Priestley Plays Four

by J. B. Priestley

MARTIN, with his back to door R., begins casually opening his letters. Door R. opens and ANN stands in doorway.

  ANN: Mr. Cheveril, I’m the young actress. My name’s Ann Seward –

  MARTIN: (Without turning.) You had no right to come in here. Will you please go?

  ANN: I’ve acted in lots of your plays – and loved them.

  MARTIN: (Still looking at the letters.) Yes, but I’m busy – and I don’t want to see you.

  ANN: Not even just to look at me?

  MARTIN: (Angrily.) No. Will you please go at once.

  ANN: (After a pause, with strange certainty.) You’ll be sorry soon that you said that.

  (She takes the glove out of the case and flings it down.) Look – the glove’s on the floor again. Even the ghosts are on my side. Be careful!

  She goes, closing the door behind her.

  MARTIN turns now, looking puzzled. After a moment he sees the glove on the floor, pick it up, and examines it, with a certain smiling but rather melancholy curiosity. He glances at the case, but does not return the glove there but brings it across to the little desk and tosses it down, to finish glancing at his letters in which he has no real interest. OTLEY looks in through door R.

  OTLEY: Doctor’s here Mr. Cheveril. Dr Cave. Good chap.

  MARTIN: Send him in. Oh – and perhaps he’d like a drink when he’s done with me.

  OTLEY: (Smiling.) I don’t think he’d object. What about you, Mr. Cheveril?

  MARTIN: Just a glass of water, please.

  OTLEY goes, leaving door R. open.

  After a moment or two during which MARTIN shrugs his shoulders over the letters, tear them up and tosses them into a wastepaper basket, DR. CAVE enters briskly, carrying his hat and usual bag. He is a pleasant, middle-aged GP.

  DR. CAVE: Well, Mr. Cheveril. I gather from Otley you had a very narrow escape. (Comes near, and looks sharply at MARTIN, who is sitting.)

  MARTIN: Yes. I just missed the full weight of the thing, but I got enough to knock me out.

  DR. CAVE: (Drawing chair nearer.) So I understood. Nasty experience. Well, how are you feeling now? (He takes MARTIN’s pulse, looking at watch.)

  MARTIN: Still shaky. Head aches. Knees a bit weak. Nothing seems quite real yet, if you know what I mean.

  DR. CAVE: (After finishing pulse.) Yes…yes…very natural… (Looks at him a moment searchingly.) Well, now, let’s see what happened up here – (He feels MARTIN’s head gently.) Humph! You can consider yourself lucky you didn’t take the full weight of it. Must have hit you a glancing blow. Better just listen to your heart. (He has now taken out his stethoscope and uses it.) Humph! Some shock, of course – only natural. How were you before this happened? Bit tired? Been working hard?

  MARTIN: Yes, we’re just coming to the end of some pretty hard rehearsing. And I still can’t get out of the habit of acting for everybody, which is a bit wearing.

  DR. CAVE: Quite so. Well, the only real danger is delayed concussion, which can be very unpleasant. No use telling you to forget your play and go to bed, I suppose?

  MARTIN: No. I wouldn’t do myself any good if I did go.

  DR. CAVE: That’s what I thought. You people are all the same. Well…

  OTLEY enters R. with whisky-and-soda and glass of water on tray, which he places on desk.

  OTLEY: There you are, gentlemen. And I’ll see you’re not disturbed.

  MARTIN: (As OTLEY goes.) Thanks. But I’d like to see you for a minute after the doctor’s gone.

  DR. CAVE: And that’ll be very soon. I’m a busy man.

  OTLEY goes out R.

  (Looks at tray.) Whisky? No, no, can’t let you have that just yet, you know.

  MARTIN: (Smiling.) That’s for you, not me. Mine’s the water.

  DR. CAVE: Quite right! Stick to it. And I’ll help by drinking the whisky. (He takes the whisky.) Well, here’s luck to the play! (Drinks, then puts down glass and lights a cigarette.) Humph! Better whisky than I can get, when I can get it. You theatrical people know where to find it. Good little chap, Otley, isn’t he? We think he’s made a good job of running this old theatre of ours – though you mightn’t think so after that nasty little accident of yours.

  MARTIN: Oh – that couldn’t be helped. And he is a good chap.

  DR. CAVE: (Becoming professional again.) Well, Mr. Cheveril I’m letting you stay on here tonight because you’d only be worrying and fretting if I didn’t. (He now looks into his bag as he talks.) But you’d better rest as long as you can tomorrow. And in the meantime, I want you to take two of these tablets now, settle down quietly in that chair for an hour or two, relax, and don’t bother about anything – and then they ought to see you comfortable through your rehearsal tonight. Then try two more in the morning. Two now, two in the morning, no more. These things are new, and I don’t pretend to know a lot about them. But that’s a safe dose. (He hands over the bottle of tablets.)

  MARTIN: All right. Two now – eh? (Beginning to take the tablets.)

  DR. CAVE: That’s it. Just take them with a sip of water – they’ll soon dissolve inside you. (He takes a sip of his whisky as MARTIN takes the tablets.) Don’t you worry if you feel a bit queer in about half an hour or so. Keep quiet – and rest – that’s all.

  MARTIN: (After swallowing the tablets.) Doctor – tell me. I suppose you see a good deal of suffering, don’t you?

  DR. CAVE: Yes. Seen a few pretty bad specimens since I saw you last. Why?

  MARTIN: I was talking to an old friend of mine. She was accusing me of being bored – and cynical and bitter. And she wouldn’t have it that that was because I saw that life was so hard and damned unpleasant for other people. Said it was because I’d had too much success and had it too easy – nothing to struggle for – and so on –

  DR. CAVE: She might be right. But where do I come in?

  MARTIN: I was thinking that you’re a better argument for her case than for mine. Nothing bored and cynical, and bitter about you.

  DR. CAVE: Certainly not. But that’s different. When I see people suffer, it’s my job to try to pull them out of it. I’m fighting for life. That keeps me going.

  MARTIN: Perhaps I ought to be fighting for life.

  DR. CAVE: Everybody ought.

  MARTIN: If they think it’s worth fighting for.

  DR. CAVE: Of course it is. Your trouble is – and here you’re worse off and I am – that your job as a writer depends on your imagination, which probably magnifies other people’s troubles and all the misery in the world. Especially – and this is the point to remember – when your body’s had a shock of this sort. So just be careful. Remember what I said. And better give me a ring in the morning. Now – stay there. Make yourself comfortable…and try to relax. (He takes up his hat and bag, with a nod and smile.)

  OTLEY enters R.. MARTIN is now comfortable in big chair. DR. CAVE sees OTLEY.

  Otley, just see that Mr. Cherveril isn’t disturbed for an hour or so. He must be quiet for a time. And switch a few of these lights off.

  OTLEY: Certainly. Shall I – ?

  DR. CAVE: No, I can find my way out. And thanks for the drink. ’Bye!

  OTLEY & MARTIN: (As the DOCTOR goes.) Good night!

  Exit DR. CAVE.

  OTLEY: (Now turns to MARTIN.) Anything I can do for you, Mr. Cheveril? You said you wanted to see me when the doctor had gone.

  MARTIN: Yes. Switch those lights off, if you don’t mind, then come and sit down for a minute or two.

  OTLEY switches off some light at door, then comes over and sits where the doctor sat, near MARTIN.

  OTLEY: They think a lot of Dr. Cave round here, though I’ve never been to him myself, being one of the healthy ones. Given you something to take, has he?

  MARTIN: Yes. These tablets. I take two. (Mechanically he takes two out and holds them in the palm of his hand while talking.) By the way, there’ll probably be a call from London coming through for me in about half an hour – from Sir George Gavin – and as it’s important, you’d better put it through to
me here. No other call, please. And if you can manage it, don’t let anybody come in. I’m supposed to rest before tonight’s rehearsal.

  OTLEY: Right you are, Mr. Cheveril. I’ll be just along there in my office. Better take those tablets, hadn’t you?

  MARTIN: (Rather drowsily.) Yes, I suppose so.

  OTLEY hands him the glass of water, and he takes a sip and swallows the tablets. OTLEY then sees the gauntlet glove on the table.

  OTLEY: (Taking up glove.) Hello, how did you get here?

  MARTIN: Oh – I found it lying on the floor.

  OTLEY: They used to tell funny stories about one or two of the things here, including this – you know the sort of stuff – just superstition –

  MARTIN: Well, I’m not superstitious.

  OTLEY: (With a rather forced heartiness.) Neither am I, Mr. Cheveril. Of course, with an old place like this y’know, you do get funny ideas sometimes. I’d better put this back where it belongs.

  MARTIN: Who was supposed to wear it?

  OTLEY: Nobody really famous. But she made a bit of a stir here about a hundred years ago, and was a great local favourite – and then died quite young. You’ve probably never heard of her. Jenny Villiers.

  MARTIN: (Sharply interested.) Jenny Villiers! (Slowly.) That’s odd. Very odd.

  OTLEY: Why, Mr. Cheveril?

  MARTIN: I was thinking about her, the other night. I’ll tell you how it happened. I’d been looking somebody up in Who’s Who in the Theatre, and I went on idle turning the pages and came to the section near the end called the Theatrical and Musical Obituary.

  OTLEY: I know it. Gives the fate of everybody’s death and how old they were when they died.

  MARTIN: (Rather dreamily.) Yes. And that repetition of the word ‘died’ after every name gives it all a curiously melancholy ring…

  OTLEY: (Almost prompting him.) And you happened to notice this girl’s name?

  MARTIN: (Slowly, dreamily.) Yes. Jenny Villiers, Actress, died fifteenth of November, 1846, aged twenty-four. I began wondering about her. She must have has some success young as she was, to be included in that list. Yet she was only twenty-four when she died. Everything coming right for her…success at last…and then she’s snuffed out like a candle… Jenny Villiers…the name was charming…probably assumed.

  OTLEY: I expect so. Bit too good to be true, you might say.

  MARTIN: (As before.) The Jenny half of it…so young and feminine, bright, almost impudent…the Villiers half, so grand, aristocratic, rather bogus in the old theatrical style… I tried to imagine the girl…in the little time she had…smiling and curtseying in the oil-lamp floats and the gas battens of the queer, remote, stuffy old Theatre of the Forties… I was fascination…queerly moved, too…as if… (He breaks off.)

  OTLEY: As if – what, Mr. Cheveril?

  MARTIN: No, don’t let’s be fantastic. But I wondered about her…almost began to see her. And then I had to stop. Something happened…yes, somebody rang me up – (Stops, then stares at OTLEY.) Why – it was you.

  OTLEY: (Rather startled.) Well, I did ring you up one night, Mr. Cheveril, about you trying out your new play here. Was that the time?

  MARTIN: Yes, that was the time. It was then I agreed to come here.

  OTLEY: Bit of a coincidence, when you look at it. You thinking about her and then, without knowing it, agreeing to come to the very theatre she last acted in – eh?

  MARTIN: (With mock solemnity.) If our lives followed mysterious hidden patterns – design from behind the veil – then here’s a good example of one –

  OTLEY: (Uncertainly.) Well – yes –

  MARTIN: (Drily.) And our lives don’t, you see. But that’s why I said it was odd – very odd.

  OTLEY: (Raising with glove.) I’ll put this souvenir back where it came from. (Going across.) And if you’d like to know a bit more about Jenny Villiers, there’s one or two things here that might interest you. (He is now by the case.)

  MARTIN: (Sudden sharpness.) No, it doesn’t matter.

  OTLEY: (Turning, puzzled at the sharp tone.) Oh – well – of course not. If you want to rest Mr. Cherveril…no reason why you should bother…

  MARTIN: No, no, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. This stuff I’ve taken, probably. I’d be glad to have a look at anything you’ve got there.

  OTLEY: (At case.) There’s a little book about her here – just a sort of tribute some local chap wrote at the time – (Takes booklet from case.) And then there’s this little water-colour sketch of her as Viola – you might not have noticed it – (Takes sketch from the wall, then comes across with both booklet and sketch, and hands over both things.)

  MARTIN: Thanks. (Staring at the sketch.) Um. So this was – poor little Jenny Villiers.

  OTLEY: (Quietly.) Your hand’s shaking Mr. Cheveril. Sure you’re all right?

  MARTIN: (Muttering.) Yes. It’s only that stuff. The doctor said I might feel rather queer. Kind of floating feeling… (Reads title page of booklet.) Jenny Villiers…a Memoir and a Tribute…By Augustus Ponsonby, esquire – Honorary Secretary of the Barton Spa Shakespeare society… a page of quotations first –

  ‘Be absolute for death; either death or life shall thereby be the sweeter…’

  (Then musingly.) Be absolute for death – a strange idea that, Otley… (Reads again.)

  ‘When to the session of sweet silent thought

  I summon up remembrance of things past.’

  An obvious choice. But this isn’t. Listen –

  ‘Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

  And call upon my soul within the house…’

  OTLEY: I seem to remember that. Twelfth Night – Viola, isn’t it?

  MARTIN: Yes.

  OTLEY: I think that was the part they liked her best in. But I doubt if you’ll find that little book worth reading, Mr. Cheveril – old-fashioned, pompous stuff. Her story was simple enough. They had a stock company here in those days, under an actor-manage called Edmund Ludlow. Jenny Villiers came here from the Norfolk circuit, and got some leading parts. She fell in love with the leading juvenile, Julian Napier, but he suddenly left the company for a London engagement. Then she was taken ill – and died. And Napier didn’t last much longer – he went to New York, started drinking hard, and soon finished himself. That’s all there is to it, really.

  MARTIN: (Musingly.) Nothing in it. Everything in it.

  ‘Be absolute for death; either death or life will thereby be the sweeter…’

  OTLEY: (Preparing to go.) And I shan’t forget what you said, Mr. Cheveril – you’ll just take that one call from London…

  MARTIN: Yes, please. And switch off the other lights…

  ‘And call upon my soul within the house…’

  OTLEY switches off rest of lights and goes out R..

  There is nothing now but light near desk. MARTIN, relaxed in his chair, stares idly at the booklet in his hand. After a moment it is hard to decide if he is asleep, half-asleep, or still awake but brooding. There is music.

  Then WALTER KETTLE, a youngish but thin, grotesque figure. White-face, dressed in black, enters slowly from upstage R., and moves like a ghost across, pausing to stare across at MARTIN, who sees him. But before MARTIN can move –

  KETTLE had glided out upstage L..

  Then as MARTIN still stares upstage, a soft golden light comes across upstage R.. Then a man’s voice, with other’s joining in, is heard singing ‘Villikins and his Dinah’. Then, as light spreads, more voices off R..

  JOHN STOKES: (Off R., calling) What’s happening, Sam, me boy?

  SAM MOON: (Off R..) Mr. Ludlow wants to see everybody in the Green Room.

  STOKES: (Off, but nearer, humorously.) Ay, ay – so shall it be. Come, ladies, the Green Room!

  Two youngish ACTRESSES, dressed in the style of the forties, now enter R., whispering attended by JOHN STOKES, an old actor very like Alfred Leathers. MARTIN’s light is still burning, but it is much dimmer now. Slowly he rises, to stare at these people. Two youngi
sh ACTORS, one smoking an old-fashioned pipe, now enter. They are followed by MRS. FANNY LUDLOW, a commanding oldish woman, wife of the manager, who carries a large shopping basket.

  1ST ACTRESS: Did you find anything nice Mrs. Ludlow?

  FANNY: (In a deep solemn tone.) Yes, my dear. Four pork chops and a fine cauliflower. Mr. Ludlow is extremely fond of pork chops – fortunately. He will need all his strength to sustain him through this crisis.

  2ND ACTRESS: Oh dear – has something terrible happened?

  FANNY: Mr. Ludlow will explain.

  There is now from outside an imitation galloping noise, with cries of ‘Gee up!’ then ‘Steady, my steed!’ etc. SAM MOON, the comedian of the company, enters R., riding a large umbrella. He pulls up sharply, sweeps off his hat.

  MOON: Ladies, your servant.

  He goes through the business of dismounting, then hands umbrella, as horse, to STOKES, who enters into the spirit of the business.

  Give me ’orse a rub-down, fellow, an’ a mouthful o’ hay.

  STOKES: (As groom.) Ay, ay, sir. Will your honour by staying here the night?

  MOON: S’death! I am on urgent business for the Duke.

  FANNY: (Reproachfully.) Sam!

  MOON: Ma’am?

  FANNY: Save your drollery for tonight’s performance, when you will need it. At the moment it is out of place.

  MOON: Sorry to ’ear it, ma’am, most sorry to ’ear it. But still we’ve ’ad troubles before – and said good bye to ’em.

  Here a few other minor members of Ludlow’s company can enter, taking their place on the outside of the circle. Then JULIAN NAPIER, the juvenile lead, enters. He is very handsome in a romantic forties style, with long dark hair, etc.

  JULIAN: (Rather haughtily.) I hope this won’t take long. I have an engagement with two gentlemen at the White Hart in half an hour. What’s the matter now, Mrs. Ludlow?

  FANNY: (Rather stiffly.) Mr. Ludlow will explain, Mr. Napier. And you may be sure that Mr. Ludlow would not call the company together at this hour unless it was something serious.

  JULIAN: Possibly not. But I must keep my engagement at the White Hart.

  MOON: Are they swells, Julian, me boy?

  JULIAN: (With assumed nonchalance.) One of them’s a baronet. He took a box the other night. (Stares around.) Miss Vincent not here?