James.
I’m a man of principle, I am; and I keep my ‘at on to show it.
John.
Ah, well, we won’t discuss the point.
James.
I want to see that man.
John.
May I ask to whom you’re referring? There are so many men in the world. In fact, it’s very over-crowded.
James.
Who are you, I should like to know?
John.
[Politely.] My name is Halliwell. I had the pleasure of meeting you at Basil’s rooms in Bloomsbury.
James.
[Aggressively.] I know that.
John.
I beg your pardon. I thought you were asking for information.
James.
I tell you I want to see my brother-in-law.
John.
I’m afraid you can’t.
James.
I tell you I will see ’im. He’s murdered my sister. He’s a blackguard and a murderer, and I’ll tell him so to his face.
John.
[Sarcastic.] Take care he doesn’t hear you.
James.
I want him to hear me. I’m not frightened of him. I should just like to see him touch me now. [He sidles viciously to John.] H’m, you tried to keep me out, did yer? Said I couldn’t come to my sister’s ‘ouse — and kept me waitin’ in the ‘all like a tradesman. Oh, I’ll make you all pay for this. I’ll get my own back now. Measley set of West End curs, that’s all you are.
John.
Mr. Bush, you’ll be so good as to keep a civil tongue in your mouth while you’re here — and you’ll talk less loudly.
James.
[Scornfully.] Who says so?
John.
[Looking at him quietly.] I do.
James.
[Less decisively.] Don’t you try and bully me.
John.
[Pointing to a chair.] Won’t you sit down?
James.
No, I won’t sit down. This ain’t the ‘ouse that a gentleman would sit down in. I’ll be even with ’im yet. I’ll tell the jury a pretty story. He deserves to be strung up, he does.
John.
I can’t tell you how extremely sorry I am for what has happened.
James.
Oh, don’t try and get round me.
John.
Really, Mr. Bush, you have no reason to be indignant with me.
James.
Well, I don’t think much of you, any ‘ow.
John.
I’m very sorry. Last time we met I thought you a very amiable person. Don’t you remember, we went and had a drink together?
James.
I don’t say you’re not a gentleman.
John.
[Taking out his cigar-case.] Won’t you have a cigar?
James.
[Suspiciously.] Look here, you’re not trying to bluff me, are you?
John.
Certainly not. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.
James.
[Taking a cigar.] Larranaga.
John.
[With an acid smile.] Nine pounds a hundred.
James.
That’s one and nine apiece, ain’t it?
John.
How quickly you reckon!
James.
You must be pretty oofy to be able to afford that.
John.
[Drily.] It does inspire respect, doesn’t it?
James.
I don’t know what you mean by that. But I flatter myself I know a good cigar when I see it.
[John sits down, and James Bush, without
thinking, follows his example.]
John.
What d’you think you’ll get out of making a row at the inquest? Of course, there’ll be an inquest.
James.
Yes, I know there will. And I’m lookin’ forward to it, I can tell you.
John.
I wouldn’t have said that if I’d been you.
James.
[Quite unconscious of the construction that may be put on his last words — full of his own grievances.] I’ve ‘ad something to put up with, I ‘ave.
John.
Really?
James.
Oh, he’s treated me shockin’! He simply treated me like dirt. I wouldn’t ‘ave stood it a minute, except for Jenny’s sake. I wasn’t good enough for ’im, if you please. And the way he used to look right through me as if I wasn’t there at all — Oh, I’ll be even with ’im now.
John.
What are you going to do?
James.
Never you mind. I’m going to make it hot for ’im.
John.
D’you think that’ll do you any good?
James.
[Springing up.] Yes. And I mean to....
John.
[Interrupting.] Now sit down, there’s a good chap, and let’s have a little talk about it.
James.
[Angrily.] You’re trying to bamboozle me.
John.
Nonsense.
James.
Oh, yes, you are. Don’t try to deny it. I can see through you as if you was a pane of glass. You people in the West End — you think you know everything.
John.
I assure you....
James.
[Interrupting.] But I’ve had a City training, and you can lay anything you like there ain’t no flies on me.
John.
We’re both men of the world, Mr. Bush. Will you do me a great favour as a — friend?
James.
[Suspiciously.] That depends on what it is.
John.
It’s merely to listen to me quietly for two or three minutes.
James.
I don’t mind doing that.
John.
Well, the fact is — Basil’s going away, and he wants to get rid of the furniture and the house. What d’you think it’s worth, as an auctioneer?
James.
[Looking round.] It’s a very different business what a thing’s worth, and what it’ll fetch.
John.
Of course, but a clever man like you....
James.
Now then, no bluff. I tell you it won’t work with me.... D’you include plate and linen?
John.
Everything.
James.
Well, if it was well sold — by a man as knew his business....
John.
If you sold it, for instance?
James.
It might fetch a hundred pounds — it might fetch a hundred and fifty.
John.
That wouldn’t be a bad present to make to any one, would it?
James.
No. I think I can agree with you there.
John.
Well, Basil thought of giving the entire contents of the house to your mother and sister.
James.
To tell you the truth, it’s no more than he ought to do.
John.
The condition is, of course, that nothing is said at the inquest.
James.
[With a sneer.] You make me laugh. D’you think you can gag me by giving a houseful of furniture to my mother?
John.
I had no such exalted opinion of your disinterestedness, Mr. Bush. I come to you now.
James.
[Sharply.] What d’you mean by that?
John.
It appears that you owe Basil a good deal of money. Can you pay it?
James.
No.
John.
Also it appears that there was some difficulty with your accounts in your last place.
James.
That’s a lie.
John.
Possibly. But altogether I fancy we could make it uncommonly nasty for you if you made a fuss. If dirty linen is going to be washed in public — there’s generally a good deal to be done on both sides.
James.
I don�
�t care. I mean to get my own back. If I can only get my knife into that man — I’ll take the consequences.
John.
On the other hand — if you won’t make a fuss at the inquest, I’ll give you fifty pounds.
James.
[Jumping up indignantly.] Are you trying to bribe me?
John.
[Calmly.] Yes.
James.
I would ‘ave you know that I’m a gentleman, and what’s more, I’m an Englishman. And I’m proud of it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’ve never ‘ad any one try and bribe me before.
John.
[Indifferently.] Otherwise you would, doubtless, have accepted.
James.
I’ve got more than half a mind to knock you down.
John.
[With a slight smile.] Come, come, Mr. Bush, don’t be ridiculous. You’d far better keep quiet, you know.
James.
[Scornfully.] What do you think fifty pounds is to me?
John.
[With a sharp look.] Who spoke of fifty pounds?
James.
You did.
John.
You must have mistaken me. A hundred and fifty.
James.
Oh! [At first he is surprised, then, as the amount sinks into his mind, grows doubtful.] That’s a very different pair of shoes.
John.
I don’t ask you to say anything untrue. After all, it’s not worth while for a man of the world like you — a business man — to give way to petty spite. And we don’t want to have any scandal. That would be just as unpleasant for you as for us.
James.
[Undecided.] There’s no denying that she was hysterical. If he’d only treated me like a gentleman, I shouldn’t have had anything to say.
John.
Well?
James.
[With a foxy, keen glance at John.] Make it two ‘undred, and I’ll say done.
John.
[Firmly.] No. You can take a hundred and fifty, or go to the devil.
James.
Oh, well, ‘and it over.
John.
[Taking a cheque out of his pocket.] I’ll give you fifty now and the rest after the inquest.
James.
[With a certain admiration.] You’re a sharp ‘un, you are.
[John writes out the cheque and gives it to
James Bush.
James.
Shall I give you a receipt? I’m a business man, you know.
John.
Yes, I know; but it’s not necessary. You’ll tell your mother and sister?
James.
Don’t you fear. I’m a gentleman, and I don’t go back on my friends.
John.
Now I think I’ll say good morning to you. You can understand that Basil isn’t fit to see any one.
James.
I understand. So long.
[He stretches out his hand, which John shakes
gravely.]
John.
Good morning.
[Fanny comes in by one door as James Bush
goes out by another.]
Fanny.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
John.
Ah, Fanny, if there were no rogues in the world, life would really be too difficult for honest men.
[Fanny goes out, and John walks to the door
and calls.]
John.
Basil — he’s gone.... Where are you?
[Basil comes out of the room in which is lying Jenny’s body.]
John.
I didn’t know you were in there.
Basil.
I wonder if she forgives me?
John.
I wouldn’t worry myself too much if I were you, Basil, old man.
Basil.
If you only knew how I despise myself!
John.
Come, come, Basil, you must make an effort....
Basil.
I’ve not told you the worst. I feel such a cad. There’s one thought that’s been with me all night. And I can’t drive it away. It’s worse than anything else. It’s too shameful.
John.
What do you mean?
Basil.
Oh, it’s so despicable. And yet it’s too strong for me.... I can’t help thinking that I’m — free.
John.
Free?
Basil.
It’s treachery to her memory. But you don’t know what it is when your prison door is opened. [As he speaks he grows more and more excited.] I don’t want to die. I want to live, and I want to take life by both hands and enjoy it. I’ve got such a desire for happiness. Let’s open the windows, and let the sunlight in. [He goes to the window and flings it open.] It’s so good just to be alive. How can I help thinking that now I can start fresh? The slate is wiped clean, and I can begin again. I will be happy. God forgive me, I can’t help the thought. I’m free. I made a ghastly mistake, and I suffered for it. Heaven knows how I suffered, and how hard I tried to make the best of it. It wasn’t all my fault. In this world we’re made to act and think things because other people have thought them good. We never have a chance of going our own way. We’re bound down by the prejudices and the morals of everybody else. For God’s sake, let us be free. Let us do this and that because we want to and because we must, not because other people think we ought. [He stops suddenly in front of John.] Why don’t you say something? You stare at me as if you thought me raving mad!
John.
I don’t know what to say.
Basil.
Oh, I suppose you’re shocked and scandalised. I ought to go on posing. I ought to act the part decently to the end. You would never have had the courage to do what I did, and yet, because I’ve failed, you think you can look down on me from the height of your moral elevation.
John.
[Gravely.] I was thinking how far a man may fall when he attempts to climb the stars.
Basil.
I gave the world fine gold, and their currency is only cowrie-shells. I held up an ideal, and they sneered at me. In this world you must wallow in the trough with the rest of them.... The only moral I can see is that if I’d acted like a blackguard — as ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have done — and let Jenny go to the dogs, I should have remained happy and contented and prosperous. And she, I dare say, wouldn’t have died.... It’s because I tried to do my duty and act like a gentleman and a man of honour, that all this misery has come about.
John.
[Looking at him quietly.] I think I should put it in another way. One has to be very strong and very sure of oneself to go against the ordinary view of things. And if one isn’t, perhaps it’s better not to run any risks, but just to walk along the same secure old road as the common herd. It’s not exhilarating, it’s not brave, and it’s rather dull. But it’s eminently safe.
[Basil scarcely hears the last words, but listens
intently to other sounds outside.
Basil.
What’s that? I thought I heard a carriage.
John.
[A little surprised.] Do you expect any one?
Basil.
I sent a wire to — to Hilda at the same time as to you.
John.
Already?
Basil.
[Excited.] D’you think she’ll come?
John.
I don’t know. [A ring is heard at the front door.
Basil.
[Running to the window.] There’s some one at the door.
John.
Perhaps it’s occurred to her also that you’re free.
Basil.
[With the utmost passion.] Oh, she loves me, and I — I adore her. God forgive me, I can’t help it.
[Fanny comes in.
Fanny.
If you please, sir, the Coroner’s officer.
THE END
LADY FREDERICK
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
THE F
IRST ACT
THE SECOND ACT
THIRD ACT
CHARACTERS
This play was produced at the Court Theatre on Saturday, October 26, 1907, with the following cast:
Lady Frederick Berolles
Ethel Irving
Sir Gerald O’Mara
Edmund Breon
Mr. Paradine Fouldes
C. M. Lowne
Marchioness of Mereston
Beryl Faber
Marquess of Mereston
W. Graham Brown
Captain Montgomerie
Arthur Holmes-Gore
Admiral Carlisle
E. W. Garden
Rose
Beatrice Terry
Lady Frederick’s Dressmaker
Florence Wood
Lady Frederick’s Footman
Claude Vernon
Lady Frederick’s Maid
Ina Pelly
Thompson
Reginald Eyre
A Waiter
Heath J. Haviland
LADY FREDERICK
CHARACTERS
Lady Frederick Berolles
Sir Gerald O’Mara
Mr. Paradine Fouldes
Marchioness of Mereston
Marquess of Mereston
Admiral Carlisle
Rose
Lady Frederick’s Dressmaker
Lady Frederick’s Footman
Lady Frederick’s Maid
Thompson
A Waiter at the Hotel Splendide
Time: The Present Day
Acts I and II — Drawing-room at the Hotel Splendide, Monte Carlo.
Act III — Lady Frederick’s Dressing-Room.
The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be obtained.
THE FIRST ACT
Scene: Drawing-room of the Hotel Splendide at Monte Carlo. A large, handsomely furnished room, with doors right and left, and French windows at the back leading to a terrace. Through these is seen the starry southern night. On one side is a piano, on the other a table with papers neatly laid out on it. There is a lighted stove.
Lady Mereston, in evening dress, rather magnificently attired, is reading the papers. She is a handsome woman of forty. She puts down the paper impatiently and rings the bell. A servant answers. He has a French accent.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 319