French Without Tears

by Terence Rattigan

  BRIAN. Morning, Babe.

  KENNETH doesn’t look up. BRIAN goes to the table, picks up a letter, and opens it.

  KENNETH. (Looking musingly ahead.) She has ideas above her station.

  BRIAN. What’s that?

  KENNETH. How would you say that in French?

  BRIAN. What?

  KENNETH. She has ideas above her station.

  BRIAN. She has ideas above her station. She has ideas . . .

  He stuffs his letter in his pocket and goes to kitchen door calling.

  Marianne!

  VOICE. (From the kitchen.) Oui, Monsieur?

  BRIAN. (With an appalling accent.) Deux oeufs, s’il vous plaît.

  VOICE. (Off.) Bien, Monsieur.

  BRIAN. Avec un petit peu de jambon.

  VOICE. (Off.) Oui, Monsieur. Des oeufs brouillés, n’est-ce pas?

  BRIAN. Brouillés? Ah, oui, brouillés. (He closes the door.) I’m getting pretty hot at this stuff, don’t you think? You know, nowadays it’s quite an effort for me to go back to English.

  KENNETH. If you’re so hot, you’d better tell me how to say she has ideas above her station.

  BRIAN. Oh, yes, I forgot. It’s fairly easy, old boy. Elle a des idées au-dessus de sa gare.

  KENNETH. You can’t do it like that. You can’t say au-dessus de sa gare. It isn’t that sort of station.

  BRIAN. (Pouring himself out a cup of coffee.) Well, don’t ask me.

  KENNETH. I thought you were so hot at French.

  BRIAN. Well, as a matter of fact, that wasn’t strictly the truth. Now if a Frenchman asked me where the pen of his aunt was, the chances are I could give him a pretty snappy come-back and tell him it was in the pocket of the gardener.

  KENNETH. Yes, but that doesn’t help me much.

  BRIAN. Sorry, old boy.

  KENNETH. I suppose I’d better just do it literally. Maingot’ll throw a fit.

  BRIAN. That doesn’t bother you, does it?

  KENNETH. You’re not going into the diplomatic. He doesn’t really get worked up about you.

  BRIAN. Well, I don’t know about that. The whole of his beard came off yesterday when I was having my lesson.

  KENNETH. No, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s absolute physical agony to him when I do something wrong. He knows as well as I do that I haven’t got one chance in a thousand of getting in.

  BRIAN. (Cheerfully.) Don’t say that, old boy. You’re breaking my heart.

  KENNETH. (Gloomily.) Yes, but it’s true. (He starts to write again.)

  BRIAN. As a matter of fact, Alan told me you had a pretty good chance.

  KENNETH. (Looking up, pleased.) Did he really?

  BRIAN nods.

  BRIAN. He ought to know, oughtn’t he? Isn’t he Maingot’s red-hot tip for the diplomatic stakes?

  KENNETH. If he was keener about getting in he’d walk it. He will anyway, I should think.

  BRIAN. I think I’ll make a book on the result this year. I’ll lay evens on Alan – a class colt with a nice free action; will win if he can get the distance.

  KENNETH. What about me?

  BRIAN. I’ll lay you threes about yourself.

  KENNETH. Threes? More like twenties.

  BRIAN. Oh, I don’t know. Nice-looking colt – good stayer. Bit of a dog from the starting-gate, perhaps. Say seven to two, then.

  Enter ALAN through the door at the back. He is about twenty-three, dark and saturnine. He wears carefully creased grey flannel trousers and a German ‘sport jacket’.

  Morning, Alan. We were just talking about you.

  ALAN. Good morning, Brian. Good morning, Babe. (He looks at his place at the head of the table.) Not one blood-stained letter. What were you saying about me?

  BRIAN. I’m making a book on the diplomatic stakes. I’m laying evens about you.

  ALAN. (Sitting down.) That’s not very generous.

  BRIAN. Hell, you’re the favourite.

  ALAN. What about the startling rumours that the favourite may be scratched.

  KENNETH. (Looking up quickly.) Why, have they accepted your novel?

  ALAN. Do I look as if they’d accepted my novel?

  BRIAN. I don’t know how you do look when they accept your novels.

  ALAN. I hope, my dear Brian, that one day you’ll have a chance of finding out.

  KENNETH. Well, what’s this talk about your scratching?

  ALAN. Perhaps just to give you a better chance, ducky.

  BRIAN. You’re not serious about it though, old boy?

  ALAN. Probably not.

  KENNETH. But you must be mad, Alan. I mean even if you do want to write you could still do it in the diplomatic. Honestly, it seems quite crazy –

  ALAN. You’re giving a tolerably good imitation of my father.

  BRIAN. What does His Excellency have to say about the idea, by the way?

  ALAN. His Excellency says that he doesn’t mind me choosing my own career a bit, provided always it’s the one he’s chosen for me.

  BRIAN. Broad-minded, eh?

  ALAN. That’s right. Always sees two sides to every question – his own, which is the right one; and anyone else’s, which is the wrong one.

  KENNETH. But seriously, Alan, you can’t really be thinking –

  ALAN. Oh, stop it, child, for God’s sake. I didn’t say I was going to scratch.

  KENNETH. You said you were thinking of it.

  ALAN. Well, you know that. I’m always thinking of it. I very rarely think of anything else. But I won’t do it, so don’t worry your dear little head about it.

  He taps KENNETH on the head with a brioche. KENNETH sulkily returns to his work.

  Enter MARIANNE, the maid, with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, placing them in front of BRIAN.

  BRIAN. Ah, mes oeufs, as I live.

  MARIANNE. (To ALAN.) Monsieur le Commandant, va-t-il aussi prendre des oeufs avec son déjeuner, Monsieur?

  BRIAN. Oh, well – er – (To ALAN.) She’s talking to you, old boy.

  ALAN. Je ne sais rien des habitudes de Monsieur le Commandant, Marianne.

  MARIANNE. Bien, Monsieur. Alors voulez-vous lui demander s’il les veut, Monsieur, lorsqu’il descend?

  ALAN. Bien.

  Exit MARIANNE.

  BRIAN. What did she want?

  ALAN. She wanted to know if the Commander took eggs with his breakfast.

  BRIAN. I meant to ask you. Did you see him when he arrived last night?

  ALAN. Yes, I went to the station with Maingot to meet him.

  BRIAN. What’s he like?

  ALAN. Very naval commander.

  BRIAN. Yes, old boy, but what’s that?

  ALAN. You know. Carries with him the salty tang of the sea wherever he goes.

  BRIAN. Pity he’s carried it here. Paucot-sur-mer could do without any more salty tang than it’s got already. Has he a rolling gait?

  ALAN. He was sober when he arrived.

  BRIAN. No, old boy, drunk or sober, all sailors have a rolling gait.

  MONSIEUR MAINGOT comes in hurriedly through the door at the back. He is about sixty, with a ferocious face and a white beard.

  MAINGOT. Bonjour – Bonjour – Bonjour!

  All three rise. He shakes hands with each in turn, then sits down at the head of the table right at the opposite end to the three boys.

  Mon Dieu, que je suis en retard ce matin! (He opens a letter.)

  BRIAN. (Speaking in a whisper to ALAN.) What’s he like, though, really?

  ALAN. (Also in a whisper.) Pretty hellish, I thought.

  BRIAN. Po-faced, I suppose?

  MAINGOT. (Roaring into his letter.) Français! Voulez-vous parlez français, Messieurs, s’il vous plaît.

  Pause.

  (Looking up from his letter.) Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça, po-faced?

  ALAN. Nous disions que Monsieur le Commandant avait une figure de vase de nuit, Monsieur.

  MAINGOT. Ah! Mais c’est pas vrai.

  ALAN. Nous exaggérons un peu.

 
; MAINGOT. Je crois bien.

  He returns to his letters.

  KENNETH surreptitiously pushes his notebook towards ALAN, pointing at a certain sentence. ALAN reads it and shakes his head violently. KENNETH looks pleadingly at him. ALAN considers and is about to speak when MAINGOT looks up.

  Dîtes-moi, est-ce-que vous connaissez un Lord Heybrook? (Looking at letter.)

  ALAN. Non, Monsieur.

  MAINGOT. Il voudrait venir le quinze Juillet.

  ALAN. (To BRIAN.) Do you know him?

  BRIAN. Lord Heybrook? No, old boy. (Confidentially.) As a matter of fact, I knew a peer once, but he died. What about Lord Heybrook, anyway?

  ALAN. He’s coming here on the fifteenth.

  MAINGOT. (Roaring.) Français, Messieurs – français!

  Pause.

  MAINGOT takes up the Matin and begins to read. KENNETH again pushes his notebook towards ALAN, and ALAN again is about to speak.

  (Roaring.) Ah! Ce Hitler! (Throwing paper on floor.) Quel phenomène!

  ALAN closes his mouth and KENNETH pulls his notebook back quickly.

  (To BRIAN.) Aha, Monsieur Curtis, vous étiez saôul au Casino hier soir, n’est-ce pas?

  BRIAN. (Puzzled.) Saôul?

  ALAN. Drunk.

  BRIAN. Oh, non, Monsieur. Pas ça. Un peu huilé, peut-être.

  COMMANDER ROGERS comes in. He is about thirty-five, dark, small, very neat, rather solemn. All get up.

  MAINGOT. Ah, Bonjour, Monsieur le Commandant, et comment allez-vous? J’espère que vous avez bien dormi? Ah, pardon! (Introducing the others.) Monsieur Curtis – Monsieur le Commandant Rogers. Monsieur Lake – Monsieur le Commandant Rogers. Monsieur Howard – vous connaissez déjà.

  BRIAN and KENNETH shake hands.

  ALAN. Bonjour! (To ROGERS.)

  ROGERS. Yes, we met last night. (Indicating a chair.) Shall I sit here?

  ALAN. That’s Kit Neilan’s place, as a matter of fact. I think this is your place. (He shows a place next to MAINGOT.)

  MAINGOT. (Rising.) Ah! Pardon, Monsieur le Commandant. Voilà votre place. Asseyez-vous donc et soyez à votre aise.

  ROGERS. Thanks. (He sits.)

  ALAN. I’ve been told to ask you if you like eggs with your breakfast.

  MAINGOT. Oui, Monsieur. Mais voulez-vous parlez français, s’il vous plaît.

  ROGERS. (Smiling apologetically.) I’m afraid I don’t speak your lingo at all, you know.

  MAINGOT. Lingo? Ah, oui, langue. C’est ça. Mais il faut essayer. You – must – try.

  ROGERS. (Turning to MAINGOT, then to ALAN.) Oui – Non.

  ALAN. What?

  MAINGOT. Pardon?

  ROGERS. Oui, je ne – want any eggs.

  ALAN. Right, I’ll tell Marianne. (He gets up and goes into the kitchen.)

  MAINGOT. (To ROGERS.) Il faut dire: Je ne veux pas des oeufs pour mon petit déjeuner.

  ROGERS smiles vaguely. MAINGOT laughs.

  Ça viendra, ça viendra.

  Re-enter ALAN.

  BRIAN. I say, sir, did you have a good crossing?

  ROGERS. Pretty bad, as a matter of fact. Still, that didn’t worry me.

  BRIAN. You’re a good sailor?

  ALAN laughs.

  Oh, of course you would be. I mean you are, aren’t you?

  MAINGOT gets up.

  MAINGOT. Eh, bien. Par qui vais-je commencer?

  KENNETH. Moi, Monsieur.

  MAINGOT. Par Moi. (Rising.) Alors, allons dans le jardin. (Bowing.) Messieurs!

  He goes out into garden, followed by KENNETH.

  ALAN. Poor Babe! He’s going to be slaughtered.

  ROGERS. Really. Why?

  ALAN. (Shaking his head sadly.) Elle a des idées au-dessus de sa gare.

  ROGERS. What does that mean?

  ALAN. It doesn’t mean she has ideas above her station.

  ROGERS. The Professor is pretty strict, I suppose.

  ALAN. Where work is concerned, he’s a sadist.

  ROGERS. I’m glad to hear it. I want to learn as much French as I can, and I’m starting from scratch, you know.

  BRIAN. Are you learning it for any special reason, sir?

  ROGERS. Yes. Interpretership exam in seven months’ time.

  ALAN. If you stay here for seven months you’ll either be dead or a Frenchman.

  ROGERS. How long have you been here?

  ALAN. On and off for a year, but then, I have a way of preserving my nationality. I wear a special charm. (He indicates his German coat.)

  ROGERS. Are you very pro-German, then?

  BRIAN. He only wears that coat to annoy Maingot.

  ROGERS. Oh, I see. What do you wear in Germany?

  ALAN. A beret usually. Sabots are too uncomfortable.

  ROGERS laughs politely. There is a pause, broken suddenly by a roar coming from the garden.

  MAINGOT. (Off.) Aha, ça c’est formidable! Qu’est ce que vous me fichez là donc? ‘Elle a des idées au-dessus de sa gare’. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

  The noise subsides. ALAN shakes his head.

  ALAN. Poor Babe. But he had it coming to him.

  BRIAN. The Babe was having the horrors this morning before you came down. He said he hadn’t one chance in a thousand of getting in.

  ALAN. He hasn’t.

  ROGERS. Of getting in what?

  ALAN. The diplomatic.

  ROGERS. Oh, I suppose you’re all budding diplomats?

  BRIAN. All except me. I’m learning French for – er – commercial reasons.

  ALAN. He’s learnt a lot already. He can say ‘How much?’ in French, and you know how valuable that phrase is in the world of – er – commerce.

  BRIAN. (Laughing heartily.) Yes, old boy, and that’s not all. I can say, ‘Five francs? Do you think I’m made of money?’

  ALAN. (Laughing too.) ‘Cinq francs? Crois-tu que je sois construit d’argent?’

  They both suddenly become aware that ROGERS isn’t laughing. They stop and there is rather an awkward pause. ALAN and BRIAN exchange a brief glance. BRIAN silently frames the word ‘Po-faced’ in his mouth.

  ROGERS. (With a wooden face.) Who else is staying here at the moment?

  ALAN. There’s only Kit Neilan, I think, that you haven’t met.

  ROGERS. Oh! Is he going into the diplomatic, too?

  ALAN. Yes. (To BRIAN.) By the way, Brian, what odds did you lay against Kit in your book?

  BRIAN. I didn’t, but I should think five to two against would about meet the case.

  ALAN. I don’t know. The odds must have lengthened considerably these last few weeks.

  BRIAN. Why? Oh, you mean Diana. I say, old boy, I hadn’t thought of that. You don’t think there’s a chance of a well-fancied colt being withdrawn before the big contest?

  ALAN. No. She won’t marry him. That is, not until she’s exhausted other possibilities.

  ROGERS. Er – who is this girl?

  BRIAN. Diana? She’s Babe’s – Kenneth Lake’s sister. She’s staying here.

  ROGERS. Oh! Is she learning French, too?

  BRIAN. No. She just stops us from learning it. No, she’s staying here because her people live in India and she’s got nowhere else to go.

  ROGERS. Pretty dull for her here, I should think.

  ALAN. That girl wouldn’t find it dull on a desert island.

  BRIAN. Unless it was deserted.

  ALAN. True. But one feels somehow it wouldn’t be deserted long if she were on it.

  ROGERS. What do you mean by that?

  ALAN. I’ve no idea. She’s a nice girl. You’ll love her.

  BRIAN hides a smile.

  At least, it won’t be her fault if you don’t.

  ROGERS. (Politely.) I don’t quite follow you, I’m afraid.

  ALAN. I’m sorry, sir. I was forgetting you’re of an age to take care of yourself.

  ROGERS. (Testily.) There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, you know.

  ALAN raises his eyebrows.

  What you’re implying is that this girl is �
� er – rather fast.

  ALAN. I’m not implying it. I’m saying it. That girl is the fastest worker you’re ever likely to see.

  ROGERS. Oh! (He goes back to his food.)

  BRIAN. (Conciliatorily.) What he means is that she’s just naturally full of joie de vivre and all that. She’s all right really. She just likes company.

  ALAN. (Under his breath.) A battalion, you mean.

  ROGERS. You sound embittered.

  ALAN. Embittered? Oh, no. Oh, dear me, no. (He breaks a roll open rather violently.) Both Brian and I, for reasons that I won’t go into now, are immune. Only I thought it just as well to let you know before you met her that Diana Lake, though a dear girl in many ways, is a little unreliable in her emotional life.

  ROGERS. You mean she isn’t in love with this chap Kit What’s-his-name, who wants to marry her?

  ALAN. The only reason I have for supposing she isn’t is that she says that she is. But that’s good enough for me.

  Pause. BRIAN gets up.

  BRIAN. Well, Maingot’s simple French Phrases are calling me.

  ROGERS. (Evidently glad to change the subject.) Maingot’s Phrasebook. He’s given me that to do, too.

  BRIAN. Good. Then very soon now you will be able to walk into a chemist’s and say in faultless French, ‘Please, sir, I wish a toothpaste with a slightly stronger scent.’

  ROGERS. Oh, really.

  ALAN. Then think how nice it’ll be if you’re in a railway carriage, and you’re able to inform a fellow traveller that the guard has just waved a red flag to signify that the locomotive has run off the line.

  ROGERS. Sounds a bit out of date, I must say.

  BRIAN. Maingot’s grandfather wrote it, I believe.

  The telephone rings. BRIAN turns round.

  Do you know, I have a nasty feeling that’s Chi-Chi.

  ROGERS. Who’s Chi-Chi?

  BRIAN. That’s not her real name.

  MAINGOT’s voice is heard from the garden.

  MAINGOT. (Off.) Monsieur Howard.

  ALAN. (Getting up, calling.) Oui, Monsieur?

  MAINGOT. (Off.) Voulez-vous répondre au téléphone, je vous en prie?

  ALAN. Bien, Monsieur. (He goes to telephone and takes off the receiver.) Hullo . . . Bien. (He holds out the receiver to BRIAN.)

  BRIAN. Me? Hell! (He takes the receiver.) Hullo . . . Ah hullo, Chi-Chi, comment ça va? Comment-allez-vous? . . . Quoi? . . . Quoi? . . . Wait a moment, Chi-Chi. (Lowers receiver.)