Penelope.
No, she’s perfectly hideous.
Golightly.
Is she? That makes it more serious.
Penelope.
Why?
Golightly.
If a man falls in love with a pretty woman, he falls out of it. But if he falls in love with a plain one, he’ll be in love with her all his life.
Penelope.
You take a load off my mind. Ada Fergusson’s extremely attractive.
Golightly.
Then you’ll get him back.
Penelope.
Tell me exactly what to do, and I’ll do it.
Golightly.
Give him his head.
Penelope.
Is that all?
Golightly.
It means a good deal. When he comes in, don’t make a scene, but be charming to him. For once, don’t ask him where he’s been. When he leaves you, don’t ask him where he’s going, nor at what time he’ll be back. Don’t let him know that you have the least suspicion that anything has happened. On the contrary, take every opportunity of throwing him into Ada Fergusson’s society.
Mrs. Golightly.
Charles, you’re asking Penelope to connive at immorality.
Golightly.
When every difficulty disappears, Dickie will find half the savour of the intrigue gone. Half your battle is won. Leave the rest to time and Ada Fergusson. Let Ada Fergusson sit on the arm of his chair when he wants to read his paper. Let him account to Ada Fergusson for all his movements. Under such circumstances a woman is always on tenterhooks, and consequently she’s always exacting. Whenever there’s a pause in the conversation, Ada Fergusson will say, Do you care for me as much as ever you did? That speech is the rope around love’s throat. Whenever he wants to go away, Ada Fergusson will implore him to stay five minutes longer. Those five minutes that a man stays against his will are the nails in love’s coffin. Each time he leaves her Ada Fergusson will say, At what time will you be back? That question is the earth shovelled into love’s grave.
[All this while Penelope has been staring at Golightly with astonishment.
Penelope.
Where did you learn all this, father?
Golightly.
[With a deprecating shrug.] It’s a mere matter of adding two and two together, my darling.
Penelope.
I had no idea that mathematics were so interesting — nor so immoral.
Golightly.
What do you think of it?
Penelope.
But if Dickie falls out of love with Ada Fergusson there’s no reason why he should fall in love again with me.
Golightly.
You must make him.
Penelope.
I wish I knew how.
Golightly.
It only requires a little more tact, a little more courage, and a little more self-control.
Penelope.
But if I acquire so many virtues I shan’t be a woman, but a monster, and how can he love me then?
Beadsworth.
[From the window.] There’s a car stopping at the door.
Penelope.
Listen.... I can hear a key being turned. It must be Dickie.
Beadsworth.
What are you going to do?
Penelope.
[Hesitating.] What do you think, mamma?
Mrs. Golightly.
My dear, I highly disapprove of your father’s idea, and I can’t imagine how it ever came into his head, but I’m bound to say I think there’s some sense in it.
Penelope.
[Making up her mind.] I’ll try. Remember, no one knows anything that has happened. You’ll back me up, mamma, won’t you?
Mrs. Golightly.
You’re not going to ask me to tell a pack of lies, darling?
Penelope.
Only white ones, mother. If there’s a whopper to tell, I’ll tell it myself.
Beadsworth.
But what about Barlow?
Golightly.
He’s a man of the world. He’s sure to put his foot in it.
Penelope.
I’ll settle him.
[Barlow comes in.
Penelope.
Ah!
Barlow.
I could not get on to her. I don’t know what’s the matter with those telephone girls. Hussies!
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport, I find I’ve been entirely mistaken about Dickie. He’s not to blame in any way.
Barlow.
Good gracious me! And Ada Fergusson?
Penelope.
Is, I have no doubt, no worse than anybody else.
Barlow.
This is a surprise. How on earth have you come to this conclusion?
Penelope.
By adding two and two together.
Barlow.
Upon my word! I must say, it annoys me that I should have been forced to break an important engagement for no reason. I should have thought....
Penelope.
[Interrupting.] Uncle Davenport, it’s quite bad enough that I should be done out of a scene, but if you’re going to make one it’s more than I can stand.
Beadsworth.
Well, as I can’t be of any more use to you, I think I’ll get back to the bosom of my family.
Penelope.
Of course, I look upon this as a professional visit.
Beadsworth.
Oh, nonsense!
Penelope.
I couldn’t dream of accepting your services for nothing. You must really let me know what I owe you.
Beadsworth.
I really don’t know what to say.
Penelope.
Dickie charges a guinea when he goes to see anybody.
Beadsworth.
You only mentioned six and eightpence in your telegram.
Penelope.
Very well, I’ll owe you that. It would really make me feel more comfortable.
Beadsworth.
You’re not going to hand it over in hard cash?
Penelope.
I wasn’t thinking of paying you. But I’d like to think I owed it you. You see, then, I shan’t feel under any obligation.
Beadsworth.
In that case I surrender. Good-bye.
Penelope.
Good-bye.
Barlow.
Good-bye, Beadsworth. You must come and dine with me at the club one of these days.
Beadsworth.
I should like to. Good-bye.
[Exit.
Barlow.
Very nice fellow. Quite a gentleman. No one would think he was a solicitor. I shall ask him to dinner with one or two people who don’t matter.
Penelope.
There’s Dickie. D’you hear him whistling? He’s evidently in the best of spirits.
[Dickie comes in. He is a good-looking, well-dressed, professional man of five-and-thirty. He has boisterous spirits and high good humour. He is seldom put out of countenance. He has a charm of manner which explains Penelope’s infatuation.
Dickie.
Hulloa! I couldn’t make out what had become of you, Pen.
Penelope.
Why?
Dickie.
You generally come down to meet me when I get in.
[Penelope gives a slight start and conceals a smile.
Penelope.
My sainted mother is here.
Dickie.
[Gaily.] That’s no reason why you should neglect a devoted husband. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Golightly.] How is your sainted mother? Hulloa, Uncle Davenport, what price duchesses to-day?
Barlow.
I beg your pardon. I don’t know what you mean.
Dickie.
[Looking round at the decanters and glasses with which the room is scattered.] I say, you’ve been doing yourselves rather proud, haven’t you? Who’s been drinking port?
Penelope.
Nobody. It’s an empty glass.
Dic
kie.
That’s how providence behaves to me. Deliberately puts temptation in my way. It’s simply poison. Gout in my family, you know. My ancestors have lived on colchicum for a hundred years. I feel a tingling in my toes at the mere sight of a bottle of port. And yet I drink it.
[He fills himself a glass and sips it with great content.
Barlow.
It’s a great mistake, of course, to think that gout is a mark of good family. The porter of my club is a martyr to it.
Dickie.
Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of an earl. You should ask him if he has a strawberry mark on his left shoulder. What’s the matter, Pen?
Penelope.
[Astonished.] With me?
Dickie.
I thought you seemed a bit under the weather.
Penelope.
Why?
Dickie.
I don’t know. You’re not quite up to your usual form, are you? You’ve not asked me what I’ve been doing to-day. As a rule you’re so interested in my movements.
Penelope.
[With a glance at her father.] I thought you’d tell me if you wanted to.
Dickie.
I say, I do think that’s a bit thick. I go slaving my very soul out to provide you with a motor and nice frocks and things, and you don’t take the smallest interest in what I do.
Penelope.
[Smiling.] Well, what have you been doing this afternoon?
Dickie.
[With a sigh of relief.] Oh, I’ve had the very deuce of a day. I’ve got a very interesting case on just now. Taking up a lot of my time. Of course, it worries me rather, but I suppose all these things come in the day’s march. Well, I spent the best part of an hour there.
Penelope.
An hour?
Dickie.
Yes, we had a consultation, you know.
Penelope.
But you had a consultation yesterday.
Dickie.
Yesterday? Yes, she’s a fussy old thing. She’s always wanting consultations.
Penelope.
That’s jolly, isn’t it?
Dickie.
I don’t think it is. It looks as if she hadn’t really confidence in me.
Penelope.
On the other hand, you can charge double, can’t you?
Dickie.
Yes, of course, it has that advantage.
Penelope.
I’ve been hankering after an ermine stole for a long time. I shall buy it now.
Dickie.
[His face falling.] Oh, but I haven’t been paid yet.
Penelope.
They’ll be only too glad to wait. And it’s such a bargain.
Dickie.
[To change the conversation.] Well, after my consultation I was so fagged that I had to go into the club to have a rubber of Bridge.
Golightly.
By the way, what is the name of your patient?
Dickie.
The name of my patient?
Penelope.
Oh, yes, I was telling papa that you’d got a new patient who was bringing in pots of money. I couldn’t remember her name.
Dickie.
[Embarrassed.] Oh — er, Mrs. Mac....
Penelope.
Mrs. Mac what?
Dickie.
Mrs. Macnothing.
Barlow.
How d’you mean, Mrs. Macnothing? I’ve never heard of a family called Macnothing.
Dickie.
No, of course, her name isn’t Macnothing.
Barlow.
But you distinctly said it was Mrs. Macnothing.
Dickie.
Now, my dear Pen, did I say anything about Macnothing?
Penelope.
Well, what is her name then?
Dickie.
I’ve been telling you for the last ten minutes. Her name’s Mrs. Mack.
Barlow.
Why on earth didn’t you say so at once?
Golightly.
How did you find such a profitable patient?
Dickie.
Oh, it was a great piece of luck. She heard about me from that little friend of yours, Pen. What is her name?
Golightly.
You seem to have a very bad memory for names, Dickie. You should make a knot in your handkerchief.
Dickie.
It’s a friend of Pen’s. [Pretending to try and remember.] Her husband’s in the navy, stationed at Malta, isn’t he?
Penelope.
Ada Fergusson.
Dickie.
That’s it, of course. Mrs. Fergusson.
Barlow.
One of the Fergussons of Kingarth, I suppose?
Dickie.
I don’t know at all. Quite a nice little thing, I thought. I must confess that she didn’t interest me very much.
[Peyton comes in to announce Mrs. Fergusson. Mrs. Fergusson is a handsome, showy woman of about thirty.
Peyton.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Dickie is filled with consternation. Peyton goes out. There is a very brief moment of embarrassment, but Penelope quickly recovers herself and goes up to the visitor effusively.
Penelope.
How d’you do?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Is it a preposterous hour to pay a call?
Penelope.
Of course not. I’m always delighted to see you.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’ve been shopping the whole afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t seen you for ages.
Penelope.
Do you know my sainted mother?
Mrs. Fergusson.
How d’you do?
Penelope.
This is my noble father, and this is my uncle.
Barlow.
How d’you do?
[He is evidently much struck by Mrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Turning blandly to Dickie.] You haven’t forgotten me?
Dickie.
Of course not.
Mrs. Fergusson.
We haven’t met for ages, have we?
Dickie.
Simply ages.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I passed you in Piccadilly the other day, and you cut me dead.
Dickie.
I’m so sorry, I’m so short-sighted.
Penelope.
Dickie, you’re not at all short-sighted. How can you tell such fibs?
Barlow.
[With pompous gallantry.] Dickie feels that only a physical impediment can excuse a man for not seeing a pretty woman.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, how very nice of you to say that.
Barlow.
Not at all, not at all.
Penelope.
I wanted to thank you for getting Dickie such a splendid patient.
Dickie.
[Hastily, seeing her look of astonishment.] I’ve just been telling my wife about Mrs. Mack.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Not in the least understanding.] Oh, yes.
Dickie.
It was really awfully good of you to tell her to send for me. I’ve been to see her this afternoon.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Understanding.] Oh, yes. I like to do all I can for people. I hope you’ll find her a nice patient.
Penelope.
She seems to require a lot of visits.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Yes, she was only telling me the other day how much she liked Dr. O’Farrell. I’m afraid she’s very ill, poor dear.
Dickie.
To tell you the truth, I’m extremely worried about her.
Mrs. Fergusson.
It’s a great comfort to all her friends to know that Dr. O’Farrell is looking after her.
Barlow.
I’ve been wondering if she’s one of the Staffordshire Macks or one of the Somersetshire Macks.
Dickie.
I don’t know at all.
Barlow.
H
ow d’you mean you don’t know at all? She must be one or the other.
Dickie.
I don’t see that it matters either way.
Penelope.
What is she like?
Dickie.
Oh, I don’t know. Like everybody else, I suppose.
Penelope.
Don’t be silly, Dickie. You must know if she’s fat or thin.
Dickie.
[Looking at Mrs. Fergusson.] I should say fat, wouldn’t you?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Obese.
Penelope.
Yes?
Dickie.
She has grey hair.
Mrs. Fergusson.
All in little corkscrew curls.
Dickie.
[Laughing.] Yes. I wonder how she does them.
Mrs. Fergusson.
She has very pretty blue eyes, hasn’t she?
Dickie.
Yes, very pretty blue eyes.
Penelope.
What is her Christian name?
Dickie.
Er — I don’t know at all.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Promptly.] Catherine.
Penelope.
Catherine Mack? Mother, it’s your old friend Catherine Mack. What an extraordinary coincidence!
Golightly.
Catherine Mack. Why, of course, I remember her perfectly. Little grey corkscrew curls and very pretty blue eyes.
Penelope.
Wouldn’t she like mamma to go and see her?
Dickie.
I’m afraid she can’t see any one just yet.
Golightly.
You must tell her how sorry we are to hear she’s so ill.
Dickie.
Oh, yes, I’ll give her any message you like.
Mrs. Golightly.
[Rather stiffly, getting up.] I think I ought to be going. Will you come, Charles?
Golightly.
Yes, my dear.
Penelope.
Good-bye, mother, darling.
[They talk aside as Mrs. Golightly is helped on with her cloak. Dickie is left practically alone with Mrs. Fergusson.
Dickie.
[In an undertone.] I say, what the dickens have you come here for now?
Mrs. Fergusson.
You didn’t tell me when I should see you to-morrow.
Dickie.
Good heavens, you might have rung me up on the telephone.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, I never trust the telephone.
Dickie.
How do you mean you never trust the telephone? Are you in the habit....
Mrs. Fergusson.
Dickie!
Dickie.
I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean that.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Why on earth did you invent that cock-and-bull story about Mrs. Mack?
Dickie.
I didn’t. It invented itself. I was obliged to account for my movements.
Mrs. Fergusson.
D’you mean to say your wife asks you where you’ve been and where you’re going? How like a woman. [Innocently.] By the way, what are you doing this evening?
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 347