by Unknown
VALENTINE (impressed). Indeed.
(MISS HENRIETTA and MISS FANNY, encouraged by his sympathy, draw nearer the door of the interesting bedchamber. They falter. Any one who thinks, however, that they would so far forget themselves as to open the door and peep in, has no understanding of the ladies of Quality Street. They are, nevertheless, not perfect, for MISS HENRIETTA knocks on the door.)
MISS HENRIETTA. How do you find yourself, dear Miss Livvy?
(There is no answer. It is our pride to record that they come away without even touching the handle. They look appealing at CAPTAIN BROWN, whose face has grown grave.)
VALENTINE. I think, ladies, as a physician —
(He walks into the bedroom. They feel an ignoble drawing to follow him, but do not yield to it. When he returns his face is inscrutable.)
MISS HENRIETTA. Is she very poorly, sir?
VALENTINE. Ha.
MISS FANNY. We did not hear you address her.
VALENTINE. She is not awake, ma’am.
MISS HENRIETTA. It is provoking.
MISS FANNY (sternly just). They informed Mary that she was nigh asleep.
VALENTINE. It is not a serious illness I think, ma’am. With the permission of Miss Phoebe and Miss Susan I will make myself more acquaint with her disorder presently. (He is desirous to be alone.) But we must not talk lest we disturb her.
MISS FANNY. You suggest our retiring, sir?
VALENTINE. Nay, Miss Fanny ——
MISS FANNY. You are very obliging; but I think, Henrietta ——
MISS HENRIETTA (rising). Yes, Fanny.
(No doubt they are the more ready to depart that they wish to inform MISS WILLOUGHBY at once of these strange doings. As they go, MISS SUSAN and MISS PHOEBE return, and the adieux are less elaborate than usual. Neither visitors nor hostesses quite know what to say. MISS SUSAN is merely relieved to see them leave, but MISS PHOEBE has read something in their manner that makes her uneasy.)
PHOEBE. Why have they departed so hurriedly, sir? They — they did not go in to see Livvy?
VALENTINE. No.
(She reads danger in his face.)
PHOEBE. Why do you look at me so strangely?
VALENTINE (somewhat stern). Miss Phoebe, I desire to see Miss Livvy.
PHOEBE. Impossible.
VALENTINE. Why impossible? They tell me strange stories about no one’s seeing her. Miss Phoebe, I will not leave this house until I have seen her.
PHOEBE. You cannot. (But he is very determined, and she is afraid of him.) Will you excuse me, sir, while I talk with Susan behind the door?
(The sisters go guiltily into the bedroom, and CAPTAIN BROWN after some hesitation rings for PATTY.)
VALENTINE. Patty, come here. Why is this trick being played upon me?
PATTY (with all her wits about her). Trick, sir! Who would dare?
VALENTINE. I know, Patty, that Miss Phoebe has been Miss Livvy all the time.
PATTY. I give in!
VALENTINE. Why has she done this?
PATTY (beseechingly). Are you laughing, sir?
VALENTINE. I am very far from laughing.
PATTY (turning on him). ‘Twas you that began it, all by not knowing her in the white gown.
VALENTINE. Why has this deception been kept up so long?
PATTY. Because you would not see through it. Oh, the wicked denseness. She thought you were infatuate with Miss Livvy because she was young and silly.
VALENTINE. It is infamous.
PATTY. I will not have you call her names. ‘Twas all playful innocence at first, and now she is so feared of you she is weeping her soul to death, and all I do I cannot rouse her. ‘I ha’ a follower in the kitchen, ma’am,’ says I, to infuriate her. ‘Give him a glass of cowslip wine,’ says she, like a gentle lamb. And ill she can afford it, you having lost their money for them.
VALENTINE. What is that? On the contrary, all the money they have, Patty, they owe to my having invested it for them.
PATTY. That is the money they lost.
VALENTINE. You are sure of that?
PATTY. I can swear to it.
VALENTINE. Deceived me about that also. Good God; but why?
PATTY. I think she was feared you would offer to her out of pity. She said something to Miss Susan about keeping a flag flying. What she meant I know not. (But he knows, and he turns away his face.) Are you laughing, sir?
VALENTINE. No, Patty, I am not laughing. Why do they not say Miss Livvy has gone home? It would save them a world of trouble.
PATTY. The Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta — they watch the house all day. They would say she cannot be gone, for we did not see her go.
VALENTINE (enlightened at last). I see!
PATTY. And Miss Phoebe and Miss Susan wring their hands, for they are feared Miss Livvy is bedridden here for all time. (Now his sense of humour asserts itself). Thank the Lord, you ‘re laughing!
(At this he laughs the more, and it is a gay CAPTAIN BROWN on whom MISS SUSAN opens the bedroom door. This desperate woman is too full of plot to note the change in him.)
MISS SUSAN. I am happy to inform you, sir, that Livvy finds herself much improved.
VALENTINE (bolting). It is joy to me to hear it.
MISS SUSAN. She is coming in to see you.
PATTY (aghast). Oh, ma’am!
VALENTINE (frowning on PATTY). I shall be happy to see the poor invalid.
PATTY. Ma’am —— !
(But MISS SUSAN, believing that so far all is well, has returned to the bedchamber. CAPTAIN BROWN bestows a quizzical glance upon the maid.)
VALENTINE. Go away, Patty. Anon I may claim a service of you, but for the present, go.
PATTY. But — but ——
VALENTINE. Retire, woman.
(She has to go, and he prepares his face for the reception of the invalid. PHOEBE comes in without her cap, the ringlets showing again. She wears a dressing jacket and is supported by MISS SUSAN.)
VALENTINE (gravely). Your servant, Miss Livvy.
PHOEBE (weakly). How do you do?
VALENTINE. Allow me, Miss Susan.
(He takes MISS SUSAN’S place; but after an exquisite moment MISS PHOEBE breaks away from him, feeling that she is not worthy of such bliss.)
PHOEBE. No, no, I — I can walk alone — see.
(She reclines upon the couch.)
MISS SUSAN. How do you think she is looking?
(He makes a professional examination of the patient, and they are very ashamed to deceive him, but not so ashamed that they must confess.)
What do you think?
VALENTINE (solemnly). She will recover. May I say, ma’am, it surprises me that any one should see much resemblance between you and your Aunt Phoebe. Miss Phoebe is decidedly shorter and more thick-set.
PHOEBE (sitting up). No, I am not.
VALENTINE. I said Miss Phoebe, ma’am. (She reclines.) But tell me, is not Miss Phoebe to join us?
PHOEBE. She hopes you will excuse her, sir.
MISS SUSAN (vaguely). Taking the opportunity of airing the room.
VALENTINE. Ah, of course.
MISS SUSAN (opening bedroom door and catting mendaciously). Captain Brown will excuse you, Phoebe.
VALENTINE. Certainly, Miss Susan. Well, ma’am, I think I could cure Miss Livvy if she is put unreservedly into my hands.
MISS SUSAN (with a sigh). I am sure you could.
VALENTINE. Then you are my patient, Miss Livvy.
PHOEBE (nervously). ‘Twas but a passing indisposition, I am almost quite recovered.
VALENTINE. Nay, you still require attention. Do you propose making a long stay in Quality Street, ma’am?
PHOEBE. I — I — I hope not. It — it depends.
MISS SUSAN (forgetting herself). Mary is the worst.
VALENTINE. I ask your pardon?
PHOEBE. Aunt Susan, you are excited.
VALENTINE. But you are quite right, Miss Livvy; home is the place for you.
PHOEBE. Would that I coul
d go!
VALENTINE. You are going.
PHOEBE. Yes — soon.
VALENTINE. Indeed, I have a delightful surprise for you, Miss Livvy, you are going to-day.
PHOEBE. To-day?
VALENTINE. Not merely to-day, but now. As it happens, my carriage is standing idle at your door, and I am to take you in it to your home — some twenty miles if I remember.
PHOEBE. You are to take me?
VALENTINE. Nay, ‘tis no trouble at all, and as your physician my mind is made up. Some wraps for her, Miss Susan.
MISS SUSAN. But — but ——
PHOEBE (in a panic). Sir, I decline to go.
VALENTINE. Come, Miss Livvy, you are in my hands.
PHOEBE. I decline. I am most determined.
VALENTINE. You admit yourself that you are recovered.
PHOEBE. I do not feel so well now. Aunt Susan!
MISS SUSAN. Sir ——
VALENTINE. If you wish to consult Miss Phoebe ——
MISS SUSAN. Oh, no.
VALENTINE. Then the wraps, Miss Susan.
PHOEBE. Auntie, don’t leave me.
VALENTINE. What a refractory patient it is. But reason with her, Miss Susan, and I shall ask Miss Phoebe for some wraps.
PHOEBE. Sir!
(To their consternation he goes cheerily into the bedroom. MISS PHOEBE saves herself by instant flight, and nothing but mesmeric influence keeps MISS SUSAN rooted to the blue and white room. When he returns he is loaded with wraps, and still cheerfully animated, as if he had found nothing untoward in LIVVY’S bedchamber.)
VALENTINE. I think these will do admirably, Miss Susan.
MISS SUSAN. But Phoebe ——
VALENTINE. If I swathe Miss Livvy in these ——
MISS SUSAN. Phoebe ——
VALENTINE. She is still busy airing the room. (The extraordinary man goes to the couch as if unable to perceive that its late occupant has gone, and MISS SUSAN watches him, fascinated.) Come, Miss Livvy, put these over you. Allow me — this one over your shoulders, so. Be so obliging as to lean on me. Be brave, ma’am, you cannot fall — my arm is round you; gently, gently, Miss Livvy; ah, that is better; we are doing famously; come, come. Goodbye, Miss Susan, I will take every care of her.
(He has gone, with the bundle on his arm, but MISS SUSAN does not wake up. Even the banging of the outer door is unable to rouse her. It is heard, however, by MISS PHOEBE, who steals back into the room, her cap upon her head to give her courage.)
PHOEBE. He is gone! (MISS SUSAN’S rapt face alarms her.) Oh, Susan, was he as dreadful as that?
MISS SUSAN (in tones unnatural to her). Phoebe, he knows all.
PHOEBE. Yes, of course he knows all now. Sister, did his face change? Oh, Susan, what did he say?
MISS SUSAN. He said ‘Goodbye, Miss Susan.’ That was almost all he said.
PHOEBE. Did his eyes flash fire?
MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, it was what he did. He — he took Livvy with him.
PHOEBE. Susan, dear, don’t say that. You are not distraught, are you?
MISS SUSAN (clinging to facts). He did; he wrapped her up in a shawl.
PHOEBE. Susan! You are Susan Throssel, my love. You remember me, don’t you? Phoebe, your sister. I was Livvy also, you know, Livvy.
MISS SUSAN. He took Livvy with him.
PHOEBE (in woe). Oh, oh! sister, who am I?
MISS SUSAN. You are Phoebe.
PHOEBE. And who was Livvy?
MISS SUSAN. You were.
PHOEBE. Thank heaven.
MISS SUSAN. But he took her away in the carriage.
PHOEBE. Oh, dear! (She has quite forgotten her own troubles now.) Susan, you will soon be well again. Dear, let us occupy our minds. Shall we draw up the advertisement for the reopening of the school?
MISS SUSAN. I do so hate the school.
PHOEBE. Come, dear, come, sit down. Write, Susan. (Dictating.) ‘The Misses Throssel have the pleasure to announce — —’
MISS SUSAN. Pleasure! Oh, Phoebe.
PHOEBE. ‘That they will resume school on the 5th of next month. Music, embroidery, the backboard, and all the elegancies of the mind. Latin — shall we say algebra?’
MISS SUSAN. I refuse to write algebra.
PHOEBE. — for beginners.
MISS SUSAN. I refuse. There is only one thing I can write; it writes itself in my head all day. ‘Miss Susan Throssel presents her compliments to the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta Turnbull, and requests the honour of their presence at the nuptials of her sister Phoebe and Captain Valentine Brown.’
PHOEBE. Susan!
MISS SUSAN. Phoebe! (A door is heard banging.) He has returned!
PHOEBE. Oh cruel, cruel. Susan, I am so alarmed.
MISS SUSAN. I will face him.
PHOEBE. Nay, if it must be, I will.
(But when he enters he is not very terrible.)
VALENTINE. Miss Phoebe, it is not raining, but your face is wet. I wish always to kiss you when your face is wet.
PHOEBE. Susan!
VALENTINE. Miss Livvy will never trouble you any more, Miss Susan. I have sent her home.
MISS SUSAN. Oh, sir, how can you invent such a story for us.
VALENTINE. I did not. I invented it for the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta, who from their windows watched me put her into my carriage. Patty accompanies her, and in a few hours Patty will return alone.
MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, he has got rid of Livvy!
PHOEBE. Susan, his face hasn’t changed!
VALENTINE. Dear Phoebe Throssel, will you be Phoebe Brown?
PHOEBE (quivering). You know everything? And that I am not a garden?
VALENTINE. I know everything, ma’am — except that.
PHOEBE (so very glad to be prim at the end). Sir, the dictates of my heart enjoin me to accept your too flattering offer. (He puts her cap in his pocket. He kisses her. MISS SUSAN is about to steal away.) Oh, sir, Susan also. (He kisses MISS SUSAN also; and here we bid them goodbye.)
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON
Dealing with serious class issues that were controversial at the time, this comic stage play was written in 1902 and first produced by Charles Frohman, opening at the Duke of York’s Theatre in London on 4 November 1902, running for a successful run of 828 performances. The play starred H. B. Irving as Crichton and Irene Vanbrugh as Lady Mary Lasenby. In 1903, the play was produced on Broadway by Frohman, starring William Gillette as Crichton and Sybil Carlisle as Lady Mary. Barrie took the title from the nickname of a fellow Scot, the polymath James Crichton, a 16th-century genius and athlete.
The play opens in Loam Hall, the household of Lord Loam, a British peer, whose butler is called Crichton. As Loam considers the class divisions in British society to be artificial, he decides to promote his views during tea-parties where servants mingle with his aristocratic guests, to the embarrassment of everyone attending. Crichton particularly disapproves, considering the class system to be the natural outcome of a civilised society. However, when Loam, his family, friends and servants are shipwrecked on a deserted tropical island, the resourceful Crichton quickly finds himself assuming a role that questions his previous opinions.
A scene from the original production, with Crichton on the left and Lord Loam in the centre
CONTENTS
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
James Crichton, originally known as the ‘Admirable Crichton’ (1560-1582), was a Scottish polymath noted for his extraordinary accomplishments in languages, arts and sciences before his sudden murder, aged 21.
The 1957 film adaptation of Barrie’s play
ACT I.
AT LOAM HOUSE, MAYFAIR
A moment before the curtain rises, the Hon. Ernest Woolley drives up to the door of Loam House in Mayfair. There is a happy smile on his pleasant, insignificant face, and this presumably means that he is thinking of himself. He is too busy over nothing, this man about town, to be always thinking of him
self, but, on the other hand, he almost never thinks of any other person. Probably Ernest’s great moment is when he wakes of a morning and realises that he really is Ernest, for we must all wish to be that which is our ideal. We can conceive him springing out of bed light-heartedly and waiting for his man to do the rest. He is dressed in excellent taste, with just the little bit more which shows that he is not without a sense of humour: the dandiacal are often saved by carrying a smile at the whole thing in their spats, let us say. Ernest left Cambridge the other day, a member of The Athenaeum (which he would be sorry to have you confound with a club in London of the same name). He is a bachelor, but not of arts, no mean epigrammatist (as you shall see), and a favourite of the ladies. He is almost a celebrity in restaurants, where he dines frequently, returning to sup; and during this last year he has probably paid as much in them for the privilege of handing his hat to an attendant as the rent of a workingman’s flat. He complains brightly that he is hard up, and that if somebody or other at Westminster does not look out the country will go to the dogs. He is no fool. He has the shrewdness to float with the current because it is a labour-saving process, but he has sufficient pluck to fight, if fight he must (a brief contest, for he would soon be toppled over). He has a light nature, which would enable him to bob up cheerily in new conditions and return unaltered to the old ones. His selfishness is his most endearing quality. If he has his way he will spend his life like a cat in pushing his betters out of the soft places, and until he is old he will be fondled in the process.