PAULINE: Yes, but as it’s you – and we’ve done it before – there’s still time – (She hesitates.)
MARTIN: Time to do what?
PAULINE: (Bursting out.) Time to write and rehearse another ending to your play that isn’t so cynical and bitter – and – and hopeless. Alfred, Jimmy – you tell him. (She swings away to hide her feelings.)
LEATHERS: She’s quite right, old boy. In my opinion – and I ought to know, after fifty years of it – they’ll never take that ending. Too much for ’em altogether. And if you insist on it, then when we get to town we’re in for a flop.
MARTIN: You may be right. But after all, Alfred, it’ll be a fairly distinguished sort of flop, and won’t do any of you much harm.
WHITEFOOT: Just a minute, Martin. That’s not quite what Pauline and I feel. We feel that even if it does run, it’s not going to do people any good. They’ve had a hard time, and they don’t want to be hurt any more – and we feel the same.
PAULINE: (Charging in again.) And what you make them say and do isn’t true. I just don’t believe it – and it’s all wrong.
MARTIN: (Quietly.) Now wait, Pauline. You and the others read the play. You and I discussed it.
PAULINE: (Urgently.) Yes, but we didn’t realise how absolutely desolating and hopeless that third act becomes in production. Of course you knew it, but we didn’t. There isn’t a glimmer of real understanding left between your people in the end – it’s as if each one is mumbling away in a glass case –
MARTIN: The play’s called The Glass Door, you know.
PAULINE: (Savagely.) And it might as well be called The Glass Coffin.
There is an awkward pause, with MARTIN looking at them coolly, while LEATHERS and WHITEFOOT exchange glances. PAULINE, with an effort, now speaks to them quietly.
You’d better go down and start the first act. Tell Bernard I’ll be ready for my entrance.
LEATHERS: All right, my dear.
LEATHERS and WHITEFOOT go out L..
MARTIN: (Looks expectantly at PAULINE.) Well, Pauline.
PAULINE: (Quietly, with an undercurrent of emotion.) It’s not only that the play’s that going to flop or to hurt people and then make them harder than ever, but that ending isn’t true – and it isn’t really you Martin.
MARTIN: No, that’s where you are wrong. It’s me all right. And I believe it’s true. You don’t like the end of my play. But that’s how life is, Pauline. No real understanding. No genuine communication. And mumbling and mouthing behind glass doors.
PAULINE: Life’s not like that.
MARTIN: Isn’t it?
PAULINE: No, it isn’t. And I’ve seen more of it that you have. It’s just you, Martin.
MARTIN: All right, then, it’s me. But I don’t propose to give our customers any hot-water bottles and sedatives…
PAULINE: (Cutting in, sharply.) I’m not asking you to.
MARTIN: Let ’em shiver and stay awake – and think for once, before they start burning and blasting each other all over again –
PAULINE: (Hotly.) And they might as well, if that’s all life is –
MARTIN: All right, let ’em. And I’m sorry, Pauline – but I don’t care if this hopeless ending that you hate so much is my parting gift to that cosy painted old bawdy-house, the theatre, with all its old enchantment –
PAULINE: I meant that when I said it.
MARTIN: And I mean what I’m saying, my dear. I’ll tell you a secret. In about an hour or so George Gavin will be ringing me up from town, and it’s about ten to one he’ll offer me joint control of three of the best theatres in the West End –
PAULINE: (With some excitement.) Why, that’s what you’ve always wanted.
MARTIN: It’s what I wanted once. But now – (He shrugs.)
PAULINE: (Horrified.) But you’re not going to turn down his offer?
MARTIN: Yes, with many thanks. I told you I was through.
PAULINE: (Aghast.) Martin, I don’t believe it!
MARTIN: It’s true. Oh – I’ll go on writing, naturally. Go back to novels. Do some film scripts. But I shan’t go on writing for the theatre. Not that that matters, because I don’t think the theatre, as we know it, will last much longer. The old witchcraft’s just about worn out…
PAULINE: (Scornfully.) We’ve all heard that before.
MARTIN: I know. It’s always been just about to die. But don’t forget that the most obstinate old invalids do at last turn their faces to the wall. And I believe that’s what the theatre’s doing.
PAULINE: And don’t you even care?
MARTIN: In a way, yes. But not much.
She regards him curiously. He looks enquiringly.
Yes?
PAULINE: I’m just wondering if you’ve really recovered from being knocked out by that wretched thing…
MARTIN: (Laughing.) Probably not. It was no joke – a hell of a bump. But I don’t think my brain’s cracked, if that’s what you mean.
PAULINE: (Stormily.) Perhaps it’s a pity it isn’t.
MARTIN: (Half serious, half joking.) Hoy – steady, Pauline! I’m not a bad as all that!
PAULINE: (Seriously.) I mean something different. I wish you could escape from your own imprisonment. I wish you could break down the glass door you’ve made for yourself.
MARTIN: That’s what none of us can do.
PAULINE: How do you know? You don’t even know yourself yet. And – if you want to know what I think – you’ve had so much success so easily that now when you’ve nothing – and nobody – to work for, to fight for, to care about – then you’re bored and getting cynical and bitter – all shut up inside yourself, imagining you know all about life –
MARTIN: (Cutting in.) I’m not bitter about myself. I suppose I’ve been lucky. It’s the millions of poor devils –
PAULINE: (Cutting in, forcefully.) No, it isn’t. That’s where you deceive yourself, Martin. It’s nothing to do with other people. It’s you – you. You imagine you’ve had it all and everything seems to taste stale or sour, so the you invent elaborate theories to explain. No communication! Glass doors! And behind all your cleverness and boredom, there’s somebody quite young, bewildered and disappointed – and lonely – because he can’t talk to anybody, because he’s shut up there alone. Why on earth don’t you go and fall in love?
MARTIN: (With a grin.) I’m waiting for that. The famous old feminine cure!
PAULINE: It’s been working for a long time.
MARTIN: Well, I haven’t tried it lately, haven’t felt like it.
PAULINE: (Contemptuously.) Oh – I don’t mean –
MARTIN: No, I know.
PAULINE: I meant something that would reach that other Martin Cheveril, shut away there – alone. Hopeless, I suppose. It would need a miracle.
MARTIN: And there aren’t any miracles – though perhaps I oughtn’t to say that –
PAULINE: Why?
MARTIN: That stage hand said it was a miracle I wasn’t killed down there – a very near thing. But that’s not the kind of miracle you mean and that I seem to need, according to you. And you can’t really blame me if I end a play with everybody so to speak behind glass, making frantic gestures that nobody else understands…
PAULINE: (Rather miserably.) No, I don’t blame you. And I shan’t say anything more to you, Martin. You won’t change that hopeless terrible third act. You’ll leave the theatre…
MARTIN: Which is dying anyhow.
PAULINE: (With a flash of temper.) Of course it’ll die if people like you leave it. (She turns away sharply.)
LEATHERS looks in L..
LEATHERS: Look, old boy, sorry to butt it – but we’re still getting a nasty little hold-up in that telephone scene in Act One. Bernard has an idea for a cut. Do you feel up to coming down for a minute – to tell us what you think?
MARTIN: Yes, Alfred.
LEATHERS: Still a bit shaky, though, aren’t you?
MARTIN: (As he moves up.) Yes, but I can manage.
LEATHERS
waits at the door. As MARTIN passes PAULINE, he touches her lightly.
Sorry, Pauline. Take it easy now. They’ll be wanting you on the stage soon.
They go out L..
PAULINE can light a cigarette. After a moment there are sounds of voices off R. – OTLEY’s and ANN’s. Door R. is thrown violently open, and ANN SEWARD dashes in with OTLEY in pursuit. She is an attractive determined girl in her early twenties, not naturally impudent, but with her courage screwed up now. PAULINE stares in surprise.
ANN: (Breathless, disappointed.) Oh – but he’s not here.
OTLEY: (Indignantly.) You see – all for nothing. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, pushing yourself in like that. Where would we be if everybody started behaving like you?
ANN: (Not too rudely.) I don’t know, and I don’t care. The point is – I’m not everybody, I’m an actress – and I must see Mr. Cheveril.
OTLEY: Well, you’re not going the right way about it. (Turning to PAULINE.) I’m sorry, Miss Fraser. I tried to stop her, but –
ANN: (Coming forward, impressed.) Miss Fraser? Oh – you’re Pauline Fraser.
PAULINE: (Smiling.) Yes. Who are you?
ANN: Oh, you’ve never heard of me. I’m Ann Seward –
OTLEY: (Cutting in.) Now listen, Miss Seward…
PAULINE: (Cutting in.) No, it’s all right, Mr. Otley. I’m free for a few minutes, and I’ll talk to Miss Seward.
OTLEY: All right, Miss Fraser. I was only trying to see that Mr. Cheveril wasn’t bothered by anybody.
ANN: (Giving him a sudden charming smile.) Of course you were. Sorry – but I just had to come in.
OTLEY: (Grumbling a bit as he goes.) I don’t know whether you had to – but you are in…
He goes out.
The other two look at each other.
ANN: (Confidentially.) You see, what happened was this – I’m playing at the Rep. at Wanley – about thirty miles from here – and I heard Mr. Cheveril was trying out his new play here – and I felt I simply had to see him, particularly as I’m not either playing or rehearsing this week. I’m not really like that – you know – all pushing and barging in. If I had been, probably I wouldn’t still be in weekly rep.
PAULINE: (Smiling.) Perhaps not, but still – you’ve plenty of time – you’re very young.
ANN: (Denying this.) I’m twenty-four.
PAULINE: (Still smiling.) That’s not very old.
ANN: It’s older than it seems to anybody who isn’t twenty-four. (Looks at PAULINE with admiration.) I think you’re marvelous. When I had a week off, last Autumn, I stayed in London, going to theatres – and on Tuesday I went to see you in Martin Cheveril’s play – The Wandering Light –
PAULINE: Good! It was a lovely play.
ANN: Yes. Then I went on Wednesday, and then I went again on the Thursday matinee – three times. You were wonderful. But – do you mind if I say this – ?
PAULINE: (Amused.) Probably. But risk it.
ANN: (Eagerly.) Well – at the end of the second act, when you get the news that he’s back and waiting for you, I think you ought to have dropped everything you were holding – just as if it wasn’t there anymore – and then walked straight out into the garden. You know…
She goes through a pantomime of listening, with an armful of clothes, mending, etc., then of dropping it all and moving, like a sleepwalker, straight forward. This bit of miming is very well done, and PAULINE watches it closely and with approval.
Do you mind me saying that?
PAULINE: Of course not. I wanted to do it like that – only the producer wouldn’t let me. Look here – I think you really are an actress –
ANN: (Eagerly.) Do you? I know I am. Of course it’s pretty hopeless in weekly rep. – especially in Wanley. Do you know Wanley?
PAULINE: (Shuddering.) Played for a week there once, years ago. And you’re perfectly right.
ANN: I could be a thousand times better if I only had a chance, particularly in a Cheveril play. I love them. Please, Miss Fraser, I don’t was to be a nuisance – I hated forcing my way in – but I simply had to see him. Where is he?
PAULINE: He’s down on the stage just now, but he’ll be back up here soon. I ought to warn you, though, that he’s just had a nasty, little accident – and so mightn’t want to see anybody…
ANN: I won’t fuss him. I’ll just explain quietly who I am and what I’ve done and ask him to give me a chance.
PAULINE: Well, sit down – and have a cigarette.
ANN: No, thank you, if you don’t mind. I won’t sit down, I feel too restless and excited – (She looks about her, really for the first time.) This is a lovely room, isn’t it? Is this the famous Green Room everybody talks about?
PAULINE: Yes, and they’ve kept it more or less as it used to be.
ANN: It’s a pity we don’t have Green Rooms now. (Looking around upstage.) This is a terribly exciting place.
PAULINE: A lot of people find it rather frightening – spooky.
ANN: I’m sure its simply crammed with ghosts, just longing to show themselves and whisper in your ear.
PAULINE: Stop it!
ANN: No, but the point is – they aren’t the usual kind of ghosts – murderers or old mad women – they’d just be actors and actresses, our sort of people, excited about the theatre just like us – I don’t think I’d mind them at all. And I’m sure they’re here, dozens of them. Miss Fraser, why don’t you sit up here late at night – and watch –
PAULINE: My God, no – I’d be terrified!
ANN: (Now glancing at the portraits at the back.) I suppose these people must have played here, when it was grander than it is now. Edmund Kean – he looks a good actor somehow, doesn’t he? Helen Faucit – rather sweet.
(And she moves downstage R..) Mrs. Yates – I like it when they call them ‘Missis’, don’t you? Water-colour sketch of Miss Jenny Villiers in the part of Viola. Presented by the Barton Spa Shakespearean Society.
Jenny Villiers – nice name – I’ve never heard of her before, yet somehow it sounds familiar. And I’ll bet she had to pester people before she could get a chance – even though she does look so sweet and sad – and wears ringlets. (Suddenly startled.) What was that?
PAULINE: (Staring, startled.) Why – it wasn’t anything, was it? I mean – I didn’t see anything.
ANN: (Breathless, but quiet.) No – but did you – feel – something?
PAULINE: (Confused.) No – not really – I think it was you who startled me.
ANN: (Slowly.) I’m sorry – but you see, just when I’d said that – y’know about Jenny Villiers – I seemed to feel a sudden little rush of air – very cold air, and them somebody – something – seemed to whisk past me. (Sees something on the floor beside her and cries out.) OH!
PAULINE: (Startled again.) What? What is it?
ANN: Only this. (She picks up a red gauntlet glove of old-fashioned kind, and holds it out for PAULINE to see.) It wasn’t there before, you know. I’ll swear it wasn’t. I couldn’t possibly have missed it.
PAULINE: (Going closer as ANN moves in too.) A gauntlet glove. Part of an old costume. They have some bits of old costumes and props here. (She glances towards alcove R.) It must have fallen out. (Relieved.) That’s it. And that’s what you must have felt.
ANN: (Slowly.) I suppose so. Only – it couldn’t have fallen out – it must have jumped out – to have brushed past me like that. (Staring at PAULINE.) It’s a bit peculiar, y’know – a glove behaving like that.
PAULINE: (Hastily.) No, it isn’t, and for goodness’ sake, child, don’t start pretending anything queer has happened. I have to be around here for the next ten days – and you haven’t. Just put it back.
ANN: (As she goes to the case with the glove.) I think she did it – Jenny What’s-her-name.
PAULINE: (Uneasily.) Nonsense! Now let’s be sensible. (She goes back to door L. to open it.) Mr. Cheveril will be back any minute, and I know he won’t want to see you – I’ll have to try to persuade hi
m. You’d better wait outside.
ANN: But if I was still here, he’d have to talk to me.
PAULINE: No, he wouldn’t. Don’t forget people are always trying to see him – and he hates it, particularly just now. Your only chance is to do what I tell you.
ANN: (Humbly and gratefully.) Yes, of course. And don’t think I’m not grateful.
PAULINE: (Listening.) I think he may be coming up now. You’d better get behind that door and wait. I’ll do my best for you.
ANN: (Moving to door R.) I think you’re a darling.
She goes out to R., not quite closing the door behind her.
Pauline goes to case, where glove is, and stares at it a moment. Then MARTIN enters L.. He has several unopened letters in his hand. PAULINE comes down to meet him.
MARTIN: That scene’s all right now. We’ve made a neat little cut. They’ll be wanting you in a minute or two, Pauline.
PAULINE: I was just going down. Martin – there’s a girl here. She’s with a local reparatory company – and she’s taken the day off and come here – just to see you –
MARTIN: Otley shouldn’t have let her in.
PAULINE: He tried to stop her, but he couldn’t. She’s a determined young woman – and I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s quite a good little actress. Now she is here, you’ll see her – won’t you?
MARTIN: (Quietly and firmly.) No.
PAULINE: Now don’t be mean, Martin –
MARTIN: She’d no right to push herself in. And there’s nothing I can do for her except to tell her that I don’t care for her manners. (As PAULINE is about to protest.) No, I’m sorry, Pauline. But if she was a young Duse or Bernhart – I still wouldn’t care. I’m just not interested anymore. I haven’t to find any more promising young actresses – thank God! – and I don’t see why I should be victimised in this way –
PAULINE: (Reproachfully.) Martin – this is all wrong. I hate it…
MAN’s VOICE: (Off L..) Miss Fraser, you’re wanted on the stage.
PAULINE: (Calling.) I’m coming. (She moves up L., then turns.) I wish something would happen to you – I don’t know what – something so big and strange that you couldn’t explain it away – just feel it.
She hurries out.
Priestley Plays Four Page 11
