by Dan Laurence
THE NURSE [hotly] I tell you what is true. [To the patient] Popsy and I are as good company as ever you kept.
THE PATIENT. No, Sweetie: you are a common little devil and a liar. But you amuse me. If you were a real lady you wouldnt amuse me. Youd be afraid to be so unladylike.
THE BURGLAR. Just so. Come! confess! we are better fun than your dear anxious mother and the curate and all the sympathizing relatives, arnt we? Of course we are.
THE PATIENT. I think it perfectly scandalous that you two, who ought to be in prison, are having all the fun while I, because I am respectable and a lady, might just as well be in prison.
THE BURGLAR. Dont you wish you could come with us?
THE PATIENT [calmly] I fully intend to come with you. I’m going to make the most of this dream. Do you forget that I love you, Pops. The world is before us. You and Sweetie have had a week in the land of the mountain and the flood for seven guineas, tips included. Now you shall have an eternity with your Mops in the loveliest earthly paradise we can find, for nothing.
THE NURSE. And where do I come in?
THE PATIENT. You will be our chaperone.
THE NURSE. Chaperone! Well, you have a nerve, you have.
THE PATIENT. Listen. You will be a Countess. We shall go abroad, where nobody will know the difference. You shall have a splendid foreign title. The Countess Valbrioni: doesnt that tempt you?
THE NURSE. Tempt me hell! I’ll see you further first.
THE BURGLAR. Stop. Sweetie: I have another idea. A regular dazzler. Lets stage a kidnap.
THE NURSE. What do you mean? stage a kidnap.
THE BURGLAR. It’s quite simple. We kidnap Mops: that is, we shall hide her in the mountains of Corsica or Istria or Dalmatia or Greece or in the Atlas or where you please that is out of reach of Scotland Yard. We shall pretend to be brigands. Her devoted mother will cough up five thousand to ransom her. We shall share the ransom fifty-fifty: fifty for Mops, twentyfive for you, twentyfive for me. Mops: you will realize not only the value of the pearls, but of yourself. What a stroke of finance!
THE PATIENT [excited] Greece! Dalmatia! Kidnapped! Brigands! Ransomed! [Collapsing a little] Oh, dont tantalize me, you two fools: you have forgotten the measles.
The Monster suddenly reappears from behind the screen. It is transfigured. The bloated moribund Caliban has become a dainty Ariel.
THE MONSTER [picking up the last remark of the patient] So have you. No more measles: that scrap for the jewels cured you and cured me. Ha ha! I am well, I am well, I am well. [It bounds about ecstatically, and finally perches on the pillows and gets into bed beside the patient].
THE NURSE. If you could jump out of bed to knock out Popsy and me you can jump out to dress yourself and hop it from here. Wrap yourself up well: we have a car waiting.
THE BURGLAR. It’s no worse than being taken to a nursing home, Mops. Strike for freedom. Up with you!
They pull her out of bed.
THE PATIENT. But I cant dress myself without a maid.
THE NURSE. Have you ever tried?
THE BURGLAR. We will give you five minutes. If you are not ready we go without you [he looks at his watch].
The patient dashes at the wardrobe and tears out a fur cloak, a hat, a walking dress, a combination, a pair of stockings, black silk breeches, and shoes, all of which she flings on the floor. The nurse picks up most of them; the patient snatches up the rest; the two retire behind the screen. Meanwhile the burglar comes forward to the foot of the bed and comments oratorically, half auctioneer, half clergyman.
THE BURGLAR. Fur cloak. Seal. Old fashioned but worth forty-five guineas. Hat. Quiet and ladylike. Tailor made frock. Combination: silk and wool. Real silk stockings without ladders. Knickers: how daringly modern! Shoes: heels only two inches but no use for the mountains. What a theme for a sermon! The well brought up maiden revolts against her respectable life. The aspiring soul escapes from home, sweet home, which, as a wellknown author has said, is the girl’s prison and the woman’s workhouse. The intrusive care of her anxious parents, the officious concern of the family clergyman for her salvation and of the family doctor for her health, the imposed affection of uninteresting brothers and sisters, the outrage of being called by her Christian name by distant cousins who will not keep their distance, the invasion of her privacy and independence at every turn by questions as to where she has been and what she has been doing, the whispering behind her back about her chances of marriage, the continual violation of that sacred aura which surrounds every living soul like the halo surrounding the heads of saints in religious pictures: against all these devices for worrying her to death the innermost uppermost life in her rises like milk in a boiling saucepan and cries ‘Down with you! away with you! henceforth my gates are open to real life, bring what it may. For what sense is there in this world of hazards, disasters, elations and victories, except as a field for the adventures of the life everlasting? In vain do we disfigure our streets with scrawls of Safety First: in vain do the nations clamor for Security, security, security. They who cry Safety First never cross the street: the empires which sacrifice life to security find it in the grave. For me Safety Last; and Forward, Forward, always For –’
THE NURSE [coming from behind the screen] Dry up, Popsy: she’s ready.
The patient, cloaked, hatted, and shoed, follows her breathless, and comes to the burglar, on his left.
THE PATIENT. Here I am, Pops. One kiss; and then – Lead on.
THE BURGLAR. Good. Your complexion still leaves something to be desired; but [kissing her] your breath is sweet: you breathe the air of freedom.
THE MONSTER. Never mind her complexion: look at mine!
THE BURGLAR [releasing the patient and turning to the nurse] Did you speak?
THE NURSE. No. Hurry up, will you.
THE BURGLAR. It must have been your mother snoring, Mops. It will be long before you hear that music again. Drop a tear.
THE PATIENT. Not one. A woman’s future is not with her mother.
THE NURSE. If you are going to start preaching like Popsy, the milkman will be here before we get away. Remember, I have to take off this uniform and put on my walking things downstairs. Popsy: there may be a copper on his beat outside. Spy out and see. Safety First [she hurries out].
THE BURGLAR. Well, for just this once, safety first [he makes for the window].
THE PATIENT [stopping him] Idiot: the police cant touch you if I back you up. It’s I who run the risk of being caught by my mother.
THE BURGLAR. True. You have an unexpectedly powerful mind. Pray Heaven that in kidnapping you I am not biting off more than I can chew. Come along. [He runs out].
THE PATIENT. He’s forgotten the pearls!!! Thank Heaven he’s a fool, a lovely fool: I shall be able to do as I like with him. [She rushes to the dressing table; bundles the jewels into their case; and carries it out].
THE MONSTER [sitting up] The play is now virtually over; but the characters will discuss it at great length for two acts more. The exit doors are all in order. Goodnight. [It draws up the bedclothes round its neck and goes to sleep].
ACT II
A sea beach in a mountainous country. Sand dunes rise to a brow which cuts off the view of the plain beyond, only the summits of the distant mountain range which bounds it being visible. An army hut on the hither side, with a klaxon electric horn projecting from a board on the wall, shews that we are in a military cantoonment. Opposite the hut is a particolored canvas bathing pavilion with a folding stool beside the entrance. As seen from the sand dunes the hut is on the right and the pavilion on the left. From the neighborhood of the hut a date palm throws a long shadow; for it is early morning.
In this shadow sits a British colonel in a deck chair, peacefully reading the weekly edition of The Times, but with a revolver in his equipment. A light cane chair for use by his visitors is at hand by the hut. Though well over fifty, he is still slender, handsome, well set up, and every inch a commanding officer. His full style and ti
tle is Colonel Tallboys V.C., D.S.O. He won his cross as a company-officer, and has never looked back since then.
He is disturbed by a shattering series of explosions announcing the approach of a powerful and very imperfectly silenced motor bicycle from the side opposite to the huts.
TALLBOYS. Damn that noise!
The unseen rider dismounts and races his engine with a hideous clatter.
TALLBOYS [angrily] Stop that motorbike, will you?
The noise stops; and the bicyclist, having hoiked his machine up on to its stand, taken off his goggles and gloves, and extracted a letter from his carrier, comes past the pavilion into the colonel’s view with the letter in his hand.
He is an insignificant looking private soldier, dusty as to his clothes and a bit gritty as to his windbeaten face. Otherwise there is nothing to find fault with: his tunic and puttees are smart and correct, and his speech ready and rapid. Yet the colonel, already irritated by the racket of the bicycle and the interruption to his newspaper, contemplates him with stern disfavor; for there is something exasperatingly and inexplicably wrong about him. He wears a pith helmet with a pagri; and in profile this pagri suggests a shirt which he has forgotten to tuck in behind, whilst its front view as it falls on his shoulders gives a feminine air of having ringlets and a veil which is in the last degree unsoldierly. His figure is that of a boy of seventeen; but he seems to have borrowed a long head and Wellingtonian nose and chin from somebody else for the express purpose of annoying the colonel. Fortunately for him these are offences which cannot be stated on a charge sheet and dealt with by the provo-marshal; and of this the colonel is angrily aware. The dispatch rider seems conscious of his incongruities; for, though very prompt, concise, and soldierly in his replies, he somehow suggests that there is an imprescriptible joke somewhere by an invisible smile which unhappily produces at times an impression of irony.
He salutes; hands the letter to the colonel; and stands at attention.
TALLBOYS [taking the letter] Whats this?
THE RIDER. I was sent with a letter to the headman of the native village in the mountains, sir. That is his answer, sir.
TALLBOYS. I know nothing about it. Who sent you?
THE RIDER. Colonel Saxby, sir.
TALLBOYS. Colonel Saxby has just returned to the base, seriously ill. I have taken over from him. I am Colonel Tallboys.
THE RIDER. So I understand, sir.
TALLBOYS. Well, is this a personal letter to be sent on to him, or is it a dispatch?
THE RIDER. Dispatch, sir. Service document, sir. You may open it.
TALLBOYS [turning in his chair and concentrating on him with fierce sarcasm] Thank you. [He surveys him from his instep to his nose]. What is your name?
THE RIDER. Meek, sir.
TALLBOYS [with disgust] What!
THE RIDER. Meek, sir. M, double e, k.
The colonel looks at him with loathing, and tears open the letter. There is a painful silence whilst he puzzles over it.
TALLBOYS. In dialect. Send the interpreter to me.
MEEK. It’s of no consequence, sir. It was only to impress the headman.
TALLBOYS. INNdeed. Who picked you for this duty?
MEEK. Sergeant, sir.
TALLBOYS. He should have selected a capable responsible person, with sufficient style to impress the native headman to whom Colonel Saxby’s letter was addressed. How did he come to select you?
MEEK. I volunteered, sir.
TALLBOYS. Did you indeed? You consider yourself an impressive person, eh? You think you carry about with you the atmosphere of the British Empire, do you?
MEEK. No, sir. I know the country. I can speak the dialects a little.
TALLBOYS. Marvellous! And why, with all these accomplishments, are you not at least a corporal?
MEEK. Not educationally qualified, sir.
TALLBOYS. Illiterate! Are you not ashamed?
MEEK. No, sir.
TALLBOYS. Proud of it, eh?
MEEK. Cant help it, sir.
TALLBOYS. Where did you pick up your knowledge of the country?
MEEK. I was mostly a sort of tramp before I enlisted, sir.
TALLBOYS. Well, if I could get hold of the recruiting sergeant who enlisted you, I’d have his stripes off. Youre a disgrace to the army.
MEEK. Yessir.
TALLBOYS. Go and send the interpreter to me. And dont come back with him. Keep out of my sight.
MEEK [hesitates] Er –
TALLBOYS [peremptorily] Now then! Did you hear me give you an order? Send me the interpreter.
MEEK. The fact is, Colonel –
TALLBOYS [outraged] How dare you say Colonel and tell me that the fact is? Obey your order and hold your tongue.
MEEK. Yessir. Sorry, sir. I am the interpreter.
Tallboys bounds to his feet; towers over Meek, who looks smaller than ever; and folds his arms to give emphasis to a terrible rejoinder. On the point of delivering it, he suddenly unfolds them again and sits down resignedly.
TALLBOYS [wearily and quite gently] Very well. If you are the interpreter you had better interpret this for me. [He proffers the letter].
MEEK [not accepting it] No need, thank you, sir. The headman couldnt compose a letter, sir. I had to do it for him.
TALLBOYS. How did you know what was in Colonel Saxby’s letter?
MEEK. I read it to him, sir.
TALLBOYS. Did he ask you to?
MEEK. Yessir.
TALLBOYS. He had no right to communicate the contents of such a letter to a private soldier. He cannot have known what he was doing. You must have represented yourself as being a responsible officer. Did you?
MEEK. It would be all the same to him, sir. He addressed me as Lord of the Western Isles.
TALLBOYS. You! You worm! If my letter was sent by the hands of an irresponsible messenger it should have contained a statement to that effect. Who drafted it?
MEEK. Quartermaster’s clerk, sir.
TALLBOYS. Send him to me. Tell him to bring his note of Colonel Saxby’s instructions. Do you hear? Stop making idiotic faces; and get a move on. Send me the quartermaster’s clerk.
MEEK. The fact is –
TALLBOYS [thundering] Again!!
MEEK. Sorry, sir. I am the quartermaster’s clerk.
TALLBOYS. What! You wrote both the letter and the headman’s answer?
MEEK. Yessir.
TALLBOYS. Then either you are lying now or you were lying when you said you were illiterate. Which is it?
MEEK. I dont seem to be able to pass the examination when they want to promote me. It’s my nerves, sir, I suppose.
TALLBOYS. Your nerves! What business has a soldier with nerves? You mean that you are no use for fighting, and have to be put to do anything that can be done without it.
MEEK. Yessir.
TALLBOYS. Well, next time you are sent with a letter I hope the brigands will catch you and keep you.
MEEK. There are no brigands, sir.
TALLBOYS. No brigands! Did you say no brigands?
MEEK. Yessir.
TALLBOYS. You are acquainted with the Articles of War, are you not?
MEEK. I have heard them read out, sir.
TALLBOYS. Do you understand them?
MEEK. I think so, sir.
TALLBOYS. You think so! Well, do a little more thinking. You are serving on an expeditionary force sent out to suppress brigandage in this district and to rescue a British lady who is being held for ransom. You know that. You dont think it: you know it, eh?
MEEK. So they say, sir.
TALLBOYS. You know also that under the Articles of War any soldier who knowingly does when on active service any act calculated to imperil the success of his Majesty’s forces or any part thereof shall be liable to suffer death. Do you understand? Death!
MEEK. Yessir. Army Act, Part One, Section Four, Number Six. I think you mean Section Five, Number Five, sir.
TALLBOYS. Do I? Perhaps you will be good enough, to quote Section Five, N
umber Five.
MEEK. Yessir. ‘By word of mouth spreads reports calculated to create unnecessary alarm or despondency.’
TALLBOYS. It is fortunate for you, Private Meek, that the Act says nothing about private soldiers who create despondency by their personal appearance. Had it done so your life would not be worth half an hour’s purchase.
MEEK. No, sir. Am I to file the letter and the reply with a translation, sir?
TALLBOYS [tearing the letter to pieces and throwing them away] Your folly has made a mockery of both. What did the headman say?