Masters of the Theatre

by Delphi Classics

  ANN. Oh, surely, surely! Octavius: did you speak to her?

  OCTAVIUS. She won’t tell us anything. She won’t make any arrangement until she has consulted somebody. It can’t be anybody else than the scoundrel who has betrayed her.

  TANNER. [to Octavius] Well, let her consult him. He will be glad enough to have her sent abroad. Where is the difficulty?

  MISS RAMSDEN. [Taking the answer out of Octavius’s mouth]. The difficulty, Mr Jack, is that when he offered to help her I didn’t offer to become her accomplice in her wickedness. She either pledges her word never to see that man again, or else she finds some new friends; and the sooner the better.

  [The parlormaid appears at the door. Ann hastily resumes her seat, and looks as unconcerned as possible. Octavius instinctively imitates her].

  THE MAID. The cab is at the door, ma’am.

  MISS RAMSDEN. What cab?

  THE MAID. For Miss Robinson.

  MISS RAMSDEN. Oh! [Recovering herself] All right. [The maid withdraws]. She has sent for a cab.

  TANNER. I wanted to send for that cab half an hour ago.

  MISS RAMSDEN. I am glad she understands the position she has placed herself in.

  RAMSDEN. I don’t like her going away in this fashion, Susan. We had better not do anything harsh.

  OCTAVIUS. No: thank you again and again; but Miss Ramsden is quite right. Violet cannot expect to stay.

  ANN. Hadn’t you better go with her, Tavy?

  OCTAVIUS. She won’t have me.

  MISS RAMSDEN. Of course she won’t. She’s going straight to that man.

  TANNER. As a natural result of her virtuous reception here.

  RAMSDEN. [much troubled] There, Susan! You hear! and there’s some truth in it. I wish you could reconcile it with your principles to be a little patient with this poor girl. She’s very young; and there’s a time for everything.

  MISS RAMSDEN. Oh, she will get all the sympathy she wants from the men. I’m surprised at you, Roebuck.

  TANNER. So am I, Ramsden, most favorably.

  Violet appears at the door. She is as impenitent and self-assured a young lady as one would desire to see among the best behaved of her sex. Her small head and tiny resolute mouth and chin; her haughty crispness of speech and trimness of carriage; the ruthless elegance of her equipment, which includes a very smart hat with a dead bird in it, mark a personality which is as formidable as it is exquisitely pretty. She is not a siren, like Ann: admiration comes to her without any compulsion or even interest on her part; besides, there is some fun in Ann, but in this woman none, perhaps no mercy either: if anything restrains her, it is intelligence and pride, not compassion. Her voice might be the voice of a schoolmistress addressing a class of girls who had disgraced themselves, as she proceeds with complete composure and some disgust to say what she has come to say.

  VIOLET. I have only looked in to tell Miss Ramsden that she will find her birthday present to me, the filagree bracelet, in the housekeeper’s room.

  TANNER. Do come in, Violet, and talk to us sensibly.

  VIOLET. Thank you: I have had quite enough of the family conversation this morning. So has your mother, Ann: she has gone home crying. But at all events, I have found out what some of my pretended friends are worth. Good bye.

  TANNER. No, no: one moment. I have something to say which I beg you to hear. [She looks at him without the slightest curiosity, but waits, apparently as much to finish getting her glove on as to hear what he has to say]. I am altogether on your side in this matter. I congratulate you, with the sincerest respect, on having the courage to do what you have done. You are entirely in the right; and the family is entirely in the wrong.

  Sensation. Ann and Miss Ramsden rise and turn toward the two. Violet, more surprised than any of the others, forgets her glove, and comes forward into the middle of the room, both puzzled and displeased. Octavius alone does not move or raise his head; he is overwhelmed with shame.

  ANN. [pleading to Tanner to be sensible] Jack!

  MISS RAMSDEN. [outraged] Well, I must say!

  VIOLET. [sharply to Tanner] Who told you?

  TANNER. Why, Ramsden and Tavy of course. Why should they not?

  VIOLET. But they don’t know.

  TANNER. Don’t know what?

  VIOLET. They don’t know that I am in the right, I mean.

  TANNER. Oh, they know it in their hearts, though they think themselves bound to blame you by their silly superstitions about morality and propriety and so forth. But I know, and the whole world really knows, though it dare not say so, that you were right to follow your instinct; that vitality and bravery are the greatest qualities a woman can have, and motherhood her solemn initiation into womanhood; and that the fact of your not being legally married matters not one scrap either to your own worth or to our real regard for you.

  VIOLET. [flushing with indignation] Oh! You think me a wicked woman, like the rest. You think I have not only been vile, but that I share your abominable opinions. Miss Ramsden: I have borne your hard words because I knew you would be sorry for them when you found out the truth. But I won’t bear such a horrible insult as to be complimented by Jack on being one of the wretches of whom he approves. I have kept my marriage a secret for my husband’s sake. But now I claim my right as a married woman not to be insulted.

  OCTAVIUS. [raising his head with inexpressible relief] You are married!

  VIOLET. Yes; and I think you might have guessed it. What business had you all to take it for granted that I had no right to wear my wedding ring? Not one of you even asked me: I cannot forget that.

  TANNER. [in ruins] I am utterly crushed. I meant well — I apologize — abjectly apologize.

  VIOLET. I hope you will be more careful in future about the things you say. Of course one does not take them seriously. But they are very disagreeable, and rather in bad taste.

  TANNER. [bowing to the storm] I have no defence: I shall know better in future than to take any woman’s part. We have all disgraced ourselves in your eyes, I am afraid, except Ann, SHE befriended you. For Ann’s sake, forgive us.

  VIOLET. Yes: Ann has been very kind; but then Ann knew.

  TANNER. Oh!

  MISS RAMSDEN. [stiffly] And who, pray, is the gentleman who does not acknowledge his wife?

  VIOLET. [promptly] That is my business, Miss Ramsden, and not yours. I have my reasons for keeping my marriage a secret for the present.

  RAMSDEN. All I can say is that we are extremely sorry, Violet. I am shocked to think of how we have treated you.

  OCTAVIUS. [awkwardly] I beg your pardon, Violet. I can say no more.

  MISS RAMSDEN. [still loth to surrender] Of course what you say puts a very different complexion on the matter. All the same, I owe it to myself —

  VIOLET. [cutting her short] You owe me an apology, Miss Ramsden: that’s what you owe both to yourself and to me. If you were a married woman you would not like sitting in the housekeeper’s room and being treated like a naughty child by young girls and old ladies without any serious duties and responsibilities.

  TANNER. Don’t hit us when we’re down, Violet. We seem to have made fools of ourselves; but really it was you who made fools of us.

  VIOLET. It was no business of yours, Jack, in any case.

  TANNER. No business of mine! Why, Ramsden as good as accused me of being the unknown gentleman.

  Ramsden makes a frantic demonstration; but Violet’s cool keen anger extinguishes it.

  VIOLET. You! Oh, how infamous! how abominable! How disgracefully you have all been talking about me! If my husband knew it he would never let me speak to any of you again. [To Ramsden] I think you might have spared me, at least.

  RAMSDEN. But I assure you I never — at least it is a monstrous perversion of something I said that —

  MISS RAMSDEN. You needn’t apologize, Roebuck. She brought it all on herself. It is for her to apologize for having deceived us.

  VIOLET. I can make allowances for you, Miss Ramsden: you cannot understan
d how I feel on this subject though I should have expected rather better taste from people of greater experience. However, I quite feel that you have all placed yourselves in a very painful position; and the most truly considerate thing for me to do is to go at once. Good morning.

  She goes, leaving them staring.

  Miss RAMSDEN. Well, I must say — !

  RAMSDEN. [plaintively] I don’t think she is quite fair to us.

  TANNER. You must cower before the wedding ring like the rest of us, Ramsden. The cup of our ignominy is full.

  ACT II

  On the carriage drive in the park of a country house near Richmond a motor car has broken down. It stands in front of a clump of trees round which the drive sweeps to the house, which is partly visible through them: indeed Tanner, standing in the drive with the car on his right hand, could get an unobstructed view of the west corner of the house on his left were he not far too much interested in a pair of supine legs in blue serge trousers which protrude from beneath the machine. He is watching them intently with bent back and hands supported on his knees. His leathern overcoat and peaked cap proclaim him one of the dismounted passengers.

  THE LEGS. Aha! I got him.

  TANNER. All right now?

  THE LEGS. All right now.

  Tanner stoops and takes the legs by the ankles, drawing their owner forth like a wheelbarrow, walking on his hands, with a hammer in his mouth. He is a young man in a neat suit of blue serge, clean shaven, dark eyed, square fingered, with short well brushed black hair and rather irregular sceptically turned eyebrows. When he is manipulating the car his movements are swift and sudden, yet attentive and deliberate. With Tanner and Tanner’s friends his manner is not in the least deferential, but cool and reticent, keeping them quite effectually at a distance whilst giving them no excuse for complaining of him. Nevertheless he has a vigilant eye on them always, and that, too, rather cynically, like a man who knows the world well from its seamy side. He speaks slowly and with a touch of sarcasm; and as he does not at all affect the gentleman in his speech, it may be inferred that his smart appearance is a mark of respect to himself and his own class, not to that which employs him.

  He now gets into the car to test his machinery and put his cap and overcoat on again. Tanner takes off his leather overcoat and pitches it into the car. The chauffeur (or automobilist or motoreer or whatever England may presently decide to call him) looks round inquiringly in the act of stowing away his hammer.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. Had enough of it, eh?

  TANNER. I may as well walk to the house and stretch my legs and calm my nerves a little. [Looking at his watch] I suppose you know that we have come from Hyde Park Corner to Richmond in twenty-one minutes.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. I’d have done it under fifteen if I’d had a clear road all the way.

  TANNER. Why do you do it? Is it for love of sport or for the fun of terrifying your unfortunate employer?

  THE CHAUFFEUR. What are you afraid of?

  TANNER. The police, and breaking my neck.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. Well, if you like easy going, you can take a bus, you know. It’s cheaper. You pay me to save your time and give you the value of your thousand pound car. [He sits down calmly].

  TANNER. I am the slave of that car and of you too. I dream of the accursed thing at night.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. You’ll get over that. If you’re going up to the house, may I ask how long you’re goin to stay there? Because if you mean to put in the whole morning talkin to the ladies, I’ll put the car in the stables and make myself comfortable. If not, I’ll keep the car on the go about here til you come.

  TANNER. Better wait here. We shan’t be long. There’s a young American gentleman, a Mr Malone, who is driving Mr Robinson down in his new American steam car.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. [springing up and coming hastily out of the car to Tanner] American steam car! Wot! racin us down from London!

  TANNER. Perhaps they’re here already.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. If I’d known it! [with deep reproach] Why didn’t you tell me, Mr Tanner?

  TANNER. Because I’ve been told that this car is capable of 84 miles an hour; and I already know what YOU are capable of when there is a rival car on the road. No, Henry: there are things it is not good for you to know; and this was one of them. However, cheer up: we are going to have a day after your own heart. The American is to take Mr Robinson and his sister and Miss Whitefield. We are to take Miss Rhoda.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. [consoled, and musing on another matter] That’s Miss Whitefield’s sister, isn’t it?

  TANNER. Yes.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. And Miss Whitefield herself is goin in the other car? Not with you?

  TANNER. Why the devil should she come with me? Mr Robinson will be in the other car. [The Chauffeur looks at Tanner with cool incredulity, and turns to the car, whistling a popular air softly to himself. Tanner, a little annoyed, is about to pursue the subject when he hears the footsteps of Octavius on the gravel. Octavius is coming from the house, dressed for motoring, but without his overcoat]. We’ve lost the race, thank Heaven: here’s Mr Robinson. Well, Tavy, is the steam car a success?

  OCTAVIUS. I think so. We came from Hyde Park Corner here in seventeen minutes. [The Chauffeur, furious, kicks the car with a groan of vexation]. How long were you?

  TANNER. Oh, about three quarters of an hour or so.

  THE CHAUFFEUR. [remonstrating] Now, now, Mr Tanner, come now! We could ha done it easy under fifteen.

  TANNER. By the way, let me introduce you. Mr Octavius Robinson: Mr Enry Straker.

  STRAKER. Pleased to meet you, sir. Mr Tanner is gittin at you with his Enry Straker, you know. You call it Henery. But I don’t mind, bless you.

  TANNER. You think it’s simply bad taste in me to chaff him, Tavy. But you’re wrong. This man takes more trouble to drop his aiches than ever his father did to pick them up. It’s a mark of caste to him. I have never met anybody more swollen with the pride of class than Enry is.

  STRAKER. Easy, easy! A little moderation, Mr Tanner.

  TANNER. A little moderation, Tavy, you observe. You would tell me to draw it mild, But this chap has been educated. What’s more, he knows that we haven’t. What was that board school of yours, Straker?

  STRAKER. Sherbrooke Road.

  TANNER. Sherbrooke Road! Would any of us say Rugby! Harrow! Eton! in that tone of intellectual snobbery? Sherbrooke Road is a place where boys learn something; Eton is a boy farm where we are sent because we are nuisances at home, and because in after life, whenever a Duke is mentioned, we can claim him as an old schoolfellow.

  STRAKER. You don’t know nothing about it, Mr. Tanner. It’s not the Board School that does it: it’s the Polytechnic.

  TANNER. His university, Octavius. Not Oxford, Cambridge, Durham, Dublin or Glasgow. Not even those Nonconformist holes in Wales. No, Tavy. Regent Street, Chelsea, the Borough — I don’t know half their confounded names: these are his universities, not mere shops for selling class limitations like ours. You despise Oxford, Enry, don’t you?

  STRAKER. No, I don’t. Very nice sort of place, Oxford, I should think, for people that like that sort of place. They teach you to be a gentleman there. In the Polytechnic they teach you to be an engineer or such like. See?

  TANNER. Sarcasm, Tavy, sarcasm! Oh, if you could only see into Enry’s soul, the depth of his contempt for a gentleman, the arrogance of his pride in being an engineer, would appal you. He positively likes the car to break down because it brings out my gentlemanly helplessness and his workmanlike skill and resource.

  STRAKER. Never you mind him, Mr Robinson. He likes to talk. We know him, don’t we?

  OCTAVIUS. [earnestly] But there’s a great truth at the bottom of what he says. I believe most intensely in the dignity of labor.

  STRAKER. [unimpressed] That’s because you never done any Mr Robinson. My business is to do away with labor. You’ll get more out of me and a machine than you will out of twenty laborers, and not so much to drink either.

  TAN
NER. For Heaven’s sake, Tavy, don’t start him on political economy. He knows all about it; and we don’t. You’re only a poetic Socialist, Tavy: he’s a scientific one.

  STRAKER. [unperturbed] Yes. Well, this conversation is very improvin; but I’ve got to look after the car; and you two want to talk about your ladies. I know. [He retires to busy himself about the car; and presently saunters off towards the house].

  TANNER. That’s a very momentous social phenomenon.

  OCTAVIUS. What is?

  TANNER. Straker is. Here have we literary and cultured persons been for years setting up a cry of the New Woman whenever some unusually old fashioned female came along; and never noticing the advent of the New Man. Straker’s the New Man.

  OCTAVIUS. I see nothing new about him, except your way of chaffing him. But I don’t want to talk about him just now. I want to speak to you about Ann.

  TANNER. Straker knew even that. He learnt it at the Polytechnic, probably. Well, what about Ann? Have you proposed to her?

  OCTAVIUS. [self-reproachfully] I was brute enough to do so last night.

  TANNER. Brute enough! What do you mean?

  OCTAVIUS. [dithyrambically] Jack: we men are all coarse. We never understand how exquisite a woman’s sensibilities are. How could I have done such a thing!

  TANNER. Done what, you maudlin idiot?

  OCTAVIUS. Yes, I am an idiot. Jack: if you had heard her voice! if you had seen her tears! I have lain awake all night thinking of them. If she had reproached me, I could have borne it better.

  TANNER. Tears! that’s dangerous. What did she say?

  OCTAVIUS. She asked me how she could think of anything now but her dear father. She stifled a sob — [he breaks down].

  TANNER. [patting him on the back] Bear it like a man, Tavy, even if you feel it like an ass. It’s the old game: she’s not tired of playing with you yet.

  OCTAVIUS. [impatiently] Oh, don’t be a fool, Jack. Do you suppose this eternal shallow cynicism of yours has any real bearing on a nature like hers?