Gerald.
It’s charming of you to say so.
Mrs. Dot.
She is a little dull, isn’t she?
Gerald.
I don’t think her so.
Mrs. Dot.
Doesn’t time hang rather heavily on your hands now and then? Isn’t it difficult to find topics of conversation?
Gerald.
I don’t find it so.
Mrs. Dot.
Ah — she does.
Gerald.
And the long and short of it is that the emotion which you dignify with the name of love, had entirely disappeared after a week.
Mrs. Dot.
Make it ten days to be on the safe side.
Gerald.
I congratulate you.
Mrs. Dot.
You wouldn’t have it otherwise, surely?
Gerald.
Of course not.
Mrs. Dot.
Then all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
Gerald.
[Furiously.] I think you must be quite heartless.
Mrs. Dot.
[Delighted.] Ah, that’s what I said to you a month ago, Philippine.
Gerald.
Now, perhaps, you’d like to know what my feeling is towards you?
Mrs. Dot.
No, I’m quite indifferent, thanks!
Gerald.
Well, I shall tell you for all that. It’s a joke to you, and you can afford to laugh at it.
[He goes up to her and then stops suddenly.
Mrs. Dot.
Well?
Gerald.
Nothing.
Mrs. Dot.
Oh! My poor heart went pit-a-pat. I thought you were going to kiss me.
Gerald.
I hate you. And I wish I’d never set eyes on you.
[He turns on his heel and walks out quickly. As soon as he is gone Mrs. Dot begins to dance a break-down. She cocks a snook after him.
Mrs. Dot.
I’ll marry you yet, you beast, I’ll marry you yet.
[Blenkinsop comes in.
Blenkinsop.
What on earth is the matter with you now?
[From inside is heard the sound of a cake-walk.
Mrs. Dot.
Come on.
[She seizes him and begins to dance.
Blenkinsop.
Unhand me, woman!
Mrs. Dot.
Oh, you dear, you dear, you dear.
[She flings both arms round his neck and kisses him soundly. At this moment Gerald returns.
Gerald.
I beg your pardon. I forgot my hat.
[He takes it and goes out stiffly. Mrs. Dot bursts into a shriek of laughter.
Blenkinsop.
That’s all very fine. But what about my character?
END OF THE SECOND ACT
THE THIRD ACT
A hall in Mrs. Worthley’s house on the River.
Gerald and Nellie are seated in arm-chairs. She stifles a yawn. Then he yawns.
Gerald.
I beg your pardon.
Nellie.
[Yawning.] I never saw any one who yawned so much as you.
Gerald.
[Ironically.] I suppose you’ve never looked at yourself in the glass?
Nellie.
Is your family very long-lived, Gerald?
Gerald.
[Rather surprised.] Are you already asking yourself how you’ll look in widow’s weeds?
Nellie.
You may very well live for forty years, mayn’t you?
Gerald.
My maternal grandfather survived to plague his descendants to the ripe age of ninety-seven.
Nellie.
How many days are there in forty years?
Gerald.
I should think about fifteen thousand.
Nellie.
Has it occurred to you that we may eat fifteen thousand breakfasts sitting opposite one another, and fifteen thousand luncheons, and fifteen thousand dinners?
Gerald.
[Gloomily.] Yes, it had occurred to me.
Nellie.
And how do you look upon the prospect?
Gerald.
[Grimly.] It fills me with satisfaction, naturally.
Nellie.
[Abruptly.] I suppose you’re very much in love with me?
Gerald.
What an extraordinary question!
Nellie.
I don’t think any one but a lunatic would describe you as an ardent lover.
Gerald.
[Coldly.] I regret that my behaviour doesn’t meet with your satisfaction.
Nellie.
Do you know that since we became definitely engaged you’ve never told me that you cared for me?
Gerald.
[Apologetically.] Yes, I ought to have done that, oughtn’t I? I suppose I thought you’d take it for granted.
Nellie.
Every girl likes a suspicion of romance thrown over her love-affairs.
Gerald.
Your mother will tell you that the certainty of marriage is much more satisfactory.
Nellie.
[Dryly.] You would have made an excellent husband — for mother.
Gerald.
Have you noticed that when we do think of something to talk about, we get perilously near a squabble?
Nellie.
I sometimes think it would be better to quarrel outright now and then than be always so desperately polite to one another.
Gerald.
I’m afraid I have an admirable temper.
Nellie.
Mother always says you have all the virtues.
Gerald.
Shall we look at the Sketch together?
Nellie.
We’ve looked at the Sketch together three times. [Following his eye, which goes to other illustrated papers on the table.] And the Illustrated, and the Sphere, and the Graphic.
Gerald.
Then what would you like to do?
Nellie.
I should like to SCREAM.
Gerald.
Would you, by George? So would I.
Nellie.
Oh, Gerald, let’s have a good scream together.
Enter Lady Sellenger and Mrs. Dot.
Lady Sellenger.
[With a bland smile.] What a picture they make!
Mrs. Dot.
[Acidly.] It’s quite charming to see two young things so engrossed in one another’s society.
Lady Sellenger.
Now, you really mustn’t waste this beautiful afternoon. You must go and have a nice long walk together.
Nellie.
We had a nice long walk this morning.
Mrs. Dot.
[Sweetly.] Then why don’t you go on the river? You can take your tea with you and spend the whole afternoon there.
Gerald.
We spent the whole afternoon on the river yesterday, and you kindly gave us our tea to take with us.
Lady Sellenger.
It reminds me of the happy days when I was engaged to your poor father, Nellie. We were just like you and Gerald. We couldn’t bear to be out of one another’s sight. Now, run and get your hat, darling.
Nellie.
Oh, mamma, I’ve got the most dreadful headache that I’ve ever had in my life, and I must really go and lie down.
Lady Sellenger.
Nonsense. An afternoon in the fresh air with Gerald is just the thing to put you right.
Gerald.
I’m so sorry, but I have some very important letters to write. I must catch the post.
Mrs. Dot.
[Sweetly.] You’ll have lots of time when you come in. The post doesn’t go till after dinner.
Lady Sellenger.
If you make excuses like that, poor Nellie will think she bores you already.
Gerald.
In that case I shall be only too glad to go on the river.
Mrs. Dot.
&n
bsp; Take my sunshade, darling. You won’t want a hat.
Nellie.
[Savagely.] Thank you, dear.
[Nellie and Gerald go out gloomily.
Lady Sellenger.
Just like humming-birds, aren’t they?
Mrs. Dot.
Do you mean turtle-doves by any chance?
Lady Sellenger.
I was never very good at natural history.... Dear Mrs. Worthley, I must really thank you for the tact with which you’ve thrown Gerald and Nellie in one another’s society every moment of the day.
Mrs. Dot.
I can flatter myself that they’ve thoroughly enjoyed their week here.
[Aunt Eliza, comes in with Blenkinsop.
Lady Sellenger.
[With a look of intelligence.] Dear Mr. Blenkinsop, you wicked, wicked cynic. [Meaningly.] I shall go and lie down. Are you coming upstairs, Miss MacGregor?
Aunt Eliza.
In one minute.
Lady Sellenger.
I want to have a little talk with you. [As Blenkinsop holds open the door for her, in a whisper.] Aren’t I tactful?
[Lady Sellenger goes out.
Blenkinsop.
What villainy is that old woman up to now?
Mrs. Dot.
You idiot! Don’t you see that she’s discovered the passion that devours our hearts — your manly bosom and my timid, fluttering heart — and she wants to leave us alone.
Blenkinsop.
I’m beginning to feel very unwell.
Mrs. Dot.
[Archly.] Wouldn’t you be rather flattered if I really were in love with you?
Blenkinsop.
[Alarmed.] Dot, don’t make these horrible suggestions. You make my flesh creep.
Mrs. Dot.
But you’ve been so cold, you haven’t given me a chance.
Blenkinsop.
Cold! Heaven knows what would have happened if I’d given you any encouragement. I’ve never been able to take my eyes off the ground without finding yours fixed on me with the languishing expression of a dying duck in a thunderstorm. I’ve never been able to go near you without your stroking me as if I were a velvet cushion or a Persian cat. I’ve not eaten a single meal in peace in case you suddenly took it into your head to press my foot under the table.
Mrs. Dot.
What would you have done if I had?
Blenkinsop.
[With outraged dignity.] I should have screamed! And the thought of that special licence has cast a chill in my heart. I don’t know what it’s all coming to. You are my witness, Miss MacGregor, that I won’t marry her, however deeply she compromises me.
Aunt Eliza.
[Smiling.] I am your witness.
Blenkinsop.
She shan’t make an honest man of me.
[Mrs. Dot takes from a drawer of the escritoire one of the licences.
Mrs. Dot.
[Smiling.] Frances Annandale Worthley — James Blenkinsop.
Blenkinsop.
I feel as though some one were walking over my grave.
Aunt Eliza.
But how on earth are you going to get Nellie Sellenger and Freddie to use the other licence?
Mrs. Dot.
When the right moment comes I shall leave it under their noses, and allow them to draw what consequences they choose.... If any woman ever earned a husband, I have. I’ve taken every opportunity to snub Gerald till he can hardly contain himself with rage. I’ve thrown him in Nellie’s company till they’re both so bored they could almost cry. I’ve been constantly on the watch to prevent Nellie and Freddie from having two minutes by themselves till they can hardly bear the sight of me. And I’ve made love to you with a persistence that would have melted the heart of a fish. If I fail, it will be your fault.
Blenkinsop.
But what on earth do you want me to do?
Mrs. Dot.
Good heavens, throw a little passion into your behaviour. Look at me as though you’d never seen any one so ravishing in your life. When you take my hand, hold it as if you would never let it go.
[She takes his hand.
Blenkinsop.
Remember, there’s no one but Miss MacGregor present.
Mrs. Dot.
[With a yearning glance.] Look into my eyes like this.
Blenkinsop.
Don’t. You make me feel very uncomfortable.
Mrs. Dot.
[Impatiently.] Oh, you’re too stupid. You’re a stock and a stone. You’re an owl. You’re a ridiculous idiot.
Blenkinsop.
Temper, temper.
Mrs. Dot.
You’ll ruin my whole life, because you’re such a perfect fool that you can’t make love to a woman.
[She breaks away from him and begins to cry. He walks up and down, then looks at her with a smile. He makes a sign to Miss MacGregor that Mrs. Dot cannot see.
Blenkinsop.
[In a different voice.] Dot, this little game of ours has lasted long enough.
Mrs. Dot.
[Sobbing in her handkerchief.] Yes, it has. I’m sick to death of the whole thing.
Blenkinsop.
You asked me to play a part, and you didn’t know that it might be deadly earnest.
Mrs. Dot.
Fiddlesticks!
Blenkinsop.
I have a secret that I can no longer keep from you.
Mrs. Dot.
Well, tell it to the horse-marines.
Blenkinsop.
Dot, I love you!
Mrs. Dot.
Oh, don’t be so silly.
Blenkinsop.
But I tell you I’m not joking.
Mrs. Dot.
Thank heaven for that. I’m weary of your bad jokes.
Blenkinsop.
The thing started as a bad joke, but it has ended in something very different. A change has come over me, and I’m ashamed.
Mrs. Dot.
[Looking up.] Eh?
Blenkinsop.
Don’t you see that I’m a different man? Dot, it’s you who’ve changed me.
Mrs. Dot.
I really believe he’s waking up.
Blenkinsop.
If I was shy and awkward, it’s because I wouldn’t give in to myself. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t understand.
Mrs. Dot.
That’s much better. There really is a ring of emotion in your voice.
Blenkinsop.
How shouldn’t there be, when I’m saying at last what has trembled on the tip of my tongue for ten days?
Mrs. Dot.
[Delighted.] There! That’s just the tone I want. Talk with that quiver in your voice when you ask me to pass you the mustard at dinner.
Blenkinsop.
I lie awake at night thinking of you, and when I fall asleep I seem to hold you in my arms.
Mrs. Dot.
That’s splendid. Why couldn’t you say all this before?
Blenkinsop.
Dot, Dot, don’t torture me. Don’t you see I mean it.
Mrs. Dot.
What!
Blenkinsop.
I’m not jesting now. I wish to heaven I were.
Mrs. Dot.
[Forcing a laugh.] My dear James, you’re really piling it on too much.
Blenkinsop.
You must be mad or blind. Can’t you feel that I love you?
Mrs. Dot.
Don’t be so absurd. You know you’re only — you’re only pulling my leg.
Blenkinsop.
Oh, I’ve been a perfect ass. I should never have consented to play this ghastly trick. If you only knew what tortures I’ve suffered!
Mrs. Dot.
He isn’t really serious, Aunt Eliza?
Aunt Eliza.
[Smiling.] Upon my soul, it looks very much like it.
Blenkinsop.
What did you expect? You’ve played on my heart-strings as though they were an instrument that had no feeling. You’ve put a caress into every tone of your voice
.
Mrs. Dot.
[Ruefully.] Of course, I am fascinating. I can’t deny that.
Blenkinsop.
When you touched my hand, every nerve of my body thrilled.
Mrs. Dot.
You’re not really in love with me?
Blenkinsop.
Passionately.
Mrs. Dot.
You’re ridiculous, James Blenkinsop.
Blenkinsop.
I was a fool. I played with fire, and I never dreamed I’d burn myself.
Mrs. Dot.
But you mustn’t be in love with me. I won’t hear of it.
Blenkinsop.
It’s too late to say that now. I adore you.
Mrs. Dot.
But what on earth’s to be done?
Blenkinsop.
You must marry me.
Mrs. Dot.
Nothing will induce me to do anything of the sort.
Blenkinsop.
[Going up to her with outstretched arms.] You can’t realise the wealth of tenderness and affection which I’ll lavish upon you.
Mrs. Dot.
Go away! Don’t come near me.
Blenkinsop.
Why should you care for Gerald? Do you think if he loved you, he would let a trifling engagement with somebody else stand in the way?
Mrs. Dot.
The fact is that men are never to be trusted.
Blenkinsop.
I can’t live without you now. I’ll give up my whole life to make you happy.
Mrs. Dot.
But I’m in love with Gerald. I’m not in love with you. I shall never be in love with you.
Blenkinsop.
You owe me something for all the agony you’ve made me endure. Dot, remember that licence. It was bought in jest, but the Archbishop of Canterbury was in earnest.
Mrs. Dot.
But my dear James, for heaven’s sake be reasonable. You know just as well as I do that you’re not a marrying man.
Blenkinsop.
Give me the chance, and you’ll see.
Mrs. Dot.
I’m sure you wouldn’t like me. I’m horrid really.
Blenkinsop.
I know that you’re full of faults, but, bless you, I love them all.
Mrs. Dot.
I’ve got a beastly temper.
Blenkinsop.
I dote upon you when I see your eyes flash with anger.
Mrs. Dot.
I’m awfully extravagant, and if the Government brings in temperance legislation I shall be ruined.
Blenkinsop.
I’m rich. I should look upon it as the greatest happiness to spend my last penny to gratify your smallest wish.
Mrs. Dot.
I won’t marry you. I won’t marry you. I won’t!
Blenkinsop.
Dot, Dot!
[He catches her in his arms and kisses her. At this moment Gerald comes in, Mrs. Dot breaks away from Blenkinsop. There is an awkward pause.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 342