Elizabeth. Won’t you tell me what she was like?
C.-C. She was very like you, Elizabeth, only she had dark hair instead of red.
Elizabeth. Poor dear! it must be quite white now.
C.-C. I daresay. She was a pretty little thing.
Elizabeth. But she was one of the great beauties of her day. They say she was lovely.
C.-C. She had the most adorable little nose, like yours. . . .
Elizabeth. D’you like my nose?
C.-C. And she was very dainty, with a beautiful little figure; very light on her feet. She was like a marquise in an old French comedy. Yes, she was lovely.
Elizabeth. And I’m sure she’s lovely still.
C.-C. She’s no chicken, you know.
Elizabeth. You can’t expect me to look at it as you and Arnold do. When you’ve loved as she’s loved you may grow old, but you grow old beautifully.
C.-C. You’re very romantic.
Elizabeth. If everyone hadn’t made such a mystery of it I daresay I shouldn’t feel as I do. I know she did a great wrong to you and a great wrong to Arnold. I’m willing to acknowledge that.
C.-C. I’m sure it’s very kind of you.
Elizabeth. But she loved and she dared. Romance is such an illusive thing. You read of it in books, but it’s seldom you see it face to face. I can’t help it if it thrills me.
C.-C. I am painfully aware that the husband in these cases is not a romantic object.
Elizabeth. She had the world at her feet. You were rich. She was a figure in society. And she gave up everything for love.
C.-C. [Dryly.] I’m beginning to suspect it wasn’t only for her sake and for Arnold’s that you asked her to come here.
Elizabeth. I seem to know her already. I think her face is a little sad, for a love like that doesn’t leave you gay, it leaves you grave, but I think her pale face is unlined. It’s like a child’s.
C.-C. My dear, how you let your imagination run away with you!
Elizabeth. I imagine her slight and frail.
C.-C. Frail, certainly.
Elizabeth. With beautiful thin hands and white hair. I’ve pictured her so often in that Renaissance Palace that they live in, with old Masters on the walls and lovely carved things all round, sitting in a black silk dress with old lace round her neck and old-fashioned diamonds. You see, I never knew my mother; she died when I was a baby. You can’t confide in aunts with huge families of their own. I want Arnold’s mother to be a mother to me. I’ve got so much to say to her.
C.-C. Are you happy with Arnold?
Elizabeth. Why shouldn’t I be?
C.-C. Why haven’t you got any babies?
Elizabeth. Give us a little time. We’ve only been married three years.
C.-C. I wonder what Hughie is like now!
Elizabeth. Lord Porteous?
C.-C. He wore his clothes better than any man in London. You know he’d have been Prime Minister if he’d remained in politics.
Elizabeth. What was he like then?
C.-C. He was a nice-looking fellow. Fine horseman. I suppose there was something very fascinating about him. Yellow hair and blue eyes, you know. He had a very good figure. I liked him. I was his parliamentary secretary. He was Arnold’s godfather.
Elizabeth. I know.
C.-C. I wonder if he ever regrets!
Elizabeth. I wouldn’t.
C.-C. Well, I must be strolling back to my cottage.
Elizabeth. You’re not angry with me?
C.-C. Not a bit.
[She puts up her face for him to kiss. He kisses her on both cheeks and then goes out. In a moment Teddie is seen at the window.
Teddie. I saw the old blighter go.
Elizabeth. Come in.
Teddie. Everything all right?
Elizabeth. Oh, quite, as far as he’s concerned. He’s going to keep out of the way.
Teddie. Was it beastly?
Elizabeth. No, he made it very easy for me. He’s a nice old thing.
Teddie. You were rather scared.
Elizabeth. A little. I am still. I don’t know why.
Teddie. I guessed you were. I thought I’d come and give you a little moral support. It’s ripping here, isn’t it?
Elizabeth. It is rather nice.
Teddie. It’ll be jolly to think of it when I’m back in the F.M.S.
Elizabeth. Aren’t you homesick sometimes?
Teddie. Oh, everyone is now and then, you know.
Elizabeth. You could have got a job in England if you’d wanted to, couldn’t you?
Teddie. Oh, but I love it out there. England’s ripping to come back to, but I couldn’t live here now. It’s like a woman you’re desperately in love with as long as you don’t see her, but when you’re with her she maddens you so that you can’t bear her.
Elizabeth. [Smiling.] What’s wrong with England?
Teddie. I don’t think anything’s wrong with England. I expect something’s wrong with me. I’ve been away too long. England seems to me full of people doing things they don’t want to because other people expect it of them.
Elizabeth. Isn’t that what you call a high degree of civilisation?
Teddie. People seem to me so insincere. When you go to parties in London they’re all babbling about art, and you feel that in their hearts they don’t care twopence about it. They read the books that everybody is talking about because they don’t want to be out of it. In the F.M.S. we don’t get very many books, and we read those we have over and over again. They mean so much to us. I don’t think the people over there are half so clever as the people at home, but one gets to know them better. You see, there are so few of us that we have to make the best of one another.
Elizabeth. I imagine that frills are not much worn in the F.M.S. It must be a comfort.
Teddie. It’s not much good being pretentious where everyone knows exactly who you are and what your income is.
Elizabeth. I don’t think you want too much sincerity in society. It would be like an iron girder in a house of cards.
Teddie. And then, you know, the place is ripping. You get used to a blue sky and you miss it in England.
Elizabeth. What do you do with yourself all the time?
Teddie. Oh, one works like blazes. You have to be a pretty hefty fellow to be a planter. And then there’s ripping bathing. You know, it’s lovely, with palm trees all along the beach. And there’s shooting. And now and then we have a little dance to a gramophone.
Elizabeth. [Pretending to tease him.] I think you’ve got a young woman out there, Teddie.
Teddie. [Vehemently.] Oh, no!
[She is a little taken aback by the earnestness of his disclaimer. There is a moment’s silence, then she recovers herself.
Elizabeth. But you’ll have to marry and settle down one of these days, you know.
Teddie. I want to, but it’s not a thing you can do lightly.
Elizabeth. I don’t know why there more than elsewhere.
Teddie. In England if people don’t get on they go their own ways and jog along after a fashion. In a place like that you’re thrown a great deal on your own resources.
Elizabeth. Of course.
Teddie. Lots of girls come out because they think they’re going to have a good time. But if they’re empty-headed, then they’re just faced with their own emptiness and they’re done. If their husbands can afford it they go home and settle down as grass-widows.
Elizabeth. I’ve met them. They seem to find it a very pleasant occupation.
Teddie. It’s rotten for their husbands, though.
Elizabeth. And if the husbands can’t afford it?
Teddie. Oh, then they tipple.
Elizabeth. It’s not a very alluring prospect.
Teddie. But if the woman’s the right sort she wouldn’t exchange it for any life in the world. When all’s said and done it’s we who’ve made the Empire.
Elizabeth. What sort is the right sort?
Teddie. A woman of courage and endurance and si
ncerity. Of course, it’s hopeless unless she’s in love with her husband.
[He is looking at her earnestly and she, raising her eyes, gives him a long look. There is silence between them.
Teddie. My house stands on the side of a hill, and the cocoanut trees wind down to the shore. Azaleas grow in my garden, and camellias, and all sorts of ripping flowers. And in front of me is the winding coast line, and then the blue sea.
[A pause.
Do you know that I’m awfully in love with you?
Elizabeth. [Gravely.] I wasn’t quite sure. I wondered.
Teddie. And you?
[She nods slowly.
I’ve never kissed you.
Elizabeth. I don’t want you to.
[They look at one another steadily. They are both grave. Arnold comes in hurriedly.
Arnold. They’re coming, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. [As though returning from a distant world.] Who?
Arnold. [Impatiently.] My dear! My mother, of course. The car is just coming up the drive.
Teddie. Would you like me to clear out?
Arnold. No, no! For goodness’ sake stay.
Elizabeth. We’d better go and meet them, Arnold.
Arnold. No, no; I think they’d much better be shown in. I feel simply sick with nervousness.
[Anna comes in from the garden.
Anna. Your guests have arrived.
Elizabeth. Yes, I know.
Arnold. I’ve given orders that luncheon should be served at once.
Elizabeth. Why? It’s not half-past one already, is it?
Arnold. I thought it would help. When you don’t know exactly what to say you can always eat.
[The Butler comes in and announces.
Butler. Lady Catherine Champion-Cheney! Lord Porteous!
[Lady Kitty comes in followed by Porteous, and the Butler goes out. Lady Kitty is a gay little lady, with dyed red hair and painted cheeks. She is somewhat outrageously dressed. She never forgets that she has been a pretty woman and she still behaves as if she were twenty-five. Lord Porteous is a very bald, elderly gentleman in loose, rather eccentric clothes. He is snappy and gruff. This is not at all the couple that Elizabeth expected, and for a moment she stares at them with round, startled eyes. Lady Kitty goes up to her with outstretched hands.
Lady Kitty. Elizabeth! Elizabeth! [She kisses her effusively.] What an adorable creature! [Turning to Porteous.] Hughie, isn’t she adorable?
Porteous. [With a grunt.] Ugh!
[Elizabeth, smiling now, turns to him and gives him her hand.
Elizabeth. How d’you do?
Porteous. Damnable road you’ve got down here. How d’you do, my dear? Why d’you have such damnable roads in England?
[Lady Kitty’s eyes fall on Teddie and she goes up to him with her arms thrown back, prepared to throw them round him.
Lady Kitty. My boy, my boy! I should have known you anywhere!
Elizabeth. [Hastily.] That’s Arnold.
Lady Kitty. [Without a moment’s hesitation.] The image of his father! I should have known him anywhere! [She throws her arms round his neck.] My boy, my boy!
Porteous. [With a grunt.] Ugh!
Lady Kitty. Tell me, would you have known me again? Have I changed?
Arnold. I was only five, you know, when — when you . . .
Lady Kitty. [Emotionally.] I remember as if it was yesterday. I went up into your room. [With a sudden change of manner.] By the way, I always thought that nurse drank. Did you ever find out if she really did?
Porteous. How the devil can you expect him to know that, Kitty?
Lady Kitty. You’ve never had a child, Hughie; how can you tell what they know and what they don’t?
Elizabeth. [Coming to the rescue.] This is Arnold, Lord Porteous.
Porteous. [Shaking hands with him.] How d’you do? I knew your father.
Arnold. Yes.
Porteous. Alive still?
Arnold. Yes.
Porteous. He must be getting on. Is he well?
Arnold. Very.
Porteous. Ugh! Takes care of himself, I suppose. I’m not at all well. This damned climate doesn’t agree with me.
Elizabeth. [To Lady Kitty.] This is Mrs. Shenstone. And this is Mr. Luton. I hope you don’t mind a very small party.
Lady Kitty. [Shaking hands with Anna and Teddie.] Oh, no, I shall enjoy it. I used to give enormous parties here. Political, you know. How nice you’ve made this room!
Elizabeth. Oh, that’s Arnold.
Arnold. [Nervously.] D’you like this chair? I’ve just bought it. It’s exactly my period.
Porteous. [Bluntly.] It’s a fake.
Arnold. [Indignantly.] I don’t think it is for a minute.
Porteous. The legs are not right.
Arnold. I don’t know how you can say that. If there is anything right about it, it’s the legs.
Lady Kitty. I’m sure they’re right.
Porteous. You know nothing whatever about it, Kitty.
Lady Kitty. That’s what you think. I think it’s a beautiful chair. Hepplewhite?
Arnold. No, Sheraton.
Lady Kitty. Oh, I know. “The School for Scandal.”
Porteous. Sheraton, my dear. Sheraton.
Lady Kitty. Yes, that’s what I say. I acted the screen scene at some amateur theatricals in Florence, and Ermeto Novelli, the great Italian tragedian, told me he’d never seen a Lady Teazle like me.
Porteous. Ugh!
Lady Kitty. [To Elizabeth.] Do you act?
Elizabeth. Oh, I couldn’t. I should be too nervous.
Lady Kitty. I’m never nervous. I’m a born actress. Of course, if I had my time over again I’d go on the stage. You know, it’s extraordinary how they keep young. Actresses, I mean. I think it’s because they’re always playing different parts. Hughie, do you think Arnold takes after me or after his father? Of course I think he’s the very image of me. Arnold, I think I ought to tell you that I was received into the Catholic Church last winter. I’d been thinking about it for years, and last time we were at Monte Carlo I met such a nice monsignore. I told him what my difficulties were and he was too wonderful. I knew Hughie wouldn’t approve, so I kept it a secret. [To Elizabeth.] Are you interested in religion? I think it’s too wonderful. We must have a long talk about it one of these days. [Pointing to her frock.] Callot?
Elizabeth. No, Worth.
Lady Kitty. I knew it was either Worth or Callot. Of course, it’s line that’s the important thing. I go to Worth myself, and I always say to him, “Line, my dear Worth, line.” What is the matter, Hughie?
Porteous. These new teeth of mine are so damned uncomfortable.
Lady Kitty. Men are extraordinary. They can’t stand the smallest discomfort. Why, a woman’s life is uncomfortable from the moment she gets up in the morning till the moment she goes to bed at night. And d’you think it’s comfortable to sleep with a mask on your face?
Porteous. They don’t seem to hold up properly.
Lady Kitty. Well, that’s not the fault of your teeth. That’s the fault of your gums.
Porteous. Damned rotten dentist. That’s what’s the matter.
Lady Kitty. I thought he was a very nice dentist. He told me my teeth would last till I was fifty. He has a Chinese room. It’s so interesting; while he scrapes your teeth he tells you all about the dear Empress Dowager. Are you interested in China? I think it’s too wonderful. You know they’ve cut off their pigtails. I think it’s such a pity. They were so picturesque.
[The Butler comes in.
Butler. Luncheon is served, sir.
Elizabeth. Would you like to see your rooms?
Porteous. We can see our rooms after luncheon.
Lady Kitty. I must powder my nose, Hughie.
Porteous. Powder it down here.
Lady Kitty. I never saw anyone so inconsiderate.
Porteous. You’ll keep us all waiting half an hour. I know you.
Lady Kitty. [Fumbling in her bag.] Oh, well, p
eace at any price, as Lord Beaconsfield said.
Porteous. He said a lot of damned silly things, Kitty, but he never said that.
[Lady Kitty’s face changes. Perplexity is followed by dismay, and dismay by consternation.
Lady Kitty. Oh!
Elizabeth. What is the matter?
Lady Kitty. [With anguish.] My lip-stick!
Elizabeth. Can’t you find it?
Lady Kitty. I had it in the car. Hughie, you remember that I had it in the car.
Porteous. I don’t remember anything about it.
Lady Kitty. Don’t be so stupid, Hughie. Why, when we came through the gates I said: “My home, my home!” and I took it out and put some on my lips.
Elizabeth. Perhaps you dropped it in the car.
Lady Kitty. For heaven’s sake send some one to look for it.
Arnold. I’ll ring.
Lady Kitty. I’m absolutely lost without my lip-stick. Lend me yours, darling, will you?
Elizabeth. I’m awfully sorry. I’m afraid I haven’t got one.
Lady Kitty. Do you mean to say you don’t use a lip-stick?
Elizabeth. Never.
Porteous. Look at her lips. What the devil d’you think she wants muck like that for?
Lady Kitty. Oh, my dear, what a mistake you make! You must use a lip-stick. It’s so good for the lips. Men like it, you know. I couldn’t live without a lip-stick.
[Champion-Cheney appears at the window holding in his upstretched hand a little gold case.
C.-C. [As he comes in.] Has anyone here lost a diminutive utensil containing, unless I am mistaken, a favourite preparation for the toilet?
[Arnold and Elizabeth are thunderstruck at his appearance and even Teddie and Anna are taken aback. But Lady Kitty is overjoyed.
Lady Kitty. My lip-stick!
C.-C. I found it in the drive and I ventured to bring it in.
Lady Kitty. It’s Saint Antony. I said a little prayer to him when I was hunting in my bag.
Porteous. Saint Antony be blowed! It’s Clive, by God!
Lady Kitty. [Startled, her attention suddenly turning from the lip-stick.] Clive!
C.-C. You didn’t recognise me. It’s many years since we met.
Lady Kitty. My poor Clive, your hair has gone quite white!
C.-C. [Holding out his hand.] I hope you had a pleasant journey down from London.
Lady Kitty. [Offering him her cheek.] You may kiss me, Clive.
C.-C. [Kissing her.] You don’t mind, Hughie?
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 402