Two People

by A. A. Milne

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ said Sylvia. ‘Of course I know I don’t understand much about these things, but I know it’s all right what I’m really trying to say.’

  ‘Go on, darling, say it,’ urged a penitent Reginald.

  ‘Well, I said Isn’t there craftsmanship or whatever it is in writing a book, and you said Yes, and I suppose it didn’t follow that because you—you—because I love you, that you had that craftsmanship, but you had, and even if it doesn’t follow that you can write a play, it doesn’t mean that you can’t. Like the book, I mean.’

  Perfectly true, thought Reginald.

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said, blowing her a kiss, ‘but I expect the answer is this. I might write a play, but I couldn’t turn my own book into a play, because I should be thinking of it as a book always, and not wanting to leave out the best bits.’

  ‘I see, darling. Ought you to leave out the best bits?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Reginald patiently, ‘but the best scenes for a book mightn’t be the most effective scenes for a play.’

  ‘I see, darling. And is this Mr.-what-did-you-say a very good man at knowing?’

  ‘Filby Nixon? Oh, rather, everybody says so. He’s one of the leading dramatists. Tell Alice, will you? I mean that he’s coming this morning.’

  Mr. Filby Nixon was tall, and handsome in a very correct style, and extremely well dressed. He knew everybody in the theatre by his or her Christian name, and everybody in the theatre called him Phil. If you went into almost any leading lady’s dressing-room on almost any night, you would find Mr. Nixon there. Sometimes the leading lady would be saying, ‘Hallo, Phil, darling, when are you going to write me a play?’ and sometimes he would be saying, ‘Hallo, Mary, thought you’d like to know I’ve got a play coming for you.’ Business seemed always on the verge of being put through. He was a great figure at the Theatrical Garden Party, helping with dignity, and without getting too hot, at this or that stall. Young women from the outlying parts of London, seeing him there, knew that he was a famous dramatist, because he was obviously not one of the famous actors whom they did know, but when they asked each other afterwards what plays he had written, they could only remember Halves, Partner, and immediately became uncertain of that, because, don’t you remember, it was written by somebody who died the very day it was put on—there was a bit about it in the paper only last Sunday, how ironical it was?

  Mr. Nixon was also among those invariably present at memorial services to stage favourites, where his manner of giving and returning salutes while keeping his thoughts on the dead was particularly correct. This manner was useful to him sometimes at first nights; but he did not attend these regularly, lest he should jeopardize his position as a real member of the stage brotherhood, and be mistaken for one of the many types of hangers-on.

  From time to time the headline ‘Mr. Filby Nixon’s New Play’ would be seen at the top of a theatrical column. The subsequent paragraph announced that

  ‘Miss Mary Cardew’ (or some other), ‘who, as we have already informed our readers, is the latest actress to go into management, and has obtained a lease of the Apollo, has decided to commence operations with a revival of The School for Scandal. This will be for a strictly limited run, after which she will present either Four Square, in which she will take her old part of Sally, or a new play by Mr. Filby Nixon to which he is now putting the finishing touches.’

  On one famous occasion the headline had been ‘New Nixon Plays’, and readers were informed thus:

  ‘It seems probable that Mr. Filby Nixon, the well-known dramatist, will shortly have four plays running simultaneously in the West End. As we have informed our readers, Miss Mary Cardew is following her revival of The School for Scandal with a Nixon play, and it is probable that the new comedy which Mr. Wilmer Cassells commissioned from Mr. Nixon some months ago will now be ready for the opening of his season at the Garrick. When we add that Mr. Herbert Stott has practically decided on a revival of Halves, Partner at the Globe, and that Yes, Papa, which has been doing such good business at Southsea this week, is only waiting for a suitable theatre before coming to London, it will be seen that Mr. Filby Nixon is likely to be very much on the theatrical map this coming autumn.’

  And even if, owing to some unforeseen circumstance, Mr. Filby Nixon did not actually make any geography at all that autumn, he would still be found in dressing-rooms, being asked urgently for a play, or heralding its long-awaited approach; he would still attend memorial services; and still you would feel that all the best plays of the last twenty years had, somehow or other, been Nixon plays.

  For the reputation which Halves, Partner had brought him would never be left behind. It is true that there had been a collaborator, now dead; it is true that that collaborator, like every other collaborator, had been convinced that he had done all the work; but it was also true that, long before the play was sold, the collaborator had sickened of Halves, Partner, and had offered all his rights in it to Filby Nixon for a fiver. Nixon had behaved with a sort of correct generosity. A legal assignment of rights had been made, the consideration being, not the suggested fiver, but twenty pounds, almost all Filby Nixon’s savings at that time. Moreover, at first, the names of both authors had appeared, with whatever visibility was available, on programmes and bills, although this was not insisted upon in the agreement. Also, up to the time when that ‘bit’ in the Sunday paper had misrepresented the position, ten pounds had been sent every Christmas to the dead man’s only relation, a dipsomaniac uncle who lived at Blackpool and had never seen his nephew. And on the remaining earnings, London, provincial, American and amateur, of Halves, Partner, Mr. Filby Nixon had lived comfortably and correctly ever since.

  He had only one vice. He kept on writing plays.

  It was Wilmer Cassells who had ‘put Phil on to Bindweed’. He said afterwards, ‘jokingly, of course, my dear fellow,’ that he ought to have had his ten per cent, but with his constant explanation of it the joke began to evaporate, leaving behind a suspicion that he would have taken his commission if it had been offered to him.

  Mr. Wilmer Cassells was one of the earliest admirers of Bindweed. In the intervals of being an actor-manager—or, more accurately (since there are no intervals), while continuing to be an actor-manager—Mr. Cassells read a good deal by proxy. It so happened that his wife, his family, his secretary and his business and stage-managers were, all of them, for their different ends, enthusiastic subscribers to Libraries and Book Clubs. Between them they covered the ground, and gave him the impression, to be shared generously with the next comer, that he was covering it too. Whether it was Wertheim on Banking, Born on Relativity, the latest detective-story or the longest chronicle novel, somebody in the orbit of which he was focus could speak of it with authority, an authority which passed, naturally and as by right, to the Great Man himself. ‘Have you read Bindweed?’ he would say suddenly to a nervous young woman in search of an engagement. ‘You must get it at once. I’m in the middle of it—marvellous book.’ And the aspirant would assure Mr. Cassells, almost with tears in her eyes, that she would buy it that very evening, hoping thus to give him proof of her eagerness to profit by him.

  Thus had he read Bindweed. Dear old Phil he had known for years, of course. A dozen times he had asked old Phil for a play, and two dozen times old Phil had brought him one. Mr. Cassells still felt that the next one would be just the one he wanted, but growing up in his mind was a conviction that Phil’s real genius was on the technical side of play-writing; so that he was now in the habit of referring young dramatists to Filby Nixon as to the master of stage-craft whom they should study before bringing him another play. ‘In fact,’ he would say, ‘if you and Phil got together he could show you at once how to put this right.’ He fluttered a few pages. ‘I’ll tell you what. Come to lunch one day and I’ll get Phil along.’ The young dramatist thanks him warmly, and waits for the rest of the invitation, but t
o the actor-manager the luncheon is already over, and the thanks merely those of the departing guest.

  Feeling like this about Nixon, Cassells handed him back the twenty-fifth play with his usual charming apologies, explaining at even greater length than usual that he would have loved to do it but for this, that or the other, and that Phil was really rather lucky as it was obviously just the play for what’s-his-name; and then went on:

  ‘I’ll tell you what I wish you would do for me, Phil, old man.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Nixon, without any real enthusiasm.

  ‘Get me a play out of Bindweed.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Nixon as if thoughtfully, knowing it as a weed rather than as a book, and wanting more information.

  ‘Read it?’

  ‘Not yet.’ And he added a little resentfully, ‘I’ve been pretty busy lately, Wilmer.’

  ‘Of course. Well, you read it. There’s a dam good play there. All the time I was reading it, I was saying “Phil could get a dam good play out of this”.’ He gave his pleasantly deprecating laugh and said, ‘Nearly had a shot at it myself, but of course you’d do it a million times better. Just your line.’

  ‘Who’s the author?’

  ‘What’s that fellow’s name? You know. I’ve got it here somewhere, I think.’ His eyes wandered vaguely round his dressing-table, and went back to the mirror, and he gave another touch to his cheek-bones as he said, ‘Oh, no, I took it home. But you get hold of the book, and then get hold of the fellow and fix it up, and then I’ll––’ He held out his hand and said suddenly, ‘I’m on in two minutes. Bindweed. Don’t forget. A hell of a play there, and you’re the one man in England to do it. So long, Phil, old man.’

  So now Reginald sat in his room at Haywards Grove, and waited for Mr. Filby Nixon to call upon him. How wise of them to have come up to London. One couldn’t sit in one’s office at Westaways and expect famous dramatists to come down in search of one. But in London how easy all this was; how natural. Business in the morning fixing up dramatic rights, or something; a picture-gallery, perhaps, in the afternoon, nodding to Coral Bell and other friends; dinner and a play; and then supper at the Ormsbys or somewhere. How full life was in London. Never a moment to oneself.

  Sylvia seemed to be busy too. Having people to lunch . . . and going out to lunch . . . and going out to tea.

  ‘Mr. Filby Nixon.’

  Handshakes, how d’you do’s, do sit downs, smokes.

  ‘First of all,’ said Mr. Nixon, ‘may I congratulate you on Bindweed. One of the most delightful books I have read for some time.’

  ‘How nice of you to say so,’ said Reginald.

  But why, he thought, are people always so indefinite when they praise you? Why, since this sort of praise is obviously formal and insincere, and anyway is of no value coming from a stranger of whose tastes one knows nothing, why not be definite over some part of it anyway? ‘The most delightful book I have read for such-and-such a time’—or, if you prefer it, ‘one of the most delightful books I have ever read.’ So much more gratifying.

  ‘I gather from my friend Wilmer that you would like me—you would be willing for me to try my hand at getting a play out of it. I don’t know if Wilmer has said anything to you—’

  ‘Wilmer?’ said Reginald vaguely. ‘I don’t think I——’

  ‘Wilmer Cassells.’

  ‘Oh, Cassells,’ said Reginald hastily. But somehow he did not confess to a lack of all acquaintance with the great man, but left it to be inferred that their friendship had just not reached the Christian-name stage.

  ‘I’ll tell you my usual methods in these cases,’ said Nixon.

  There’s a sort of pathos about him, thought Reginald, watching Nixon’s face as the explanation went on. He’s handsome and he’s well dressed and he’s popular and he’s established, and he’s a man-of-the-world and a man-about-town and a well-known clubman; he’s everything that a gossip-writer admires and a Judge respects—and yet he’s wistful. Why, I wonder? I suppose he’s missed something which he really wanted. If I patted his shoulder and said, ‘My dear old fellow, I’m damned sorry,’ I wonder what he’d do. Be utterly staggered, I suppose, and wonder what on earth I was talking about. Or would he burst into tears? I shan’t risk it.

  They got down to business.

  ‘I don’t know if you have an agent?’ said Nixon.

  ‘Agent?’ said Reginald vaguely. ‘No. Ought I——’

  ‘As it happens, it’s just as well. Wilmer, as you know, has commissioned this play, but I don’t care about discussing business with a personal friend. I have a very good man who does it for me, if you’re prepared to leave it in his hands——’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Reginald warmly. ‘You know all about it. I know nothing.’

  Nixon gave his brief, courteous smile with, as it still seemed to Reginald, something wistful at the corners of it, and said, ‘Then as to terms between ourselves, I suggest fifty-fifty all through.’

  ‘Again I know nothing,’ said Reginald. ‘Is that usual?’ My book, he was thinking, and this fellow gets half.

  ‘Well, naturally, it depends on circumstances, but it’s the usual basis on which to start. In the case of a dramatist at all well known——’ Reginald interrupted with a little bow, and Nixon acknowledged it with that little smile— ‘it is very often two-thirds and one-third. On the other hand, in the case of a well-known book like yours, which has already made a public—— So I think that fifty-fifty would be fair to us both.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you.’

  ‘By all through, I mean, of course, in all countries, if translations are made, in the provinces, America, amateurs and so on.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And film-rights, of course, too. That is, if you have had no inquiries for them on the strength of the novel.’

  ‘None,’ said Reginald, shaking his head. ‘It’s hardly that sort of book.’

  ‘Just so. But it may be that sort of play. Almost any successful play is pretty sure to be made into a talkie. We may have to let the manager into a share; Wilmer is sure to ask for it; but as between ourselves, we divide all the profits from film-sales equally. Does that meet your views?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Reginald again.

  So a formal fifty-fifty agreement was sent to him to sign. And as soon as it was signed, there was a paragraph in the papers to say that Mr. Filby Nixon was dramatizing Mr. Reginald Wellard’s well-known novel Bindweed. And a fortnight later there were paragraphs to say that, as already mentioned, Mr. Nixon was writing a new play for Mr. Wilmer Cassells, the theme being taken from the novel, Bindweed. And just when Our Theatrical Correspondent was announcing that the new Nixon play Bindweed was likely to be one of the events of the season, Reginald met Coral Bell again.

  II

  They met at the corner of Piccadilly and Sackville Street. Reginald was on his way back from a prolonged luncheon at somebody else’s club, and at the corner of Sackville Street had stopped suddenly, wondering whether to call at his tailors, since there he was, and choose a new suit or two. London seemed more exigent in the matter of clothes than Westaways. But no, he must have Sylvia with him. Sylvia loved choosing his clothes. A roll of cloth meant nothing but a roll of cloth to him; as such it might be of a more pleasing colour than another roll of cloth, but he could not see it with legs and arms, and himself inside it. Sylvia, it seemed, could. Possibly a pretty pretence on her part, possibly one of her many strange gifts. Anyhow, they had always gone to Sackville Street together, and made of each visit a happy little memory.

  So he had suddenly turned back into Piccadilly again, meaning to continue his long walk home, had bumped into somebody, apologized abjectly, and then exclaimed, ‘Oh, it’s you!’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Coral Bell. ‘And too much of me, as usual. Are you—do I—— Yes, I do. Now don’t tell me.
’ She put her chin up in the air, and looked at him with half-closed eyes. Ormsby. You were—I know! Reginald Wellard.’

  ‘Right. How wonderful of you.’

  ‘Wonderful? Why, you were the darling who—— Shall we withdraw into Sackville Street? We’re taking up all the room here, and people are beginning to walk round me. I do hate that so.’

  They escaped into the quietness of Sackville Street.

  ‘Now then,’ said Coral Bell. ‘You were the darling who fell in love with me when you were sixteen. That was—are you any good at arithmetic?’

  ‘Pretty fair as it happens. I was in a bank once.’

  ‘A bank! Oh dear! Then if you happened to know how old I was when you fell in love with me, you’d easily be able to work out how old I am now?’

  ‘No,’ said Reginald, shaking his head. ‘Mine was one of those banks where time grew very wild. You couldn’t depend on it at all. One might have been eighteen twenty-five years ago, and just about thirty now.’

  ‘And if one had been twenty-two then?’

  ‘Then one could easily be looking twenty-nine in Sackville Street.’

  ‘Good. Then that’s all settled and we needn’t refer to it again. What were you dodging in and out of Piccadilly for?’

  ‘I was wondering whether to order some clothes. I’ve got a tailor here who makes a pair of baggy flannel trousers for me every three years, and apparently does very well out of it.’

  ‘And the three years are up to-day? How exciting! Quite an occasion.’

  Coral Bell began to laugh. Just in the old style, thought Reginald.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he urged. ‘I haven’t heard you do that since—however many years ago we agreed that it wasn’t.’

  ‘Do what?’ she asked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Laugh. You’ve smiled, and now you’ve laughed. Any hope of your bursting soon?’

  She laughed again, as Coral-like as ever.

  ‘Every hope if you go on being ridiculous. Come along.’