DORIS. Well, of course, dear, he hasn’t. The number of times I’ve had to pre tend to be blind, deaf, and half-witted, I can’t tell you. Still, the old boy prefers it that way, and I wouldn’t like to spoil his fun.
CHLOE. What’s the other one like? This General?
DORIS. Oh, he’s quite a nice old thing in his way. Quite harmless really. Oh, by the way, he likes to be known as Major Mason –
CHLOE. Why Major?
DORIS. He thinks it makes him sound younger. Sweet, isn’t it?
CHLOE (gloomily). I don’t think old gentlemen are ever sweet. I don’t think I like old gentlemen at all.
DORIS. Old gentlemen are much nicer than young ones, they’ve got such lovely manners for one thing. I mean, with an old gentleman, for instance, a headache’s a headache and no nonsense. My dear, I’m forgetting my manners now. Would you care to powder your nose?
CHLOE. Yes, I think that might be a good idea.
DORIS. This way, then, dear.
She sweeps majestically to the bedroom door, and holds it open for CHLOE.
CHLOE. Oh! What a very nice bedroom!
DORIS. Yes, it is quite nice really, isn’t it? I mean, when you consider that it’s really never used – This way, dear, on the right. (Follows CHLOE out.)
After a moment we hear male voices in the hall, and then MARK and OSCAR come in. MARK is now sixty-four, and OSCAR sixty-seven. Both have worn quite well. They are in dinner jackets and overcoats. The latter they now proceed to shed. OSCAR with a certain amount of coughing and spluttering.
MARK. My dear chap, you never knew a single word of Shakespeare… noth ing but a common soldier… put your coat down there… ‘bleeding piece of earth.’ ‘Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth’ – not ‘bloody piece of earth’. You never could quote anything correctly.
OSCAR. It’s ‘bloody’. ‘Oh, pardon me, thou bloody piece of – ’ (Stops in a fit of coughing.)
MARK. Nonsense. I say, old chap, that cough of yours is rather worrying, isn’t it?
OSCAR. It doesn’t worry me, so I don’t know why on earth it should worry you –
MARK. Are you sure you oughtn’t to keep your coat on?
OSCAR. Quite sure –
MARK. I’ll tell you what. I’ll find you a rug –
OSCAR. If you think I’m going to dine on oysters and champagne with two girls in a rug, you’re off your head –
MARK. Mustn’t take needless risks, though. We’re none of us quite as young as we were, you know.
OSCAR. What a damned idiotic remark! No, and we’re none of us quite as old as we’re going to be either.
MARK. It’s extraordinary how you get more crotchety and more like a general every day –
OSCAR. And you get more cliché-ridden and more like an ambassador. By the way – kindly remember I’m not a general tonight – I’m a major.
MARK. My dear chap – I don’t forget things of that kind. You might be care ful about my age too while you’re about it.
OSCAR. What is it now?
MARK. Well – you don’t need to be too specific. Middle fifties –
OSCAR. Ha!
MARK. You said something?
OSCAR. I said ‘Ha’. What’s young Denis going to be like?
MARK (ponderously). Well – now, Oscar – you know that I am not in anyway prone to exaggeration –
OSCAR. Do I?
MARK (ignoring him). And you know too that I have never been in any shape or form prejudiced by the mere fact that Denis happens to be my son.
OSCAR. Do I?
MARK. Nevertheless I am not, I think, making any ill-considered statement when I say that Denis’s Mark Antony – without the slightest question – is the greatest I have seen since Irving.
OSCAR. You didn’t see Irving.
MARK. How do you know I didn’t?
OSCAR. Because he didn’t play it.
MARK. Well, then, you didn’t either, so shut up.
OSCAR (a shade timorously). What exactly are the plans for later?
MARK. Doris and I will be having a little supper here. I assumed you would be making rather similar arrangements.
OSCAR. Well, I’ve laid on a tentative little cold collation for two in my rooms.
MARK. Why tentative? Have you lost your nerve?
OSCAR (sadly). No. Just my youth.
MARK. Nonsense. ‘Never say die’ is my motto.
OSCAR. We may not say it, old chap – but quite soon we’ll have to do it.
MARK. Certainly. And, speaking for myself, when I do do it, I’ll look back on an exceptionally well-ordered and well-conducted life. Or rather lives.
OSCAR. It beats me how you’ve got away with both of them all these years.
MARK. Well. It doesn’t beat me. I’ve got away with them for precisely the reasons I’ve always told you I would get away with them. Skill, applica tion, finesse, and a superb talent for organisation. You know, Oscar, I may well have stumbled on the whole secret of successful living.
OSCAR. Hmm!
MARK. To divide the illicit from the domestic, the romantic and dangerous from the dull and secure – to divide them into two worlds and then to have the best of both of them. Years ago in this very room you told me it couldn’t be done – Well, I’ve done it – not only here in London, but in Paris, in Rome, in Stockholm, and in La Paz.
OSCAR. What are you in Paris? Monsieur Droit, l’espionextraordinaire?
MARK. No. Just Mr Wright, the English sculptor. A fourth-floor studio in Montparnasse. A little model –
OSCAR. Called Mimi.
MARK. Albertine.
OSCAR. Dying of consumption?
MARK. No. Just an existentialist. Mr Wright is very happy in Paris. And so, may I add, is Lord Binfield.
OSCAR. Luck! That’s all it’s been from the beginning. Luck and nothing else.
MARK. I don’t recognise the term.
OSCAR. But, my God – you take such appalling risks. Look at tonight, for instance –
MARK. Tonight? Tonight is an excellent example of my aptitude for planning. At the last minute I learn that my wife has influenza, and that the doc tor has forbidden her to go out. What do I do? Quick as thought I ring up Charlie Bayswater, who I know is going to the theatre with his friend the War Minister, and make a date with him for five minutes before curtain up in the bar, where all the photographers will be floating around. Too good a catch to miss – the four of us. (Triumphantly.) In the Tatler to show my wife on Wednesday –
OSCAR. And the girls?
MARK. The girls have their explicit instructions. You and I, on leaving the bar and the photographers, will proceed to our seats – and there sitting right next to us will be the two ladies whom we happened to have met at the Dutch Embassy last Monday. Fancy that. The operation of having one’s cake and eating it is so absurdly simple, if performed with the necessary attention to detail and organisation.
The telephone rings. He gets up to answer it.
(Into telephone.) Hullo… Hullo?… Who? (His face shows acute alarm. In a badly disguised voice.) Oh no, he’s not ’ere. What nime shall I tell ’im… Yes, milady… Very good, milady… No, the General’s not ’ere, neither… No, milady… No, I don’t know, milady… (Rings off. In a whisper.) How in the name of heaven did she know this number?
OSCAR. The missus?
MARK nods distractedly.
MARK. Yes, she must still have your number in her book.
OSCAR. But dammit, she knows I haven’t lived here for donkey’s years. Any way, the number’s been changed.
MARK. Perhaps she’s delirious –
OSCAR. Did she sound delirious?
MARK. No. But they never do. Do you think I ought to go back?
OSCAR. Why don’t you ring up?
MARK. Yes. I will. Good gracious. The girls!
He is on his way to the telephone when the bedroom door opens and the two girls come out.
DORIS (as she enters). It’s got the plunging neckl
ine, but of course it’s strictly 1950 – oh, hullo. You been here long, dear?
MARK. We didn’t realise you were gossiping in there –
DORIS. My dear, you’d only got to shout out. Oh, Chloe, I don’t think you’ve met Mr Wright, have you?
MARK. How do you do?
CHLOE. How do you do? Very honoured, I’m sure, to meet Denis Wright’s father –
MARK. Once upon a time, you know, Denis Wright was known as my son. Now I’m known as his father – it’s rather shaming, isn’t it?
CHLOE. Shaming? What a quaint, old-fashioned word. I rather like it, don’t you, Doris? Shaming?
DORIS. Yes, dear. This is General – er – Major Mason, dear. Do you remem ber I told you all about him –
OSCAR (winningly). Oh – not all about me, I hope. (Laughs seductively, but it lapses into a wheezy cough.)
MARK. The Major’s got a slight cold, I’m afraid. Caught it out duck-shoot ing – didn’t you, Major?
OSCAR. Yes. Gets a bit chilly, you know, out there in the marshes. Many chaps younger than myself go down with pneumonia, you know –
CHLOE. Well, it seems rather silly to do it then, doesn’t it?
OSCAR. Ah, but then a cold is a small sacrifice to pay for the pleasures of an active life, don’t you think?
CHLOE. No. I don’t think I do. And I do hope you’re not going to go giving your cold to me –
OSCAR. If you would allow me but the faintest chance of giving you anything, dear young lady, even my cold, I would count myself among the happiest of mortals –
MARK. Well now – shall we sit down?
DORIS (sitting). Come on, Chloe.
MARK. Come along, Major, lend a hand.
OSCAR. Yes, it would indeed be a pleasure to act as your Ganymede, dear lady.
CHLOE (to DORIS in an undertone as she sits). He talks so high-flown.
DORIS. They all do, dear. It’s nice.
CHLOE. I don’t think so. I think it’s sort of – well – indecent.
OSCAR (to MARK) Well, why don’t you slip out and ring her up?
MARK (to OSCAR, in an undertone). I’ll ring up from the theatre. (To the girls.) Well, now, oysters. Doris and Chloe, if I may take that liberty –
CHLOE (to DORIS). What liberty?
DORIS (in an undertone). Saying Chloe, dear.
CHLOE. What’s a liberty about that?
DORIS. Sh!
OSCAR takes the vacant seat, coughing a little as he does so.
MARK. Sure I can’t get you a little covering for your shoulders, Major?
OSCAR. No, thank you, Wright. I wouldn’t like the ladies to think I’m Whistler’s mother.
DORIS laughs gaily.
DORIS. Oh, that’s good, Major. That’s very good. ‘Whistler’s mother’! Isn’t that good, Chloe?
CHLOE (mistiming it badly). Yes. (Laughs tinnily.) Very good. Go on about what you said to Madam, dear.
MARK meanwhile, has opened the champagne, while OSCAR sits, a neglected and forlorn figure, between the two girls.
DORIS. Well – I said – after all, ten minutes isn’t very much when you think that Princess Kasbak is a good half-hour late every day and Madam never says anything to her.
CHLOE. Do you know what I think Madam is? A snob. That’s what Madam is. Anyway, she’s not a Princess – not a real one.
DORIS. Well, I don’t know dear, she does come from Anatolia.
CHLOE. I come from Pinner, but it doesn’t make me a Countess. Besides, if she was a real princess she’d be at Hartnell’s. (Examining the champagne bottle as MARK pours.) Oh, it isn’t Bollinger?
MARK. No. It’s Moet and Chandon ’37. Would you rather have had Bollinger?
CHLOE. Oh, well – it doesn’t really matter now you’ve poured.
MARK passes on to DORIS, OSCAR, and himself.
(To DORIS.) Yes, dear, I quite agree – Madam really is the limit. I mean, look at the way she treats Mr Claud and of course, Madam and Mr Freddy, well, I mean, we all know, don’t we? And then again, dear, I’ve seen Madam sometimes –
MARK (sitting and raising his glass). Well, ladies. I’ll just say – Here’s to love!
DORIS and CHLOE (murmuring). To love.
They take a very perfunctory sip.
CHLOE (to DORIS). I mean, I’ve seen Madam simply furious with Mr Claud for no reason at all.
DORIS. Yes, dear. And what about that time when she made such a scene over that gold lamé?
CHLOE. Wasn’t it a scream?
Both girls laugh gaily.
DORIS (imitating Madam, apparently). Pull those sleeves off! Pull those sleeves off, this instant!
CHLOE (imitating Mr Claud, apparently). Madam – you’re breaking my heart. You’re breaking my heart! Let go, Madam. Let go!
They laugh again. OSCAR talks to MARK across the table. As they converse, the girls are continuing their own discussion.
OSCAR. Do you get much golf these days?
MARK. No. Not much. An occasional round at St Cloud.
OSCAR. St Cloud? Yes, I’ve played there. It’s quite a good course, isn’t it?
MARK. Not bad. It plays rather short though –
OSCAR. I remember the ninth, I think. Isn’t that the hole with the trees be hind the green, and an enormous bunker on the right?
MARK. No. I think that’s the eleventh you’re thinking of –
OSCAR. Oh, the eleventh, is it? I thought it was the ninth.
Simultaneously, DORIS and CHLOE.
DORIS. Oh, it was a shame really, because it wasn’t so bad, that dress. Do you remember it, dear, with that shaped bodice and the crinoline?
CHLOE. Oh yes, dear, I remember it very well. I thought it was quite unrea sonable of Madam to go on like that –
DORIS. Well, of course, that’s the trouble with Madam. I mean, she is unrea sonable. I mean, look what she said to Gladys yesterday.
CHLOE. Oh, I didn’t hear about that. What did she say?
DORIS. Oh, it was terrible. She said ‘Get out,’ she said, ‘Get out – you’re nothing but a… ’
She lowers her voice to a whisper, happily inaudible to all but CHLOE. The men have concluded their golfing conversation.
CHLOE. She didn’t!
DORIS. She did.
She repeats the three words, of which we can now tell that the middle one is ‘little’ and the last monosyllabic, necessitating a rounding of the lips. The first might he anything beginning with ‘B’.
CHLOE. Oh – how dreadful.
DORIS. Unreasonable, you see. Just unreasonable.
She makes a face at CHLOE significant of unreasonableness and then becomes conscious of her social duties.
(To MARK.) Well, dear. How are you?
MARK. Oh, I’m very well, thank you, Doris.
DORIS. That’s good.
MARK. And how are you?
DORIS. Oh, so-so, you know. I’ve got this headache again –
MARK (gloomily). Oh no!
Pause.
CHLOE. Funny – your saying that, Doris, because I’ve got an absolutely split ting headache.
DORIS. Oh, you poor thing! I am sorry.
OSCAR (to CHLOE). Where exactly is your headache, dear lady? Here? (Touches her forehead.)
CHLOE. Well – all over, really –
OSCAR. All over? Ah then, I’ve got exactly the thing for it. The very latest drug. I believe Mark and Doris are deserting us after the play, so if you would do me the honour of having a little supper with me at my flat, I could give it to you, then.
CHLOE. Oh. (Faintly.) How nice!
She makes a despairing face at DORIS across the table.
MARK (at the window). The car is there.
OSCAR (looking at his watch). We’ve got plenty of time.
We’ve got well over half an hour.
MARK. I like to be early. Shall we leave the ladies, Major?
OSCAR gets up, fails to make it first time, and sits down again.
OSCAR. Funny thing – my kne
e caught the leg of the table.
He laughs jovially, the laugh once more becoming a cough. MARK comes to help him.
MARK. Let me give you a hand.
OSCAR (testily). All right, all right. I can manage. (Strikes out vigorously for the bedroom door.) From the way he treats me sometimes, you’d think I was an old cripple, or something.
He laughs gaily, waves to the ladies, disappears, and we hear a crash as he enters the bedroom.
MARK (alarmed). Good heavens! Major! What have you done?
MARK follows him into the bedroom.
DORIS. You see, dear, what I say about old gentlemen is that they’re so cosy. Cosy old ducks – that’s what they are –
CHLOE (plainly miserable). Well, I don’t think my one’s cosy at all.
DORIS. Oh, he’s really quite a dear, the General, when you get to know him.
CHLOE. I don’t think I want to get to know him.
DORIS. You mustn’t mind just because he talks high-flown, dear. I was tell ing you, they all talk high-flown –
CHLOE (imitating). ‘If I might have the honour – dear lady – a little supper at my flat – I would count myself the happiest of mortals’ – I mean, it’s practically Lord Byron, isn’t it?
DORIS. Well, I think that’s nice, dear, don’t you?
CHLOE. No. I think I want to go home.
DORIS. Oh, what a shame!
CHLOE. I shouldn’t really have come out at all. I promised Mum I’d help her with the washing – and I could have got on with that jumper –
DORIS. Well, all right, dear, you go off. They won’t mind. That’s what’s so nice about old gentlemen. They never mind anything –
The sound of old gentlemen’s voices can be heard approaching the bedroom door.
Here they are. Don’t you say anything, dear. I’ll fix it.
MARK and OSCAR come in.
MARK (as he enters). But why ring up here, anyway? She thinks I’m at my Club. And how on earth could she possibly know the number –
OSCAR. Don’t ask me, old chap.
MARK. Well, well. All ready?
DORIS. Oh dear – isn’t it a shame? Chloe’s been taken quite queer, quite suddenly.
MARK. Oh. I’m so sorry.
DORIS. She thinks it must have been a bad oyster, don’t you, dear?
CHLOE. Yes. That’s right, dear. A bad oyster.
Who is Sylvia? and Duologue Page 13