Priestley Plays Four

by J. B. Priestley

  OTLEY: Nothing I can do, is there?

  MARTIN: Don’t think there’s anything anybody can do – thank you, Mr. Otley.

  OTLEY: Easily nip out and get Dr. Cave again, you know.

  MARTIN: No, thanks, don’t bother. It’s not a case for Dr. Cave – not yet, anyhow. (Hears voice on telephone, and speaks into it.) Yes, this is Mr. Cheveril, and I think Sir George Gavin wants to speak to me.

  Nods dismissal at OTLEY, who goes out, closing door R..

  Hello, George… Hell of a lot of fuss, isn’t there, when you have to talk on a telephone… Yes, I dare say I do. I had to take some stuff… No, no, go on, George… Yes, I know you were…and I’d made up my mind earlier to refuse your very generous offer, George… felt I’d finished with the Theatre… Well, I don’t know… No, it isn’t that I’ve changed my mind – the fact is, I can’t exactly get hold of my mind to change it… I know it does, but I haven’t had a drink all day… I took this stuff, and was resting and dozing here in this Green Room, and I supposed I must have been dreaming although I wasn’t really asleep… No, day-dreaming – more vivid than that. But dreaming, of course. Must have been…

  JENNY is now on the stage, in darkness, and we hear her quiet sobbing. MARTIN hears it and reacts.

  I say, is somebody crying at your end of the line?… No, I know, but I thought I heard somebody… Yes, probably I am… But it was all extraordinarily vivid, though entirely imaginary of course… (Now he hears a louder and more definite sob. He is sure now, without looking round, and speak with quiet firmness.) I must go George. I’ll speak to you later.

  He turns and sees JENNY, who is now visible in soft light. He puts down telephone quietly and rises, taking a step or two towards JENNY, who is looking towards him, without seeing him.

  Jenny! Jenny Villiers! Can you hear me?

  JENNY looks bewildered, as if she hears something, but does not recognise his presence. KETTLE, who looks haggard and unkempt enters L. and stares at JENNY, who now turns to see him. He is about to withdraw, when her voice stops him.

  JENNY: (Timidly.) Walter! (KETTLE turns.) What’s the matter?

  KETTLE: (Harshly.) Nothing’s the matter – is it?

  JENNY: (Choking back little sob.) I see.

  KETTLE: (Harshly.) Why do you think something’s the matter?

  JENNY: Because we used to be such good friends – and you were so kind and helpful to me when I first came here – and now you’re so bitter and harsh – as if I’d offended you. (After he does not reply.) Have I offended you, Walter? If I have – I’m sorry – I never meant to.

  KETTLE: Take no notice of me. I shan’t be here much longer. And I don’t know which has been worse – to see you so happy, so radiant, as you were at first, with that conceited fool Napier – or to see you as you are now – made miserable by him –

  JENNY: (Agitated.) No – please – don’t say that, Walter. It isn’t true. If I’m unhappy, he’s not making me unhappy –

  KETTLE: Something is – and I can’t imagine what else it could be –

  JENNY: Tell me – I’ve been wanting to ask this – and you’re the only one I can ask. I don’t seem unhappy when I’m playing, do I? It doesn’t show then, does it?

  KETTLE: No – thank God! Haven’t you seen me – haven’t you felt me – watching you from my corner? There you are still – with all your lights blazing, your banners flying – but then, as soon as the curtain’s down, you’re pining and drooping –

  JENNY: (Smiling.) Now that’s not true, Walter. I don’t pine and I don’t droop. You’ve made that up. Walter – dear Walter – be friends. I need friends –

  She extends a hand. He crosses swiftly and kisses it fiercely, so that she shrinks a little, then he stares at her a moment, turns and goes. She fights hard to keep her self-control. SAM MOON and JOHN STOKES, both wearing great beaver hats, now enter, and do a comic act for her.

  MOON & STOKES: (Together.) Your servant, madam!

  Dexterously each raises the other’s hat and they bow at the same time. JENNY smiles at them.

  JENNY: Be covered, gentlemen!

  MOON touches her cheek with his forefinger, and then delicately tastes his forefinger.

  MOON: Too salty.

  STOKES: (With a glance of real concern.) Tears, eh?

  JENNY: Let’s talk about something else – at once.

  MOON: Quite right. Yes, John, I used to get a devilish good dinner of stewed beef behind Drury Lane for threepence ha’penny. For sixpence a man could dine like a lord.

  STOKES: That’s another thing that’s wrong now. Everything costs too much, including actors.

  JENNY: What about actresses?

  STOKES: There aren’t any?

  JENNY: (Geniunely indignant.) What? John Stokes – you have the audacity to stand there –

  STOKES: Now, now, my dear – I don’t say you haven’t the making of an actress, and quite a good one, but it’ll take you another fifteen years at least to become what we called an actress –

  JENNY: (Dismayed.) Fifteen years! Why –

  MOON: No, it’s not long. You’d be surprised – wouldn’t she, John?

  STOKES: You turn around one morning – and where are they?

  Enter R. MRS. LUDLOW and both ACTRESSES, all obviously agitated.

  FANNY: (Dramatically.) Gone!

  JENNY: (Alarmed.) What?

  STOKES: Who’s gone?

  FANNY: Didn’t I say that that low fellow Varley, who came to see us last week, was probably scouting and touting for Mrs. Brougham, who has the Olympic now? If he’s not opening at the Olympic a week from today, as soon as they can get the bills printed and put up, then my name’s not Fanny Ludlow. Mr. Ludlow and I walked out of the Olympic when Madam Vestris had it. ‘Never again,’ I said to Mr. Ludlow –

  STOKES: But who’s gone?

  FANNY: Without saying a word – not even goodbye. He must have been sitting up with that Varley both nights – demanding parts, settling terms and billing –

  STOKES: But who – who?

  FANNY: Why, Julian Napier, of course. Who else? (To JENNY.) Child – you’re as white as a sheet.

  JENNY: Am I?

  She tries to smile, and the others begin to move out L.. Then she falls in a dead faint. The women look after her, as light slowly begins to fade.

  FANNY: You men, go and get some water and a drop of brandy – and ask Agnes for my sal volatile.

  The MEN hurry out and the WOMEN bend over JENNY.

  Better loosen everything. There – there – there –

  1ST ACTRESS: (In shocked tone.) Mrs. Ludlow – I think –

  FANNY: (Quietly.) You needn’t. I know now. And I know now why Julian Napier left in such a hurry –

  2ND ACTRESS: Do you think she told him?

  FANNY: No, she wouldn’t. He guessed – and then ran away – a London engagement – and out of his troubles here. And with both of them out of the cast, I don’t know what I’m going to say to Mr. Ludlow…

  Light has gone now. Small bar set down L. is now seen, with same LANDLORD behind, and LUDLOW talking to JOURNALIST.

  JOURNALIST: You’re health, Mr. Ludlow!

  LUDLOW: Same here. Though if it wasn’t practically doctor’s orders now, I doubt if I’d touch it. Haven’t the heart for it, you might say. You tell me that some patrons are complaining –

  JOURNALIST: I’m afraid they are, Mr. Ludlow. We’ve had one or two letters in fact, but I thought I’d mention it to you before printing ’em.

  LUDLOW: Very friendly of you. The same again, George. I ask you – what can a man do? Suddenly it all comes at once, without warning. Napier – breaking his contract, mind you – sneaks off to London –

  JOURNALIST: Where I hear he’s having a great success at the Olympic –

  LUDLOW: Possibly, possibly. Never a very discriminating audience. When he goes, Miss Villiers, around whom I had built my season, instantly collapses. Her distress at being abandoned in this fashion – for she was a wife to the
fellow in all but name – aggravates her condition – and – well, you may have heard –

  JOURNALIST: Yes, I did. I thought at the time it was probably better that way –

  LUDLOW: So did I. But when that’s over, instead of picking up, she gets worse, steadily worse. Doctor’s tried everything – but – no use.

  JOURNALIST: A sort of decline – eh?

  LUDLOW: Yes. Week after week, a slow ebbing away. And everybody in the Company aware of it, talking about it, haunted by it. What’s a man to do, sir?

  Enter KETTLE, who is wet, and looks haggard and desperate.

  KETTLE: They wouldn’t let me see her. She’s obviously worse. But that old fool of a doctor won’t say anything. I waited – to speak to him. But it was useless. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or where he is. (Takes drink that LANDLORD passes.)

  JOURNALIST: Or where poor Miss Villiers is either – eh?

  LUDLOW stops him from saying more.

  KETTLE: (After swallowing his drink.) I know where she is. She’s at death’s door. Queer phrase that, when you come to think of it – death’s door.

  LUDLOW: Walter, my boy, this won’t do. You’re wet through – and shivering. You’ll be going down next.

  KETTLE: Not I. I’ll burn my time out. This town’s like a steaming graveyard tonight. I felt we were all dead and just didn’t remember. That doctor’s nothing but a fat old corpse falsely resurrected. Another, George?

  LANDLORD: Ha, ha!

  LUDLOW: And when you’ve had that one, you’d better run along to your lodgings and get to bed, Walter. You’re a sick man yourself.

  KETTLE: Of course I am. We’re all sick men. You with your painted faces and painted scenes. This fellow here with all the solemn lies he prints. And even George there, who poisons us so that we don’t notice too much on our way to the graveyard. That’s where we’re all going, gentlemen. And a pleasant journey to you.

  As he goes out and the other three look at one another in bewilderment and consternation, the light on the bar, which has been fading, now vanishes. There is some music and the sounds of rushing wind. Then a tiny light – it can come from a flashlamp held in his hand – comes on MARTIN, who can be either downstage L., as far downstage as possible, or upstage C. Wind dies down, and music fades away.

  MARTIN: (Quietly but with a touch of urgency.) Jenny… Jenny.

  JENNY’s voice can come through a loud-speaker here, if it is quiet and sensitive enough. Otherwise she speaks off.

  JENNY: It was very lonely – dying.

  MARTIN: Lonely?

  JENNY: (Slowly, simply.) Yes, very lonely. Everybody seemed a long way off. It was the loneliest thing that had every happened to me.

  MARTIN: (Gently.) Were you frightened?

  JENNY: No, I wasn’t frightened. I think I was too tired to feel frightened. But I was lonely – and terribly sad – until the very end.

  MARTIN: (Slowly.) Until the very end? After week and weeks in some dreary little back room, far away from the lights and music and applause, feeling lonely and sad…wasted hands and hollow cheeks…great burning eyes and bright hair…what happened then, my dear? (He pauses as if waiting for a reply, then urgently.) Jenny, if it was better, not so terribly sad, at the very end, I must know. Make me see. Let me listen. Jenny, what happened? Do you hear me?

  As light fades on MARTIN, it comes on in small bedroom set in R. alcove. JENNY, wasted and very pale, with her hair loose, is half-sitting up in bed. Two tall guttering candles at her side. A stout old nurse of the period, the Sarah Gamp type, sits on small chair at bedside. Her face can just be seen; JENNY’s is clearly seen; the room itself is in shadow. The effect is one of romantic desolation. JENNY speaks very simply but is obviously delirious.

  JENNY: (Pointing to candles.) You know what we used to call them?

  NURSE: (Soothingly.) Yes, dearie. Candles. They’re only candles.

  JENNY: No, not just candles – not when the wax has all run down the sides – thick white wax, running and melting away. We used to call them winding sheets. That’s true, isn’t it? Winding sheets?

  NURSE: Now, you’ve not to talk like that, dearie. Only just ’ave patience, and we’ll ’ave you better in no time. You want to act in the thee-aytor again, don’t you?

  JENNY: (Alarmed.) Yes, of course. What time is it? I mustn’t be late. I must get dressed. Why am I lying here?

  NURSE: (Bending forward to restrain her.) Now – now – now – you can’t go tonight, dearie. You’re too poorly – and any-ow, it’s too late.

  JENNY: (Muttering.) Yes, it’s too late…far too late… Goodnight ladies; goodnight, sweet ladies; goodnight…goodnight… (Her voice dies away, but then she hears something, and is rather startled, sitting up a little.) Listen – what’s that noise?

  NURSE: Only the rain, dearie. The west wind’s bringing the rain tonight.

  JENNY: Heigh-ho – the wind and the rain…that’s sad too… I don’t know why it should be…but it is. And he meant it to be, y’know… ‘But that’s all one, our play is gone’…it’s pretending not to be sad, not to care at all, but all the time it is sad. It makes me cry.

  NURSE: Don’t let it then, dearie. You needn’t bother your ’ead about it.

  JENNY: (Alarmed again now.) Yes…yes… I must…and there isn’t much time. What does it matter how late it is, Sarah… I know you’re tired, but I must go through it again. ‘Make me a willow cabin at your gate. And call upon my soul within the house…’

  As she sinks back, exhausted, elderly DOCTOR enters quietly R. and stands looking down at her, then looks enquiringly at NURSE. BOTH keep near foot of bed.

  NURSE: (Whispering.) I’m afraid she’s weakening fast, doctor. And her poor mind’s a-wandering again.

  JENNY opens her eyes and smiles at DOCTOR.

  DOCTOR: (Quietly.) Now, Miss Villiers.

  JENNY: (Very quietly and sadly.) I’m afraid I’ve been a great trouble to you, Doctor.

  DOCTOR: No, you haven’t, Miss Villiers.

  JENNY: Yes, a great trouble…where’s Nurse…has she gone?

  NURSE: No, I’m still ’ere – bless yer!

  JENNY: (Faintly.) I can’t se you…it’s dark…why is it so dark? And what’s that noise?

  NURSE: Only the rain, dearie.

  JENNY: (Half sitting.) No…listen!

  There is the sound of distant applause and music far away but then coming nearer, calling ‘Overture and Beginners. Overture and Beginners.’ JENNY hears it, and with a last effort sits up, smiling.

  My call…my call…

  As she sinks back exhausted, light begins to fade, but music comes up for a few moments and there is the rushing wind sound. But these die out as the light completely vanishes, and there is a moment or two of complete darkness, during which a very distant sound of a tolling bell can be heard. Then tiny light comes up on MARTIN.

  MARTIN: (Slowly, sadly.) So that’s how it was. But is this the end? Is there nothing left of Jenny Villiers but a name and a date, a portrait and a glove? And why the link of daughters down the years to me? There’s nothing left. (As if a thought strikes him, calling.) Kettle! Walter Kettle!

  Light goes off MARTIN and comes up on R. alcove. This now represents a corner of the Prop. Room. It is a bizarre little scene, with bits of armour, old costumes, and one or two grotesque old pantomime heads hanging up behind. Small table with chair behind. Bottle of gin, a couple of glasses, and two large candles burning. The light should be fairly strong in centre of scene with strong shadows and shadowy edges. KETTLE, looking as before, is sitting, brooding, and drinking. After a moment or two, LUDLOW enters.

  LUDLOW: (Sympathetically.) Walter, me boy – we all know how you feel. We all feel the same.

  KETTLE: (In despair.) No, you don’t. Have you ever felt a rusty saw-edged dagger in your heart?

  LUDLOW: She’s gone, Walter – and wild words and strong liquor won’t bring her back.

  KETTLE: The words aren’t wild – to me. And the liquor might smooth th
e edge of the dagger – though it hasn’t done so far –

  LUDLOW: I depend on you Walter. This Theatre depends on you –

  KETTLE: Then you and this Theatre must learn to look after yourselves. I’ve finished here – I hate every stick and stone of it now she’s gone. (Helps himself to another drink, gulping it down.)

  LUDLOW: Times are hard and won’t be easier without Jenny –

  KETTLE: (Angrily.) She isn’t in her grave yet – but you can talk of her as if she was only a name on the bill –

  LUDLOW: (Ignoring this outbreak.) I say, times are hard – but I might consider a substantial increase in salary for you, Walter –

  KETTLE: Salary be damned – and you and your Theatre with it! I’m not even staying in this country, man.

  LUDLOW: (Surprised.) Why – where could you go?

  KETTLE: (Sullenly.) I’ve a cousin in Australia – New South Wales – who’s written more than once he’d pay my passage out there if I’d join him.

  LUDLOW: Australia? But they’ve no theatre there yet –

  KETTLE: So much the better. All the Theatre that I want is lying in a coffin –

  There is a voice off, calling ‘Mr. Ludlow’, and LUDLOW goes off. KETTLE takes another drink shudderingly, then buries his head in his hands. LUDLOW returns.

  LUDLOW: (Quietly.) Someone wants to see you, Walter.

  KETTLE: (Not raising his head.) Tell ’em to go away.

  LUDLOW: It’s the nurse that looked after Jenny –

  KETTLE looks up, enquiringly.

  She won’t talk to anybody but you – and she is very persistent and urgent about it.

  KETTLE: If she’s come to torture me with any death-bed scenes, I’ll wring her fat neck.

  LUDLOW: (Quietly.) But you’d better find out what she wants, Walter.

  He goes out and then the NURSE enters, a fat shapeless figure, who looks curiously at him. Her manner is both unctuous and mysterious.

  NURSE: Mr. Kettle, I’m Mrs. Parsons, you remember, the nurse that looked after our poor dear –

  KETTLE: (Cutting in, harshly.) Yes, yes, I know. What is it?

  NURSE: You’re takin’ it ’ard, aren’t you, Mr. Kettle? An’ I’m not surprised, ’cos I said all doing ‘It’s that poor Mr. Kettle that loves ’er an’ the one she ought to ’ave ’ad –’