to him].
THE GENTLEMAN. Are you quite sure Mrs Clandon is coming back before lunch?
WAITER. Quite sure, sir. She expects you at a quarter to one, sir. [The gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter’s voice, looks at him with a lazy smile. It is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing them, nor committing any other vulgarism. He looks at his watch as he continues] Not that yet, sir, is it? 12. 43, sir. Only two minutes more to wait, sir. Nice morning, sir!
THE GENTLEMAN. Yes: very fresh after London.
WAITER. Yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. Very nice family, Mrs Clandon’s, sir.
THE GENTLEMAN. YOU like them, do you?
WAITER. Yes, sir. They have a free way with them that is very taking, sir, very taking indeed: especially the young lady and gentleman.
THE GENTLEMAN. Miss Dorothea and Mr Philip, I suppose.
WAITER. Yes, sir. The young lady, in giving an order, or the like of that, will say, ‘Remember, William: we came to this hotel on your acc
ount, having heard what a perfect waiter you are.’ The young gentleman will tell me that I remind him strongly of his father [the gentleman starts at this] and that he expects me to act by him as such. [With a soothing sunny cadence] Oh very pleasant, sir, very affable and pleasant indeed!
THE GENTLEMAN. You like his father! [He laughs at the notion].
WAITER. Oh, sir, we must not take what they say too seriously. Of course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the resemblance too, sir.
THE GENTLEMAN. Did she?
WAITER. NO, sir. She thought me like the bust of Shakespear in Stratford Church, sir. That is why she calls me William, sir. My real name is Walter, sir. [He turns to go back to the table, and sees Mrs Clandon coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps]. Here is Mrs Clandon, sir. [To Mrs Clandon in an unobtrusively confidential tone] Gentleman for you, maam.
MRS CLANDON. We shall have two more gentlemen at lunch, William.
WAITER. Right, maam. Thank you, maam. [He withdraws into the hotel].
Mrs Clandon comes forward looking for her visitor, but passes over the gentleman without any sign of recognition.
THE GENTLEMAN [peering at her quaintly from under the umbrella] Dont you know me?
MRS CLANDON [incredulously, looking hard at him] Are you Finch M’Comas?
M’COMAS. Cant you guess? [He shuts the umbrella; puts it aside; and jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be inspected].
MRS CLANDON. I believe you are. [She gives him her hand. The shake that ensues is that of old friends after a long separation]. Wheres your beard?
M’COMAS [humorously solemn] Would you employ a solicitor with a beard?
MRS CLANDON [pointing to the silk hat on the table] Is that your hat?
M’COMAS. Would you employ a solicitor with a sombrero?
MRS CLANDON. I have thought of you all these eighteen years with the beard and the sombrero. [She sits down on the garden seat. M’Comas takes his chair again] Do you go to the meetings of the Dialectical Society still?
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