about her head in a tangled mop. She is
not made up and looks haggard and yellow
and lined. When Mereston sees her he
gives a slight start of surprise. She plays
the scene throughout with her broadest
brogue.
Lady Frederick.
Good-morning.
Mereston.
[Staring at her in dismay.] Good-morning.
Lady Frederick.
Well, what have you to say to me?
Mereston.
[Embarrassed.] I — er — hope you slept all right.
Lady Frederick.
[Laughing.] Did you?
Mereston.
I forget.
Lady Frederick.
I believe you slept like a top, Charlie. You really might have lain awake and thought of me. What is the matter? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.
Mereston.
Oh no, not at all.
Lady Frederick.
You’re not disappointed already?
Mereston.
No, of course not. Only — you look so different with your hair not done.
Lady Frederick.
[With a little cry.] Oh, I’d forgotten all about it. Angélique, come and do my hair.
Maid.
[Appearing.] Yes, miladi.
[Lady Frederick sits down at the dressing-table.
Lady Frederick.
Now, take pains, Angélique. I want to look my very best. Angélique is a jewel of incalculable value.
Maid.
Miladi is very kind.
Lady Frederick.
If I’m light-hearted, she does it one way. If I’m depressed she does it another.
Maid.
Oh, miladi, the perruquier who taught me said always that a good hairdresser could express every mood and every passion of the human heart.
Lady Frederick.
Good heavens, you don’t mean to say you can do all that?
Maid.
Miladi, he said I was his best pupil.
Lady Frederick.
Very well. Express — express a great crisis in my affairs.
Maid.
That is the easiest thing in the world, miladi. I bring the hair rather low on the forehead, and that expresses a crisis in her ladyship’s affairs.
Lady Frederick.
But I always wear my hair low on the forehead.
Maid.
Then it is plain her ladyship’s affairs are always in a critical condition.
Lady Frederick.
So they are. I never thought of that.
Mereston.
You’ve got awfully stunning hair, Lady Frederick.
Lady Frederick.
D’you like it, really?
Mereston.
The colour’s perfectly beautiful.
Lady Frederick.
It ought to be. It’s frightfully expensive.
Mereston.
You don’t mean to say it’s dyed?
Lady Frederick.
Oh, no. Only touched up. That’s quite a different thing.
Mereston.
Is it?
Lady Frederick.
It’s like superstition, you know, which is what other people believe. My friends dye their hair, but I only touch mine up. Unfortunately, it costs just as much.
Mereston.
And you have such a lot.
Lady Frederick.
Oh, heaps. [She opens a drawer and takes out a long switch.] Give him a bit to look at.
Maid.
Yes, miladi.
[She gives it to him.
Mereston.
Er — yes. [Not knowing what on earth to say.] How silky it is.
Lady Frederick.
A poor thing, but mine own. At least, I paid for it. By the way, have I paid for it yet, Angélique?
Maid.
Not yet, miladi. But the man can wait.
Lady Frederick.
[Taking it from Mereston.] A poor thing, then, but my hairdresser’s. Shall I put it on?
Mereston.
I wouldn’t, if I were you.
Maid.
If her ladyship anticipates a tragic situation, I would venture to recommend it. A really pathetic scene is impossible without a quantity of hair worn quite high on the head.
Lady Frederick.
Oh, I know. Whenever I want to soften the hard heart of a creditor I clap on every bit I’ve got. But I don’t think I will to-day. I’ll tell you what, a temple curl would just fit the case.
Maid.
Then her ladyship inclines to comedy. Very well, I say no more.
[Lady Frederick takes two temple-curls from
the drawer.
Lady Frederick.
Aren’t they dears?
Mereston.
Yes.
Lady Frederick.
You’ve admired them very often, Charlie, haven’t you? I suppose you never knew they cost a guinea each?
Mereston.
It never occurred to me they were false.
Lady Frederick.
The masculine intelligence is so gross. Didn’t your mother tell you?
Mereston.
My mother told me a great deal.
Lady Frederick.
I expect she overdid it. There. Now that’s done. D’you think it looks nice?
Mereston.
Charming.
Lady Frederick.
Angélique, his lordship is satisfied. You may disappear.
Maid.
Yes, miladi.
[She goes.
Lady Frederick.
Now, tell me you think I’m the most ravishing creature you ever saw in your life.
Mereston.
I’ve told you that so often.
Lady Frederick.
[Stretching out her hands.] You are a nice boy. It was charming of you to say — what you did yesterday. I could have hugged you there and then.
Mereston.
Could you?
Lady Frederick.
Oh, my dear, don’t be so cold.
Mereston.
I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to be.
Lady Frederick.
Haven’t you got anything nice to say to me at all?
Mereston.
I don’t know what I can say that I’ve not said a thousand times already.
Lady Frederick.
Tell me what you thought of all night when you tossed on that sleepless pillow of yours.
Mereston.
I was awfully anxious to see you again.
Lady Frederick.
Didn’t you have a dreadful fear that I shouldn’t be as nice as you imagined? Now, come — honestly.
Mereston.
Well, yes, I suppose it crossed my mind.
Lady Frederick.
And am I?
Mereston.
Of course.
Lady Frederick.
You’re sure you’re not disappointed?
Mereston.
Quite sure.
Lady Frederick.
What a relief! You know, I’ve been tormenting myself dreadfully. I said to myself: “He’ll go on thinking of me till he imagines I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, and then, when he comes here and sees the plain reality, it’ll be an awful blow.”
Mereston.
What nonsense! How could you think anything of the kind?
Lady Frederick.
Are you aware that you haven’t shown the least desire to kiss me yet?
Mereston.
I thought — I thought you might not like it.
Lady Frederick.
It’ll be too late in a minute.
Mereston.
Why?
Lady Frederick.
Because I’m just going to make up, you silly boy.
Mereston.
How? I don’t understand.
Lady Frederick.
You said I must be very sure of my complexio
n. Of course I am. Here it is.
[She runs her fingers over a row of little pots
and vases.
Mereston.
Oh, I see. I beg your pardon.
Lady Frederick.
You don’t mean to say you thought it natural?
Mereston.
It never occurred to me it might be anything else.
Lady Frederick.
It’s really too disheartening. I spend an hour every day of my life making the best complexion in Monte Carlo, and you think it’s natural. Why, I might as well be a dairymaid of eighteen.
Mereston.
I’m very sorry.
Lady Frederick.
I forgive you.... You may kiss my hand. [He does so.] You dear boy. [Looking at herself in the glass.] Oh, Betsy, you’re not looking your best to-day. [Shaking her finger at the glass.] This won’t do, Betsy, my dear. You’re very nearly looking your age. [Turning round quickly.] D’you think I look forty?
Mereston.
I never asked myself how old you were.
Lady Frederick.
Well, I’m not, you know. And I shan’t be as long as there’s a pot of rouge and a powder puff in the world. [She rubs grease paint all over her face.]
Mereston.
What are you doing?
Lady Frederick.
I wish I were an actress. They have such an advantage. They only have to make up to look well behind the footlights; but I have to expose myself to that beastly sun.
Mereston.
[Nervously.] Yes, of course.
Lady Frederick.
Is your mother dreadfully annoyed with you? And Paradine must be furious. I shall call him Uncle Paradine next time I see him. It’ll make him feel so middle-aged. Charlie, you don’t know how grateful I am for what you did yesterday. You acted like a real brick.
Mereston.
It’s awfully good of you to say so.
Lady Frederick.
[Turning.] Do I look a fright?
Mereston.
Oh, no, not at all.
Lady Frederick.
I love this powder. It plays no tricks with you. Once I put on a new powder that I bought in Paris, and as soon as I went into artificial light it turned a bright mauve. I was very much annoyed. You wouldn’t like to go about with a mauve face, would you?
Mereston.
No, not at all.
Lady Frederick.
Fortunately I had a green frock on. And mauve and green were very fashionable that year. Still I’d sooner it hadn’t been on my face.... There. I think that’ll do as a foundation. I’m beginning to feel younger already. Now for the delicate soft bloom of youth. The great difficulty, you know, is to make both your cheeks the same colour. [Turning to him.] Charlie, you’re not bored, are you?
Mereston.
No, no.
Lady Frederick.
I always think my observations have a peculiar piquancy when I have only one cheek rouged. I remember once I went out to dinner, and as soon as I sat down I grew conscious of the fact that one of my cheeks was much redder than the other.
Mereston.
By George, that was awkward.
Lady Frederick.
Charlie, you are a good-looking boy. I had no idea you were so handsome. And you look so young and fresh, it’s quite a pleasure to look at you.
Mereston.
[Laughing awkwardly.] D’you think so? What did you do when you discovered your predicament?
Lady Frederick.
Well, by a merciful interposition of Providence, I had a foreign diplomatist on my right side which bloomed like a rose, and a bishop on my left which was white like the lily. The diplomatist told me risky stories all through dinner so it was quite natural that this cheek should blush fiery red. And as the Bishop whispered in my left ear harrowing details of distress in the East End, it was only decent that the other should exhibit a becoming pallor. [Meanwhile she has been rouging her cheeks.] Now look carefully, Charlie, and you’ll see how I make the Cupid’s bow which is my mouth. I like a nice healthy colour on the lips, don’t you?
Mereston.
Isn’t it awfully uncomfortable to have all that stuff on?
Lady Frederick.
Ah, my dear boy, it’s woman’s lot to suffer in this world. But it’s a great comfort to think that one is submitting to the decrees of Providence and at the same time adding to one’s personal attractiveness. But I confess I sometimes wish I needn’t blow my nose so carefully. Smile, Charlie. I don’t think you’re a very ardent lover, you know.
Mereston.
I’m sorry. What would you like me to do?
Lady Frederick.
I should like you to make me impassioned speeches.
Mereston.
I’m afraid they’d be so hackneyed.
Lady Frederick.
Never mind that. I’ve long discovered that under the influence of profound emotion a man always expresses himself in the terms of the Family Herald.
Mereston.
You must remember that I’m awfully inexperienced.
Lady Frederick.
Well, I’ll let you off this time — because I like your curly hair. [She sighs amorously.] Now for the delicate arch of my eyebrows. I don’t know what I should do without this. I’ve got no eyebrows at all really.... Have you ever noticed that dark line under the eyes which gives such intensity to my expression?
Mereston.
Yes, often.
Lady Frederick.
[Holding out the pencil.] Well, here it is. Ah, my dear boy, in this pencil you have at will roguishness and languor, tenderness and indifference, sprightliness, passion, malice, what you will. Now be very quiet for one moment. If I overdo it my whole day will be spoilt. You mustn’t breathe even. Whenever I do this I think how true those lines are:
“The little more and how much it is.
The little less and what worlds away.”
There! Now just one puff of powder, and the whole world’s kind. [Looking at herself in the glass and sighing with satisfaction.] Ah! I feel eighteen. I think it’s a success, and I shall have a happy day. Oh, Betsy, Betsy, I think you’ll do. You know, you’re not unattractive, my dear. Not strictly beautiful, perhaps; but then I don’t like the chocolate-box sort of woman. I’ll just go and take off this dressing-gown. [Mereston gets up.] No, don’t move. I’ll go into my bedroom. I shall only be one moment. [Lady Frederick goes through the curtains.] Angélique.
[The Maid enters.
Maid.
Yes, miladi.
Lady Frederick.
Just clear away those things on the dressing-table.
Maid.
[Doing so.] Very well, miladi.
Lady Frederick.
You may have a cigarette, Charlie.
Mereston.
Thanks. My nerves are a bit dicky this morning.
Lady Frederick.
Oh, blow the thing! Angélique, come and help me.
Maid.
Yes, miladi.
[She goes out.
Lady Frederick.
At last.
[She comes in, having changed the kimono for
a very beautiful dressing-gown of silk and
lace.
Lady Frederick.
Now, are you pleased?
Mereston.
Of course I’m pleased.
Lady Frederick.
Then you may make love to me.
Mereston.
You say such disconcerting things.
Lady Frederick.
[Laughing.] Well, Charlie, you’ve found no difficulty in doing it for the last fortnight. You’re not going to pretend that you’re already at a loss for pretty speeches?
Mereston.
When I came here, I had a thousand things to say to you, but you’ve driven them all out of my head. Won’t you give me an answer now?
Lady Frederick.
What to?
Mereston.
You’ve not forgo
tten that I asked you to marry me?
Lady Frederick.
No, but you asked me under very peculiar circumstances. I wonder if you can repeat the offer now in cold blood?
Mereston.
Of course. What a cad you must think me!
Lady Frederick.
Are you sure you want to marry me still — after having slept over it?
Mereston.
Yes.
Lady Frederick.
You are a good boy, and I’m a beast to treat you so abominably. It’s awfully nice of you.
Mereston.
Well, what is the answer?
Lady Frederick.
My dear, I’ve been giving it you for the last half-hour.
Mereston.
How?
Lady Frederick.
You don’t for a moment suppose I should have let you into those horrible mysteries of my toilette if I’d had any intention of marrying you? Give me credit for a certain amount of intelligence and good feeling. I should have kept up the illusion, at all events till after the honeymoon.
Mereston.
Are you going to refuse me?
Lady Frederick.
Aren’t you rather glad?
Mereston.
No, no, no.
Lady Frederick.
[Putting her arm through his.] Now let us talk it over sensibly. You’re a very nice boy, and I’m awfully fond of you. But you’re twenty-two, and heaven only knows my age. You see, the church in which I was baptized was burnt down the year I was born, so I don’t know how old I am.
Mereston.
[Smiling.] Where was it burnt?
Lady Frederick.
In Ireland.
Mereston.
I thought so.
Lady Frederick.
Just at present I can make a decent enough show by taking infinite pains; and my hand is not so heavy that the innocent eyes of your sex can discover how much of me is due to art. But in ten years you’ll only be thirty-two, and then, if I married you, my whole life would be a mortal struggle to preserve some semblance of youth. Haven’t you seen those old hags who’ve never surrendered to Anno Domini, with their poor, thin, wrinkled cheeks covered with paint, and the dreadful wigs that hide a hairless pate? Rather cock-eyed, don’t you know, and invariably flaxen. You’ve laughed at their ridiculous graces, and you’ve been disgusted too. Oh, I’m so sorry for them, poor things. And I should become just like that, for I should never have the courage to let my hair be white so long as yours was brown. But if I don’t marry you, I can look forward to the white hairs fairly happily. The first I shall pluck out, and the second I shall pluck out. But when the third comes I’ll give in, and I’ll throw my rouge and my poudre de riz and my pencils into the fire.
Mereston.
But d’you think I should ever change?
Lady Frederick.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 326
