Pause.
OSCAR. Tell me, Denis. What is the address of this man in Wigmore Street?
DENIS. I haven’t got it on me. But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Father. This looking for Sylvia is really quite harmless. Quite harmless. Well, now, look. I know you’d rather I didn’t stay, and I’d like to leave if I could – because I’ve promised to take Ursula to dinner –
MARK. You mean Ursula Culpepper?
DENIS. Yes.
There is a pause. Then MARK gathers himself for assault.
MARK. Ah! Now I thought I had expressly forbidden you ever to see that woman again?
OSCAR (murmuring). My front is being pierced, my flanks are being turned, I attack. Marshal Foch.
MARK (after glaring at OSCAR). Is that, or is that not so, Denis?
DENIS. Yes, Father. But I never promised and I’m afraid I didn’t accept your judgement in this case.
MARK. Oh? You didn’t? Well, you’d better accept it now. I won’t have my son consorting with one of the most notorious women in London.
DENIS. She can’t help being notorious, Father. She’s such a famous actress. Wonderful actress, too. Have you ever seen her?
MARK. No. I am happy to say, not.
DENIS. I’m surprised. She’s starring in the same play that Miss Patterson is a super in –
Pause.
OSCAR. Of course that flank was badly exposed – invited counter-attack –
MARK (after another glance at OSCAR). A woman with the mind and the vocabulary of a streetwalker –
DENIS. Yes, I know, Father. It’s awfully boring, that outspokenness. I often tell her so. It’s what we were saying a moment ago about Miss Patterson, isn’t it?
OSCAR. Oh dear. Clean through the centre now.
MARK. Oscar, I trust I shall not have to ask you to leave the room.
OSCAR. I’m sorry. It’s the vodka –
MARK (to DENIS). Leaving the subject of Ursula Culpepper for the moment only – Denis – may I ask you for an explanation of your extraordinary conduct in leaving Tours at a moment’s notice, and flying to London?
DENIS. I’m sorry, Father, but I couldn’t stick it there another second. After all I’d been there three months –
MARK. And how much French have you learnt in those three months, may I ask? Dites-moi quelque chose en francais –
DENIS. Que voulez-vous que je vous dis?
MARK (triumphantly). Dise. Que je vous dise. Subjunctive. And your accent is abominable.
OSCAR. Ah. An advance. A minor one – perhaps – but still an advance –
MARK (furiously). Oscar – will you keep quiet?
DENIS. Anyway, Father, there’s no real point in my learning French, is there, because I’ve decided to become an actor.
MARK. Oh, you have, have you? You’ve decided to become an actor?
NORA comes in.
NORA. Darling, I’m just going to put on that new hat you gave me, to show Babs. (Crosses to the bedroom door.) What is going on up here?
MARK. Nothing, my dear. Nothing.
NORA. Darling, if you don’t come down in a minute I think I’ll get cross. Except that I couldn’t really get cross with you, today, could I, after your being such a sweetie and giving up that horrid, horrid La Paz for me –
MARK. Yes, well, we’ll talk about all that later.
She goes into the bedroom.
DENIS (reproachfully). Oh, Father! You’re not giving up the Diplomatic, are you?
Pause.
OSCAR (to MARK). I think, my dear chap – there’s nothing for it but to prepare for an eventual evacuation –
MARK. Oscar. Leave the room.
OSCAR. I was on the point of doing so. The whole scene is far too painful for me.
COLONEL WILBERFORCE’s jovial head appears at the door. OSCAR flies to a corner of the room and examines a picture.
WILBERFORCE. Ah, Binfield. So that’s where you’ve been hiding yourself, is it? Can’t say I blame you. Terrible party, isn’t it?
MARK. You’re not enjoying it, Colonel?
WILBERFORCE. Hating it, my dear fellow. Positively hating it. Of course, I’d never have come if it hadn’t been for my wife. She was on the stage, you know. (Seeing DENIS.) Oh, isn’t this your boy?
MARK. Yes.
WILBERFORCE. I thought so. Saw you bat at Lord’s, young fellow. Shouldn’t have got out that way. Shocking stroke. Yes, my wife was in that show Topsy-Turvy. Expect you saw it. She was the one who came out at the end and said, ‘So you were really Lord Percy all along?’ Do you remember?
MARK. Yes, of course.
WILBERFORCE. Good. You heard her all right, did you?
MARK. As clear as a bell.
WILBERFORCE. I only ask because some friends of mine said they had difficulty in catching the words. Of course I couldn’t really judge because, you see, I knew the part.
MARK. No. I see. Exactly –
OSCAR is examining the picture with great apparent interest. WILBERFORCE looks at him with faint suspicion.
WILBERFORCE. Tell me, does anyone here know a terrible bounder by the name of Philipson?
He says it to OSCAR who shakes his head vaguely.
I hear he’s at this party. I’m extremely anxious to have a word with the blighter –
After a pregnant pause, DENIS steps forward.
DENIS. Er – may I introduce – Brigadier Mason – er – Colonel –
WILBERFORCE. Wilberforce. How do you do? You’re very young to be a Brigadier.
OSCAR. So many people tell me –
There is the sound of a woman singing raucously, loudly, and drunkenly in the street.
WILBERFORCE. Oh. Excuse me a second. I think that’s my wife – (Crossing to window.) Yes, it is. Astonishing thing. Never drinks at all, you know. All she ever does at a party is to take an occasional sip from my glass.
MARK. Indeed, Colonel? Is that all she ever does? Just take an occasional sip from your glass?
WILBERFORCE. Yes. That’s all. Can’t understand it at all – (Out of window to his invisible wife.) Hullo, darling. Yoohoo!
A woman’s voice is heard in response.
Look – you – there – Williams, isn’t it?
WILLIAMS (off). Okay, sir.
WILBERFORCE. Now just you get hold of her.
Her voice is heard in protest.
Don’t let go of her, man. Get her into that taxi.
There is the noise of a taxi door slamming, then silence.
Safely stowed, as they say in the play. Williams did it on his own – capital fellow, that. Goodbye, young feller. Keep a straighter bat next time. Goodbye, Brigadier. Goodbye, Binfield. Nice seeing you again.
NORA emerges from the bedroom.
Ah, our hostess. Just saying goodbye –
NORA. Oh. Are you leaving so soon?
WILBERFORCE. Yes. Slight accident to Betty. Can’t fathom it. Can’t fathom it at all. Goodbye. Charming party. Afraid I never had a chance to meet our host. Say goodbye to him for me, would you?
NORA (indicating MARK) Well, you can do it yourself, can’t you?
WILBERFORCE. What! Binfield! Binfield the host! That’s good, isn’t it, old chap? Well, goodbye, everyone. Oh, Binfield, congratulations on being made Minister in La Paz, by the way. Splendid appointment. Splendid. Goodbye. (Goes, leaving a heavy silence behind him.)
NORA. Darling, you’ll forgive me for being inquisitive, won’t you?
There is a pause. Then MARK clears his throat resignedly.
MARK. Nora, I realise perfectly that what I am going to tell you may seem not unlike the plot of Topsy-Turvy, but I must inform you that I am not Mr Wright, but Lord Binfield; and that this is my son, Denis.
NORA (seizing the salient point). Your son? (Looks at DENIS and then at MARK.) Oh, darling. I mean you couldn’t have really – could you?
MARK. No. My age, too, I have lied about. I am not thirty-five, but forty-four.
NORA. Darling! Three one can forgiv
e. Nine is really going too far. Well, it’s all too wildly exciting and improbable – just like life, my darlings – but we really haven’t time to discuss it all now. I’m going back to the party. (Goes to the door.) Oh, by the way – in case anybody’s even remotely interested – I am actually the rightful Princess Amalia of Bottleburg and Bubbles Fairweather is my mother – the Grand Duchess –
She goes out. There is a long pause.
OSCAR (at length). Tiens, tiens.
MARK sits heavily, and rests his head in his hands.
(Again.) Tiens, tiens.
DENIS goes up to MARK’s chair. MARK looks up at him, glaring.
DENIS. Father, may I say something?
MARK looks at him in silence.
I know it’s none of my business – but really, you know, I do think you’re making rather a mistake chucking the Diplomatic. (Very sincerely.) I know exactly how you feel and I do sympathise with you – really I do. But you’ve had such a brilliant career up to now – haven’t you – I do think it’d be an awful waste to throw it all away now.
MARK still makes no reply. He seems rather moved.
… Could we have dinner together, Father?
MARK. I understood you were dining with Ursula Culpepper.
DENIS. That’s all right. I’ll put her off. She won’t mind. Do come, Father.
MARK. I’ve got an engagement too.
DENIS. Couldn’t you chuck it? I tell you what – let’s dine at my club. The food’s not up to much, but we can talk there and not be disturbed. I’ll just dash down and explain to Ursula. You will come, won’t you?
There is a pause.
MARK. I don’t know, Denis. I don’t know. I think probably not.
DENIS (cheerfully). Well, I’ll put Ursula off, anyway. Won’t be a second. (Goes.)
OSCAR, who has watched the preceding scene without stirring, looks at MARK. MARK answers the look. Then he deliberately gets up and goes into the hall, reappearing in a second with hat, gloves, and an overcoat. OSCAR helps him on with his overcoat – still in silence. He starts slowly for the hall.
OSCAR. Mark?
MARK. Yes, Oscar?
OSCAR. What a loss to the Diplomatic that boy is going to be.
MARK. Loss? (It has taken him a second to see what OSCAR means.) Now let me tell you, Oscar – if Denis thinks for one moment I am going to countenance –
DENIS reappears.
DENIS. I’ve got a taxi, Father –
MARK (turning on him angrily). You realise, Denis, that this is not going to be a very pleasant dinner for you – don’t you? I’m going to have a few very strong words to say to you tonight –
DENIS. Yes, Father.
MARK. An actor, indeed! What in the name of heaven makes you think you can be an actor?
DENIS. Oh. I don’t know, Father. I just do. That’s all.
MARK. Have you by any chance forgotten that one day you’re going to inherit my name?
DENIS. Well, I could always have a stage name, couldn’t I, Father? I mean, after all, I suppose I could call myself Denis Wright.
Pause. OSCAR throws his hands in the air.
OSCAR. Complete breakthrough! Utter collapse along the entire front! Sue for terms, Mark – sue for terms.
MARK advances on him belligerently.
MARK. My God! Sometimes I feel like knocking you through a window.
OSCAR. All right. Why don’t you?
MARK (his voice strangled with fury). Because – oh, because you’re so bloody fat. (He turns abruptly on DENIS.) Now listen, Denis, if you think for one minute that you’ve got the faintest chance in the world of getting away with this arrant folly – you’re making the biggest mistake of your young life –
As they reach the hall, the curtain has fallen.
ACT THREE
The same. Time: 1950. The room once more has had a change of character, and has reverted rather to its original bachelor quality – though it gives the impression, here and there, of having tried hard to make itself look like a love nest (1950 version)and of having failed to carry out its purpose through being too well-bred.
It is about 6:30 of a winter evening and on the rise of the curtain, WILLIAMS is discovered on the telephone. The dinner table is laid for four places. The meal is evidently to be of oysters only, and champagne. The radio can now be distinguished as playing the ‘Harry Lime’ theme.
WILLIAMS (into telephone). Sloane 7838? Cunliffe there? Oh, hullo, cock… It’s me. Here’s the yarn for tonight. Got a pencil?… Yes, you’ll need it… Ready. (Dictating slowly.) I’m the hall porter at the Club… Yes… He’s dining here – that’s to say at the Club – with General Philipson… Yes, that’s easy, it’s what comes later… Got that? Okay… Dining at the Club with the General, going straight to Mr Denis’s first night, where he’s meeting Lord Bayswater and the Minister for War… War… After the theatre going to Lord Bayswater’s for supper. Expect to be home about 12:30… Okay… Say one, it’s safer… Tell me, how’s Her Ladyship’s cold? Better?… Oh, good… Got up this afternoon. Yes, I’ll tell him. He’ll be pleased. Okay. Now, have you got that straight? Okay, chum, that’s it… Okay. Be seeing you. (Rings off.)
DORIS and CHLOE come in together, talking. DORIS is putting a latchkey away in her bag. Both girls are exquisitely dressed in evening gowns, and carry them selves like mannequins, which indeed they are. DORIS is the 1950 edition of Sylvia. CHLOE is very beautiful and very statuesque.
DORIS. So I said to Madam, I said, personally I never have thought an hour was enough at lunchtime and just because I’m ten minutes late it doesn’t mean the whole dressmaking business is going to go bankrupt, does it? (To WILLIAMS.) Good evening, dear. This is Chloe – Mr Williams. She’s at Fabia’s too –
WILLIAMS (to CHLOE). How do you do, miss?
CHLOE. Good evening.
DORIS. Came along at a moment’s notice – very kind of her I do think, just to make up the party, and she had a date with a gentleman, too –
CHLOE. No. With my mum.
DORIS. Oh, with your mum, was it, dear? How nice. (To WILLIAMS.) Neither of us have had a minute to do a thing to ourselves, as you know, dear, with Mr Wright ringing up like that at the last second. I’m sure we look positive frights –
WILLIAMS. Oh no, miss. You look as gorgeous as ever, and the other lady a fair treat, if I may say so. Pleasure to look at you both, I must say –
DORIS. Oh, but we just literally threw ourselves into our clothes, didn’t we, dear?
CHLOE. Oh yes, dear. Just bundled ourselves in any old how – shocking it was.
DORIS, as she speaks, is crossing the room with the slow, assured walk of the girl who is exquisitely dressed and knows it, and CHLOE as she speaks sits down with all the grace and dignity of a princess.
DORIS (inspecting the table). Oysters. Do you like oysters, dear?
CHLOE. Not very in much, dear. Do you?
WILLIAMS (to CHLOE). Well, I’m very sorry, miss, but I’m afraid that’s all there is. Just a little bonne bouche before the theatre, as you might say. You’ll be having supper afterwards, of course –
CHLOE (languidly). Oh, well, of course – if that’s all there is –
DORIS. What’s that book you’re reading, dear?
WILLIAMS. Trevelyan’s Social History, miss.
DORIS. Why ever do you read that?
WILLIAMS. I find it very enjoyable, and most illuminating. Well, I must be off. Going to see Mr Denis, too. This Old Vic’s a shocking place to get to.
DORIS. And who are you taking to the play?
WILLIAMS. Oh, no one, miss. You know me –
DORIS. You don’t like ladies much, do you, dear?
WILLIAMS. I’m too old for ladies now, miss. I used to like ’em once – in their place, of course.
DORIS. Oh. And what do you think is their place?
WILLIAMS for reply, merely smiles.
WILLIAMS. Well. Goodnight, ladies. Be good. (Goes.)
CHLOE (languidly).
Whats the show we’re going to see?
DORIS. It’s Julius Caesar, I think, dear. You know – Shakespeare.
CHLOE (face falling). Shakespeare? You didn’t say that –
DORIS. Didn’t I? Oh, well, I expect it’ll be quite good. It often is quite good, you know, Shakespeare. It’s quite a surprise, sometimes.
CHLOE. I didn’t like the other one – that one Mr Wetherby took us to –
DORIS. That wasn’t Shakespeare, dear. It was quite modern, Mr Wetherby was saying. He said the man who wrote it is still alive. Fancy.
CHLOE. Of course it wasn’t modern, silly. It was poetical. And they were all dressed up medieval –
DORIS. A play can be poetical and dressed up medieval and still be modern, dear, if it’s by a man who’s still alive.
CHLOE. Well, I didn’t understand it anyway.
DORIS (patiently). Nor did I, dear. Not a bloody word. But that still doesn’t make it Shakespeare, dear, does it –
CHLOE (giving up). Well, you might have told me it was Shakespeare to night – I do think.
DORIS. I know you, dear. You’d have cried off. I told you it was Denis Wright –
CHLOE. Yes, but in Julius Caesar. (A horrifying thought strikes her.) Why, that’s BC.
DORIS. I don’t know why you always mind BC so much, dear. I think BC’s quite pleasant, sometimes. Makes a nice change –
CHLOE. What part will Denis Wright be? Julius Caesar?
DORIS. No – I expect he’ll be the one that says ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen’ –
CHLOE (brightening a little). Oh, is that in it? I know that. I’ll look out for that. Mr Wright is Denis Wright’s father, you said –
DORIS. That’s it, dear. Mr Mark Wright. As a matter of fact he’s Lord Binfield – really –
CHLOE. Oh!
DORIS. The British Ambassador in Paris.
CHLOE. Fancy!
DORIS. Don’t let on you know, dear, will you – because the old chap does so like us all to think he’s just Mr Wright –
CHLOE. Why?
DORIS. I don’t know, really. I think quite a lot of gentlemen are rather like that. They’d think it terribly immoral to deceive their wives under their own names. Take another, and they’ll be up to Lord knows what, and as gay and as innocent as sandboys –
CHLOE. Yes – but being an earl and an ambassador and all that, you’d think he wouldn’t have a chance of getting away with another name, would you?
Who is Sylvia? and Duologue Page 12
