Who is Sylvia? and Duologue

by Terence Rattigan

MARK. Yes, I will. Oh, Williams – just in case I don’t see you to thank you – (Takes out his wallet.)

  WILLIAMS. No, my lord, there’s no need to do that.

  MARK gives him a pound.

  Oh, well – that’s very kind of you, I’m sure.

  MARK. Going out with your girl?

  WILLIAMS. I haven’t got a girl. Not steady, that is. I don’t hold with it.

  MARK. Don’t hold with going steady?

  WILLIAMS. No, my lord. It’s bad for a man’s morale, getting tied up to one woman all his life – at least that’s the way I see it. It eats into his soul – makes him old before his time.

  MARK. Williams – you’re speaking to a married man.

  WILLIAMS. Oh, well – chacun à son goût, as they say. Mind you, I’m not saying there’s not a lot to be said for the blessed state – provided you don’t let it get you down. But too many married men do, and there’s the trouble.

  MARK. I think there’s something in what you say, Williams –

  WILLIAMS. It’s not so much me that says it, my lord, as H.G. Wells. Very illuminating, Wells.

  There is a knock at the front door.

  MARK. My God! That must be my guest.

  WILLIAMS. Hope she hasn’t been ringing long. You can never hear the bell from here. I’ll let her in.

  MARK (distractedly). No. I think perhaps you’d better let me do that, Williams, if you don’t mind. You see, I haven’t had time yet to explain to her about this flat – I merely gave her this address.

  WILLIAMS. Oh. Doesn’t she know who you are, my lord?

  MARK. No. I haven’t actually told her my name yet.

  WILLIAMS. Well, what name have you told her?

  MARK. Damn it, man, I haven’t told her any name. We just don’t happen yet to know each other awfully well, that’s all. It takes such an infernally short time for a bus to get from Whitehall to Hyde Park Corner.

  WILLIAMS. Ah. One of those. I see, my lord. Well, I’ll just slip along to the kitchen and when you’ve let her in I’ll nip out.

  MARK. Yes, do. (Starts for hall, then turns back.)

  Another knock at the front door.

  Williams! You think a name is advisable –

  WILLIAMS. Oh. Very highly.

  MARK. What do you suggest?

  WILLIAMS (after considering). The Captain uses Mason a lot.

  MARK. I don’t like Mason. Too rugged. What about Robinson?

  WILLIAMS. You don’t look a Robinson.

  MARK. Smith?

  WILLIAMS. No. That’s fatal. (After considering.) Featherstonhaugh?

  MARK. Don’t be idiotic.

  A third knock.

  My God – she’ll go in a second. I know – Wright. How do you like that? Rather good, isn’t it? Wright it shall be.

  WILLIAMS. Yes, my lord. I mean, very good, Mr Wright. Bonne chance.

  They disappear, MARK in the lead. After a pause we hear the front door closing and voices in the hall.

  MARK (off). I hope you found it all right.

  DAPHNE (off). Oh, yes. Quite easy really, only two stops in the Tube from Notting Hill.

  DAPHNE enters, ushered in by MARK. She is in the early twenties and her face, partly concealed under a terrible hat – for she is not in evening dress – bears a marked resemblance to the bronze head. Her accent might be described as cautious.

  Oh, look at you in evening dress. You are awful. You said not to –

  MARK. Well – only a dinner jacket, you know. Doesn’t really count.

  She looks round the room.

  DAPHNE (rapturously). Oh, pictures! I love pictures, don’t you? Of course, I can see you do. Oh, we’ve got one just I like that at home. (Stands in front of a picture gazing at it with the eye of a connoisseur.)

  MARK (behind her). That one’s by a Dutch painter.

  DAPHNE. Oh, is it? (Gazes at it.) Of course, the colours are different in ours and there are more cows. It’s called Dawn on the Highlands. Who would that be by, do you think?

  MARK. Well – it could be by quite a lot of people.

  DAPHNE (a shade scornfully). I must ask Mr Fortescue. He’ll know. Mr Fortescue’s my boss at the office. He’s wonderful really. He knows everything there is to know about everything.

  MARK. He sounds wonderful.

  DAPHNE. He is. (In a confidential murmur.) I say, old bean, where’s the oojah?

  MARK. The oojah?

  DAPHNE. The om-tiddly-om-pom.

  MARK still looks baled.

  The umpti-poo.

  MARK (light breaking). Oh, the umpti-poo. How foolish of me. It’s through this door here, and then on the right. (Opens the bedroom door.)

  DAPHNE (as she passes him). You didn’t mind me asking, did you, old fruit? I do think a girl should be modernistic these days, don’t you?

  MARK (with enthusiasm). I quite agree. As modernistic as she can possibly be.

  DAPHNE goes out. MARK goes to the sideboard and starts to undo the caviar. There is a discreet knock at the hall door. WILLIAMS then opens it.

  WILLIAMS. She’s in there, isn’t she?

  MARK. That’s right. The oojah.

  WILLIAMS. I saw the light on. I brought this, some nice hot toast for the caviar.

  He comes to the table with it.

  MARK. Thank you very much, Williams.

  WILLIAMS. I say, I got a squint at her coming in. Do you know, my lord, who she’s the living spittin’ image of?

  MARK. No. Who?

  WILLIAMS. That girl there. (Points at the bronze head.)

  MARK. Oh! Do you think so?

  WILLIAMS. Not a doubt of it. In fact, I thought perhaps she’d sat to you for it. She didn’t, did she?

  MARK. No, Williams. No one sat to me for that.

  WILLIAMS. From imagination, was it?

  MARK. From memory.

  WILLIAMS. Who of?

  MARK. Of a girl I knew once.

  WILLIAMS. Um, terrible hat. Never make the best of themselves, do they?

  MARK. Very rarely. (Nervously.) Er – Williams – don’t you think –

  WILLIAMS. That’s all right, my lord. She’s still there. I can see the light from here. As I was saying, it’s wonderful what these girls do to themselves in the name of beauty. Now the Captain’s got a friend – his latest – Ethel – have you met her, my lord?

  MARK (distrait). I don’t know, Williams. So many of the Captain’s friends seem to be called Ethel.

  WILLIAMS. You couldn’t mistake this Ethel. What she puts on herself you wouldn’t hardly believe. Holy terror, she is – least, not so holy, I suppose, but a terror all right. I remember once – look out, my lord. Lights are off. Vive le sport.

  He disappears through the doors and closes them gently after him. After a moment DAPHNE comes through the bedroom door.

  MARK. Oh, hullo.

  DAPHNE. Is that your garden, out there?

  MARK. What? Oh yes. It belongs to this flat.

  DAPHNE. Nice having a garden – especially this weather.

  MARK. We might sit out there, later.

  DAPHNE. Yes. That’d be nice. How do you get to it?

  MARK. From the bedroom.

  DAPHNE. Oh. (After a faint pause.) Yes. That’d be very nice.

  MARK. Look, shall we sit down? I’m afraid it’s only cold, you know. The fact is this is my man’s night out.

  DAPHNE (seating herself). Terrible the servant problem these days, isn’t it? It’s all this Bolshevism about.

  MARK, having seated her, helps her to caviar, with some ceremony. DAPHNE watches it going on the plate with bewilderment, but is too polite to ask what it is.

  MARK. Yes. I expect so.

  DAPHNE (inspecting the caviar cautiously). It’s funny – you wouldn’t really expect the Russians to go and abdicate their Tsar like that, after all these years, would you? On the other hand, you’ve got to see two sides to every question, haven’t you, and there’s no doubt that he’d rather been asking for it, carrying on the way he has all
this time, and Rasputin and all that. And then, of course, there’s always social economics, isn’t there, eh?

  MARK. I’m so sorry. I didn’t quite follow –

  DAPHNE. I was giving my views on what’s happened in Russia.

  MARK. Oh, I see. Yes. I cordially agree. There’s always social economics –

  He has been trying to open the champagne. He now succeeds.

  Ah. There we are.

  He pours some into her glass and into his own.

  DAPHNE. Ooh. Lovely! Sparkling gigglewasser.

  MARK. I beg your pardon?

  DAPHNE. It’s a name for champagne. Giggle-water, you see, and then the German for water being wasser, it becomes gigglewasser.

  MARK. But this isn’t German champagne.

  DAPHNE. I never said it was, silly. It’s just a name Mr Fortescue invented for champagne –

  MARK. Oh, I see. Mr Fortescue. (Sits down opposite her.) Er – this is Lanson ’04.

  DAPHNE takes a sip.

  DAPHNE (at length). So it is. ’04. Fancy.

  MARK looks at her but says nothing. He notices that she is not eating and divines the cause.

  MARK. I do hope you like the caviar. If you don’t, I can assure you that Messrs Fortnum and Mason will answer for it with their lives.

  DAPHNE lets out a merry peal of laughter. MARK looks pleased that his little joke has gone down so well.

  DAPHNE. You sounded just like Mr Fortescue when you said that.

  The smile fades from MARK’s face.

  MARK. Oh! Did I?

  DAPHNE. Shall I let you into a little secret? This is my very first taste of caviar.

  MARK. Well, there has to be a first time for everything, doesn’t there? Toast?

  DAPHNE. Practically everything. (Attacking some caviar with a spoon.) Well, here goes. (Takes a mouthful and patently finds it distasteful. But recovers quickly.) It’s quite nice, really, isn’t it?

  MARK. I think so. (Holds up his glass.) Here’s to a pair of the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen on any human being in all my life –

  DAPHNE. Quite the Oscar Wilde, aren’t you? (Takes a sip and giggles.)

  MARK (rises). Look, I’m afraid you’re not enjoying that caviar very much –

  DAPHNE. Well, now you mention it, I never was much of a one for fishy things.

  MARK. Then let’s pass on to the next course. (Removes the plates.)

  DAPHNE. Seems a pity, though – it’s awfully expensive, isn’t it?

  MARK. Oh, well. Expense is only a relative term, isn’t it?

  DAPHNE. Oh yes. Absolutely relative, isn’t it?

  He places the next course before her.

  Oh, chicken. Now that is nice.

  MARK. I’m glad we’re on safer ground with chicken. (Begins to pour her another glass of champagne.)

  DAPHNE. Oh no. Stop. I don’t want to get squiffy. You don’t know how I carry on when I’m squiffy.

  MARK. No, I don’t. But I should very much like to.

  DAPHNE (looking up at him). I might do things I might regret.

  MARK (seductively). You might regret them. But would I?

  DAPHNE. You’ve really quite a way with you, haven’t you? Oh, well – just up to there –

  She indicates the spot on the glass to which MARK is permitted to pour.

  Whoa! That’s lovely. Well. (Extending her glass.)

  Here’s to living, here’s to dying,

  Here’s to laughing, here’s to crying,

  Here’s to this and here’s to that,

  But chiefly here’s to that.

  MARK. One of Mr Fortescue’s?

  DAPHNE. Yes. How did you guess?

  He puts the champagne in the ice bucket, then returns to the table and resumes his seat.

  MARK. I’ve no idea. (Extending his glass.) Now I’ll give you a toast. I’ll just say – Here’s to love –

  DAPHNE giggles. There is an appreciable pause while both get on with the business of eating.

  DAPHNE. You know, I don’t know very much about you, do I? I don’t even know your name.

  MARK. Don’t you?

  DAPHNE. What is it?

  MARK. Mark.

  DAPHNE. Mark? (After a second’s reflection.) Yes, I like that.

  MARK. Do you? I’m so glad.

  DAPHNE (firmly). It’s a nice name, Mark. What’s your surname?

  MARK, in the act of taking a sip of wine, coughs. He takes rather more time to recover than seems necessary. From his expression of acute concentration, it is fairly plain that he has forgotten his chosen pseudonym.

  MARK (at length). Well, now – why don’t you guess?

  DAPHNE. Well, it could be almost anything, couldn’t it?

  MARK. Yes. Indeed it could.

  DAPHNE (a shade scornfully). It’s not Smith, is it?

  MARK. Oh no. It’s definitely not Smith. I hate Smith.

  DAPHNE. Yes, it is rather common, isn’t it?

  MARK (desperately). I love your name. Now, Daphne Prentice is a charming name –

  DAPHNE. Oh. I’m glad you think so. I always do think it’s rather nice – though I say it who shouldn’t.

  MARK. Exquisite. It has music… I know – Wright!

  DAPHNE. I beg your pardon?

  MARK (easily). Wright. Mark Wright. That’s my name. Do you like that?

  DAPHNE. No.

  MARK (with a slight laugh). Oh dear. Why not?

  DAPHNE. I just don’t think it’s very nice, that’s all.

  MARK (a shade defiantly). Well, what other name would you have thought nice?

  He glances at the door.

  Featherstonhaugh?

  DAPHNE. Oh, no. That’s silly.

  MARK. I cordially agree.

  There is a pause.

  DAPHNE (meditatively). Percy Pennyfeather’s nice, don’t you think?

  MARK. Yes, I suppose it is. And so is Fortescue. But you know, Daphne, quite honestly, I don’t think that either of them are really as nice as Wright. Just have another sip of champagne, and you’ll see how nice Wright is. Go on.

  She does so, and lowers her glass. MARK instantly pours more champagne into it.

  DAPHNE. Oh, you are awful, aren’t you?

  MARK. There. Now, doesn’t Wright sound better to you?

  DAPHNE. Yes, it does, in a way. It rather grows on you, doesn’t it? Mark Wright. Mark Wright. It’s straightforward anyhow.

  MARK. Simple and honest and direct, isn’t it? No frills about it. Mark Wright. I must say I like it myself very much indeed. Mark Wright. (Takes a sip of champagne in silent toast to his new name.)

  DAPHNE. What do you do for a living?

  MARK puts his glass down carefully.

  MARK. Well, why don’t you have another guess?

  DAPHNE. I say, old bean, you do like guessing games, don’t you?

  MARK. After all, there aren’t nearly so many occupations as there are names. (An idea has struck him at the word ‘occupations’.) You really ought to be able to guess my occupation, Daphne.

  DAPHNE is reluctant to try.

  All right, I’ll put you out of your misery. I’m a sculptor.

  DAPHNE. A sculptor?

  There is a pause while DAPHNE wrinkles her brows in thought.

  MARK (anxiously). You think that’s nice, don’t you?

  DAPHNE still ponders for a moment.

  DAPHNE (at length). Yes, I do. I think it’s quite nice.

  MARK. Splendid.

  DAPHNE. What sort of things do you sculpture?

  MARK. Well – (Rises and crosses to bronze head.) That, for example.

  DAPHNE (turning her head). That? (Gazes at it in silence.)

  MARK (anxiously again). Nice, don’t you think?

  DAPHNE (peering). I can’t see it properly.

  MARK. I’ll get it for you.

  He brings the head over and places it on the table. DAPHNE gazes at it.

  DAPHNE. Who is it?

  MARK. Just a girl.

  DAPHNE.
Oh. No one special?

  MARK. On the contrary. Someone very special. Don’t you think she looks like you?

  DAPHNE. Well, I don’t know that I feel altogether flattered, I must say.

  MARK (a shade sharply). Well, you should. If you don’t it’s my fault. She was very beautiful.

  DAPHNE. ‘Was’? Is she dead?

  MARK. No. Only she probably doesn’t look anything like this now. This is how I remembered her as she was – let me see now – I was seventeen then and I’m thirty-two now – fifteen years ago – (Lost in reverie as he gazes at the head.)

  DAPHNE. Go on. Tell me about her –

  MARK. There’s very little to tell, I’m afraid. You’d be disappointed.

  DAPHNE. Oh no. That’s all right. I love a story.

  MARK. Well, I was seventeen, as I told you. She was sixteen. I met her – of all places – at a garden party. The young people were forced to play tennis. Our hostess made us partners, this girl and I – and we played rather well together, although heaven knows I was never any good at the damn game. We won: 6:3, 6:2. After that we went for a walk together, not very far or for very long, because we both knew our parents were hating the party and would be wanting to go home soon. At a certain spot where there was a stile and a dead tree she let me kiss her – just once – and then we went back to the party. On the way home we talked about opera. I dropped her with her parents and that was the last I ever saw of her. A month later I heard she’d gone with her family to South Africa, and she’s been there ever since. She married a man called Willoughby-Grant, and they live near Capetown. A very pleasant house, somebody told me – right by the sea.

  He stops. DAPHNE looks at him, bewildered.

  DAPHNE. Is that all the story?

  MARK. Yes. That’s all.

  DAPHNE. Well, really, I must say. I see what you mean about my being disappointed –

  MARK. You like stories with more action?

  DAPHNE. Well, I like them to have a happy ending, anyway.

  MARK (smiling at her). Perhaps this one has a happy ending.

  There is a pause, broken by the ringing of the telephone.

  Oh, damn! (Gets up.) Excuse me. (Goes to the telephone. Into telephone.) Hullo?… Yes… Right, thank you, Charley. (Rings off, then stands in doubt and apprehension, looking at DAPHNE.) Er – look; Daphne – I wonder if I could ask you to do something.

  DAPHNE (ever cautious). Rather depends what ‘it’ is, doesn’t it?

  MARK. Yes. But this isn’t very difficult. Would you mind awfully leaving me alone while I make this telephone call – it’s very confidential, you see.