Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  (In the most middle-aged way Mrs. Page spreads herself on a couch. They have been speaking in a whisper, and as the Dame goes to the door we have just time to take note that Mrs. Quickly whispered most beautifully: a softer whisper than the Dame’s, but so clear that it might be heard across a field. This is the most telltale thing we have discovered about her as yet.

  Before Mrs. Quickly has reached the door it opens to admit an impatient young man in knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, all aglow with rain-drops. Public school (and the particular one) is written on his forehead, and almost nothing else; he has scarcely yet begun to surmise that anything else may be required. He is modest and clear-eyed, and would ring for his tub in Paradise; reputably athletic also, with an instant smile always in reserve for the antagonist who accidentally shins him. Whatever you, as his host, ask him to do, he says he would like to awfully if you don’t mind his being a priceless duffer at it; his vocabulary is scanty, and in his engaging mouth ‘priceless’ sums up all that is to be known of good or ill in our varied existence; at a pinch it would suffice him for most of his simple wants, just as one may traverse the Continent with Combien? His brain is quite as good as another’s, but as yet he has referred scarcely anything to it. He respects learning in the aged, but shrinks uncomfortably from it in contemporaries, as persons who have somehow failed. To him the proper way to look upon ability is as something we must all come to in the end. He has a nice taste in the arts that has come to him by the way of socks, spats and slips, and of these he has a large and happy collection, which he laughs at jollily in public (for his sense of humour is sufficient), but in the privacy of his chamber he sometimes spreads them out like troutlet on the river’s bank and has his quiet thrills of exultation. Having lately left Oxford, he is facing the world confidently with nothing to impress it except these and his Fives Choice (having beaten Hon. Billy Minhorn in the final). He has not yet decided whether to drop into business or diplomacy or the bar. (There will be a lot of fag about this); and all unknown to him there is a grim piece of waste land waiting for him in Canada, which he will make a hash of, or it will make a man of him. Billy will be there too.)

  Charles (on the threshold). I beg your pardon awfully, but I knocked three times.

  Dame (liking the manner of him, and indeed it is the nicest manner in the world). What’s your pleasure?

  Charles. You see how jolly wet my things are. (These boys get on delightful terms of intimacy at once.) I am on a walking tour — not that I have walked much — (they never boast; he has really walked well and far) — and I got caught in that shower. I thought when I saw a house that you might be kind enough to let me take my jacket off and warm my paws, until I can catch a train.

  Dame (unable to whisper to Mrs. Page ‘He is good-looking’). I’m sorry, sir, but I have let the kitchen fire out.

  Charles (peeping over her shoulder). This fire —— ?

  Dame. This is my lodger’s room.

  Charles. Ah, I see. Still, I dare say that if he knew —— (He has edged farther into the room, and becomes aware that there is a lady with eyes closed on the sofa.) I beg your pardon; I didn’t know there was any one here.

  (But the lady on the sofa replies not, and to the Dame this is his dismissal.)

  Dame. The station is just round the corner, and there is a waiting-room there.

  Charles. A station waiting-room fire; I know them. Is she asleep?

  Dame. Yes.

  Charles (who nearly always gets round them when he pouts). Then can’t I stay? I won’t disturb her.

  Dame (obdurate). I’m sorry.

  Charles (cheerily — he will probably do well on that fruit-farm). Heigho! Well, here is for the station waiting-room.

  (And he is about to go when Mrs. Page signs to the Dame that he may stay. We have given the talk between the Dame and Charles in order to get it over, but our sterner eye is all the time on Mrs. Page. Her eyes remain closed as if in sleep and she is lying an the sofa, yet for the first time since the curtain rose she has come to life. As if she knew we were watching her she is again inert, but there was a twitch of the mouth a moment ago that let a sunbeam loose upon her face. It is gone already, popped out of the box and returned to it with the speed of thought. Noticeable as is Mrs. Page’s mischievous smile, far more noticeable is her control of it. A sudden thought occurs to us that the face we had thought stolid is made of elastic.)

  Dame (cleverly). After all, if you’re willing just to sit quietly by the fire and take a book ——

  Charles. Rather. Any book. Thank you immensely.

  (And in his delightful way of making himself at home he whips off his knapsack and steps inside the fender. ‘He is saucy, thank goodness,’ is what the Dame’s glance at Mrs. Page conveys. That lady’s eyelids flicker as if she had discovered a way of watching Charles while she slumbers. Anon his eye alights on the photograph that has already been the subject of conversation, and he is instantly exclamatory.)

  Dame (warningly). Now, you promised not to speak.

  Charles. But that photograph. How funny you should have it.

  Dame (severely). Hsh. It’s not mine.

  Charles (with his first glance of interest at the sleeper). Hers?

  (The eyelids have ceased to flicker. It is placid Mrs. Page again. Never was such an inelastic face.)

  Dame. Yes; only don’t talk.

  Charles. But this is priceless (gazing at the photograph). I must talk. (He gives his reason.) I know her (a reason that would be complimentary to any young lady). It is Miss Beatrice Page.

  Dame (who knows the creature man). You mean you’ve seen her?

  Charles (youthfully). I know her quite well. I have had lunch with her twice. She is at Monte Carlo just now. (Swelling) I was one of those that saw her off.

  Dame. Yes, that’s the place. Read what is written across her velvet chest.

  Charles (deciphering the writing on the photograph). ‘To darling Mumsy with heaps of kisses.’ (His eyes gleam. Is he in the middle of an astonishing adventure?) You don’t tell me — Is that —— ?

  Dame (as coolly as though she were passing the butter). Yes, that’s her mother. And a sore trial it must have been to her when her girl took to such a trade.

  Charles (waving aside such nonsense). But I say, she never spoke to me about a mother.

  Dame. The more shame to her.

  Charles (deeply versed in the traffic of the stage). I mean she is famed as being almost the only actress who doesn’t have a mother.

  Dame (bewildered). What?

  Charles (seeing the uselessness of laying pearls before this lady). Let me have a look at her.

  Dame. It is not to be thought of. (But an unexpected nod from the sleeper indicates that it may be permitted.) Oh, well, I see no harm in it if you go softly.

  (He tiptoes to the sofa, but perhaps Mrs. Page is a light sleeper, for she stirs a little, just sufficiently to become more compact, while the slippers rise into startling prominence. Some humorous dream, as it might be, slightly extends her mouth and turns the oval of her face into a round. Her head has sunk into her neck. Simultaneously, as if her circulation were suddenly held up, a shadow passes over her complexion. This is a bad copy of the Mrs. Page we have seen hitherto, and will give Charles a poor impression of her.)

  Charles (peering over the slippers). Yes, yes, yes.

  Dame. Is she like the daughter, think you?

  Charles (judicially). In a way, very. Hair’s not so pretty. She’s not such a fine colour. Heavier build, and I should say not so tall. None of Miss Page’s distinction, nothing svelte about her. As for the feet (he might almost have said the palisade) — the feet —— (He shudders a little, and so do the feet.)

  Dame. She is getting on, you see. She is forty and a bittock.

  Charles. A whattock?

  Dame (who has never studied the Doric). It may be a whattock.

  Charles (gallantly). But there’s something nice about her. I could have told she was her mother a
nywhere. (With which handsome compliment he returns to the fire, and Mrs. Page, no doubt much gratified, throws a kiss after him. She also signs to the Dame a mischievous desire to be left alone with this blade.)

  Dame (discreetly). Well, I’ll leave you, but, mind, you are not to disturb her.

  (She goes, with the pleasant feeling that there are two clever women in the house; and with wide-open eyes Mrs. Page watches Charles dealing amorously with the photograph. Soon he returns to her side, and her eyes are closed, but she does not trouble to repeat the trifling with her appearance. She probably knows the strength of first impressions.)

  Charles (murmuring the word as if it were sweet music). Mumsy. (With conviction) You lucky mother.

  Mrs. Page (in a dream). Is that you, Beatrice?

  (This makes him skurry away, but he is soon back again, and the soundness of her slumber annoys him).

  Charles (in a reproachful whisper). Woman, wake up and talk to me about your daughter.

  (The selfish thing sleeps on, and somewhat gingerly he pulls away the cushion from beneath her head. Nice treatment for a lady. Mrs. Page starts up, and at first is not quite sure where she is, you know.)

  Mrs. Page. Why — what ——

  Charles (contritely). I am very sorry. I’m afraid I disturbed you.

  Mrs. Page (blankly). I don’t know you, do I?

  Charles (who has his inspirations). No, madam, but I wish you did.

  Mrs. Page (making sure that she is still in the Dame’s cottage). Who are you? and what are you doing here?

  Charles (for truth is best). My name is Roche. I am nobody in particular. I’m just the usual thing; Eton, Oxford, and so to bed — as Pepys would say. I am on a walking tour, on my way to the station, but there is no train till seven, and your landlady let me in out of the rain on the promise that I wouldn’t disturb you.

  Mrs. Page (taking it all in with a woman’s quickness). I see. (Suddenly) But you have disturbed me.

  Charles. I’m sorry.

  Mrs. Page (with a covert eye on him). It wasn’t really your fault. This cushion slipped from under me, and I woke up.

  Charles (manfully). No, I — I pulled it away.

  Mrs. Page (indignant). You did! (She advances upon him like a stately ship.) Will you please to tell me why?

  Charles (feebly). I didn’t mean to pull so hard. (Then he gallantly leaps into the breach.) Madam, I felt it was impossible for me to leave this house without first waking you to tell you of the feelings of solemn respect with which I regard you.

  Mrs. Page. Really.

  Charles. I suppose I consider you the cleverest woman in the world.

  Mrs. Page. On so short an acquaintance?

  Charles (lucidly). I mean, to have had the priceless cleverness to have her ——

  Mrs. Page. Have her? (A light breaks on her.) My daughter?

  Charles. Yes, I know her. (As who should say, Isn’t it a jolly world.)

  Mrs. Page. You know Beatrice personally?

  Charles (not surprised that it takes her a little time to get used to the idea). I assure you I have that honour. (In one mouthful) I think she is the most beautiful and the cleverest woman I have ever known.

  Mrs. Page. I thought I was the cleverest.

  Charles. Yes, indeed; for I think it even cleverer to have had her than to be her.

  Mrs. Page. Dear me. I must wait till I get a chair before thinking this out. (A chair means two chairs to her, as we have seen, but she gives the one on which her feet wish to rest to Charles.) You can have this half, Mr. — ah — Mr. —— ?

  Charles. Roche.

  Mrs. Page (resting from her labours of the last minute.) You are so flattering, Mr. Roche, I think you must be an actor yourself.

  Charles (succinctly). No, I’m nothing. My father says I’m just an expense. But when I saw Beatrice’s photograph there (the nice boy pauses a moment because this is the first time he has said the name to her mother; he is taking off his hat to it) with the inscription on it ——

  Mrs. Page. That foolish inscription.

  Charles (arrested). Do you think so?

  Mrs. Page. I mean foolish, because she has quite spoilt the picture by writing across the chest. That beautiful gown ruined.

  Charles (fondly tolerant). They all do it, even across their trousers; the men I mean.

  Mrs. Page (interested). Do they? I wonder why.

  Charles (remembering now that other callings don’t do it). It does seem odd. (But after all the others are probably missing something.)

  Mrs. Page (shaking her wise head). I know very little about them, but I am afraid they are an odd race.

  Charles (who has doted on many of them, though they were usually not sitting at his table). But very attractive, don’t you think? The ladies I mean.

  Mrs. Page (luxuriously). I mix so little with them. I am not a Bohemian, you see. Did I tell you that I have never even seen Beatrice act?

  Charles. You haven’t? How very strange. Not even her Rosalind?

  Mrs. Page (stretching herself). No. Is it cruel to her?

  Charles (giving her one). Cruel to yourself. (But this is no policy for an admirer of Miss Page.) She gave me her photograph as Rosalind. (Hurriedly) Not a postcard.

  Mrs. Page (who is very likely sneering). With writing across the chest, I’ll be bound.

  Charles (stoutly). Do you think I value it the less for that?

  Mrs. Page (unblushing). Oh no, the more. You have it framed on your mantelshelf, haven’t you, so that when the other young bloods who are just an expense drop in they may read the pretty words and say, ‘Roche, old man, you are going it.’

  Charles. Do you really think that I ——

  Mrs. Page. Pooh, that was what Beatrice expected when she gave it you.

  Charles. Silence! (She raises her eyebrows, and he is stricken.) I beg your pardon, I should have remembered that you are her mother.

  Mrs. Page (smiling on him). I beg yours. I should like to know, Mr. Roche, where you do keep that foolish photograph.

  Charles (with a swelling). Why, here. (He produces it in a case from an honoured pocket.) Won’t you look at it?

  Mrs. Page (with proper solemnity). Yes. It is one I like.

  Charles (cocking his head). It just misses her at her best.

  Mrs. Page. Her best? You mean her way of screwing her nose?

  Charles (who was never sent up for good for lucidity — or perhaps he was). That comes into it. I mean — I mean her naïveté.

  Mrs. Page. Ah yes, her naïveté. I have often seen her practising it before a glass.

  Charles (with a disarming smile). Excuse me; you haven’t, you know.

  Mrs. Page (disarmed). Haven’t I? Well, well, I dare say she is a wonder, but, mind you, when all is said and done, it is for her nose that she gets her salary. May I read what is written on the chest? (She reads.) The baggage! (Shaking her head at him). But this young lady on the other side, who is she, Lothario?

  Charles (boyish and stumbling). That is my sister. She died three years ago. We were rather — chums — and she gave me that case to put her picture in. So I did.

  (He jerks it out, glaring at her to see if she is despising him. But Mrs. Page, though she cannot be sentimental for long, can be very good at it while it lasts.)

  Mrs. Page (quite moved). Good brother. And it is a dear face. But you should not have put my Beatrice opposite it, Mr. Roche: your sister would not have liked that. It was thoughtless of you.

  Charles. My sister would have liked it very much. (Floundering) When she gave me the case she said to me — you know what girls are — she said, ‘If you get to love a woman, put her picture opposite mine, and then when the case is closed I shall be kissing her.’

  (His face implores her not to think him a silly. She is really more troubled than we might have expected.)

  Mrs. Page (rising). Mr. Roche, I never dreamt ——

  Charles. And that is why I keep the two pictures together.

  Mrs. Page.
You shouldn’t.

  Charles. Why shouldn’t I? Don’t you dare to say anything to me against my Beatrice.

  Mrs. Page (with the smile of ocean on her face). Your Beatrice. You poor boy.

  Charles. Of course I haven’t any right to call her that. I haven’t spoken of it to her yet. I’m such a nobody, you see. (Very nice and candid of him, but we may remember that his love has not set him trying to make a somebody out of the nobody. Are you perfectly certain, Charles, that to be seen with the celebrated Page is not almost more delightful to you than to be with her? Her mother at all events gives him the benefit of the doubt, or so we interpret her sudden action. She tears the photograph in two. He protests indignantly.)