It’s only belladonna, you know.
Fouldes.
I’m not such a fool as my nephew, my dear.
Lady Frederick.
Why did you do it?
Fouldes.
D’you know what gratitude is?
Lady Frederick.
Thanks for past favours and a lively sense of benefits to come.
Fouldes.
Well, yesterday you had my sister in the hollow of your hand. She gave you great provocation, and you burnt those confounded letters.
Lady Frederick.
My dear Paradine, I can’t get over my own magnanimity. And what are the benefits to come?
Fouldes.
Well it might be five per cent. on the capital.
Lady Frederick.
I don’t know why you should squeeze my hands all the time.
Fouldes.
But it isn’t. Look here, don’t you get awfully tired of racketting about?
Lady Frederick.
Oh, my dear friend, I’m sick to death of it. I’ve got half a mind to retire from the world and bury myself in a hermitage.
Fouldes.
So have I, and I’ve bought the lease of a little house in Norfolk Street, Park Lane.
Lady Frederick.
Just the place for a hermitage — fashionable without being vulgar.
Fouldes.
And I propose to live there quite quietly, and I shall just subsist on a few dried herbs, don’t you know.
Lady Frederick.
But do have them cooked by a really good French chef; it makes such a difference.
Fouldes.
And what d’you say to joining me?
Lady Frederick.
I?
Fouldes.
You.
Lady Frederick.
Oh, I am a success to-day. That’s another proposal of marriage.
Fouldes.
It sounds very much like it.
Lady Frederick.
I’ve already had three this morning.
Fouldes.
Then I should think you’ve said “no” quite often enough.
Lady Frederick.
Come at ten o’clock to-morrow, and you shall see me make up.
Fouldes.
D’you think that would choke me off? D’you suppose I don’t know that behind that very artificial complexion there’s a dear little woman called Betsy who’s genuine to the bottom of her soul?
Lady Frederick.
Oh, don’t be so sentimental or I shall cry.
Fouldes.
Well, what is it to be?
Lady Frederick.
[Her voice breaking.] D’you like me still, Paradine, after all these years?
Fouldes.
Yes. [She looks at him, her lips quivering. He stretches out his arms, and she, breaking down, hides her face on his shoulder.] Now don’t be an ass, Betsy.... I know you’ll say in a minute I’m the only man you ever loved.
Lady Frederick.
[Looking up with a laugh.] I shan’t.... But what will your sister say?
Fouldes.
I’ll tell her there was only one way in which I could save Charlie from your clutches.
Lady Frederick.
What?
Fouldes.
By marrying you myself.
Lady Frederick.
[Putting up her face.] Monster.
[He kisses her lips.]
JACK STRAW
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
THE FIRST ACT
THE SECOND ACT
THE THIRD ACT
CHARACTERS
This play was produced at the Vaudeville Theatre on March 26, 1908, with the following cast:
Jack Straw
Charles Hawtrey
Count von Bremer
H. R. Hignett
Marquess of Serlo
Louis Goodrich
Rev. Lewis Abbott
Charles Troode
Ambrose Holland
Edmund Maurice
Mr. Parker-Jennings
Robert White, Junr
Vincent Parker-Jennings
Percy R. Goodyer
Head Waiter
Vincent Erne
Servant
Norman Wrighton
Lady Wanley
Vane Featherstone
Ethel Parker-Jennings
Dagmar Wiehe
Rosie Abbott
Mona Harrison
Mrs. Withers
Joy Chatwyn
Mrs. Parker-Jennings
Lottie Venne
Jack Straw
Mr. Parker-Jennings
Mrs. Parker-Jennings
Vincent
Ethel
Ambrose Holland
Lady Wanley
Lord Serlo
Count Adrian von Bremer
Horton Withers
Mrs. Withers
The Rev. Lewis Abbott
Rosie Abbott
Waiters at the Grand Babylon Hotel and Footmen at Taverner, the Parker-Jennings’ place in Cheshire
Time: The Present Day
Act I — The Lounge of the Grand Babylon Hotel
Acts II and III — The Parker-Jennings’ place in Cheshire
The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be obtained.
THE FIRST ACT
Scene: The lounge and winter garden of the Grand Babylon Hotel. There are palms and flowers in profusion, and numbers of little tables, surrounded each by two or three chairs. Several people are seated, drinking coffee and liqueurs. At the back a flight of steps leads to the restaurant, separated from the winter garden by a leaded glass partition and swinging doors. In the restaurant a band is playing.
Two or three waiters in uniform are standing about or serving customers.
Ambrose Holland and Lady Wanley come out from the restaurant. He is a well-dressed, elegant man of five and thirty. She is a handsome widow of uncertain age.
Lady Wanley.
[Pausing at the foot of the steps.] Where shall we sit?
Holland.
Let us choose a retired corner where we can gossip in peace.
Lady Wanley.
Nonsense! I didn’t come to the Grand Babylon in order to blush unseen. I caught sight of a number of people during luncheon, who I’m quite determined shall catch sight of me now.
Holland.
I was sufficiently gallant to have eyes for you only.
Lady Wanley.
[Pointing to a table.] Shall we sit there?
Holland.
D’you mind sitting on the other side? The waiter’s rather a pal of mine.
Lady Wanley.
[Sitting down.] What queer friends you have.
Holland.
Waiter.
A Waiter.
[Coming forward.] Your waiter will be here in one minute, sir.
Holland.
[To Lady Wanley.] You see, I’ve knocked about in so many places that I have friends in every city in the world and every rank in life.
Lady Wanley.
I suppose you saw the Parker-Jennings? They were sitting three tables from us.
Holland.
I did.
Lady Wanley.
Do you know that she cut me dead when I came in?
Holland.
I’ve long told you that Mrs. Parker-Jennings is growing exclusive.
Lady Wanley.
But, my dear Ambrose, that she should have the impudence to cut me....
Holland.
[Smiling.] I respect her for it.
Lady Wanley.
I’m much obliged to you.
Holland.
I don’t think it does much credit to her heart, but it certainly does to her understanding. She has discovered
that a title nowadays is not nearly such a good passport to the world of fashion as she thought it was. She knows you’re as poor as a church mouse, and she’s realised that in Society the poor are quite rightly hated and despised by all who know them.
Lady Wanley.
Yes, but remember the circumstances. Five years ago the Parker-Jennings didn’t know a soul in the world. They’d lived in Brixton all their lives.
Holland.
It has been whispered to me that in those days they were known as Mr. and Mrs. Bob Jennings — not nearly so smart, is it?
Lady Wanley.
He used to go to the City every morning with a black bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
Holland.
I wish that confounded waiter would come.
Lady Wanley.
One day an uncle in the North, from whom they vaguely had expectations, died suddenly and left them nearly two millions.
Holland.
Some people are so lucky in the way they choose their uncles.
Lady Wanley.
He was a hardware manufacturer, and no one dreamt that he had a tenth part of that fortune. I came across them in Switzerland and found they were looking for a house.
Holland.
So, with a burst of hospitality, you asked them down to Taverner, and they took it for twenty-one years.
Lady Wanley.
I introduced them to every one in the county. I gave little parties so that they might meet people. And now, if you please, the woman cuts me.
Holland.
[Dryly.] You have left out an essential detail in the account of your relations with these good folk.
Lady Wanley.
Have I?
Holland.
[Smiling.] You have omitted to mention that when they took Taverner they agreed to pay an exorbitant rent.
Lady Wanley.
They could well afford it. Besides, it was a historic place. It was worth whatever I could get for it.
Holland.
Parker-Jennings may be very vulgar, but he’s as shrewd a man as you’d find anywhere between Park Lane and Jerusalem.
Lady Wanley.
I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.
Holland.
Haven’t you? Well, then, I venture to suggest that if Mr. Parker-Jennings gave you such an enormous rent for Taverner, it was on a certain understanding. He was wise enough to find out that people can live in Cheshire all their lives and never know a soul. I don’t suppose he put it in the agreement between you, but unless I am very much mistaken he took your place only on the condition that you should get every one to call.
Lady Wanley.
[After a brief pause.] I was crippled with mortgages, and I had to send my boys to Eton.
Holland.
Good heavens, I’m not blaming you. I only wish to point out that if you introduced Mrs. Jennings to your friends, it was a matter of business rather than of sentiment.
Lady Wanley.
[With a little laugh.] I suppose you think it’s very natural that she should wish to kick away the ladder by which she climbed.
[A Waiter comes up to Holland.
Waiter (Jack Straw).
Yes, sir.
Holland.
Two coffees and two Benedictines. But you’re not my usual waiter. Where’s Pierre?
Waiter.
[Blandly.] He’s attending the funeral of an elderly female relative, sir.
[Holland looks up quickly, and then stares in a puzzled way.
Holland.
I seem to know your face. Have I seen you anywhere?
Waiter.
[With a smile.] Mr. Ambrose Holland, I think.
Holland.
Jack Straw! What on earth are you doing here?
Jack Straw.
My dear fellow, it is possible to be no less of a philosopher in the uniform of a waiter at the Grand Babylon Hotel than in the gown of a professor at the University of Oxford.
[He goes out.
Lady Wanley.
[Laughing.] It’s really very odd that waiters should address you as my dear fellow.
Holland.
What an extraordinary encounter!
Lady Wanley.
Please tell me who your friend is.
Holland.
I haven’t the ghost of an idea.
Lady Wanley.
My dear Ambrose.
Holland.
I first met him in the States. I was in considerable financial difficulties in those days — it’s three or four years ago now — and I got a small part in a travelling company. Jack Straw was a member of it, and we became great friends.
Lady Wanley.
Is that his name?
Holland.
So he assures me.
Lady Wanley.
It’s very improbable, isn’t it?
Holland.
Very. I believe Jack Straw was a highwayman, or something like that, and he’s given his name to a public-house in Hampstead.
Lady Wanley.
He must be an extraordinary man.
Holland.
He is. I don’t know whether I admire most his self-assurance or his resourcefulness. I spent with him the last two years before my ship came home. We had some pretty rough times together, but he was a pillar of strength. Difficulties seemed to arise only that he might surmount them.
Lady Wanley.
He sounds quite splendid.
Holland.
The worst of living with him was that you had no breathing-time. He’s a man with an uncontrollable love of adventure. Prosperity bores him to death, and time after time, when we’d managed to get out of rough water into smooth, he’d throw up everything for some wild goose chase.
Lady Wanley.
But who are his people?
Holland.
Heaven only knows. I know he isn’t English, though he speaks it wonderfully.
Lady Wanley.
Is he by way of being a gentleman?
Holland.
I can only tell you that he’s thoroughly at home in whatever society he finds himself.
Lady Wanley.
I daresay that’s not a bad definition of a gentleman.
Holland.
He’s sailed before the mast, been a bar-tender in New York, and an engine-driver on the Canadian Pacific. He’s been a miner up in the Klondyke, and he’s worked on a ranch in Texas. And if he’s a waiter now, I daresay he’ll be an organ-grinder next week, and a company-promoter the week after. I’ve seen half a dozen fortunes within his grasp, and he’s let them all slip through his fingers from sheer indifference to money.
Lady Wanley.
Here he is with the coffee.
[Jack Straw comes in with coffee and liqueurs.
Holland.
I should be overwhelmed with confusion at allowing you to wait on me, if I did not feel certain that it appeals enormously to your sense of humour.
Jack Straw.
It has occurred to me that you will feel a natural hesitation about giving me a tip. I may as well tell you at once that I shall feel none about taking it.
Holland.
It’s thoughtful of you to warn me. How much do I owe you?
Jack Straw.
Two shillings the coffee and three shillings the liqueur. The prices seem exorbitant to me, but I suppose people must expect to pay for the privilege of letting their friends see them at the best hotel in Europe.
Holland.
[Putting down a coin.] Don’t bother about the change.
Jack Straw.
Half a sovereign. My dear fellow, when you offer me a tip of five shillings you are presuming unwarrantably on our former acquaintance.
Holland.
[Helplessly.] I’m sure I beg your pardon.
Jack Straw.
I will keep one shilling as an adequate remuneration for my services and return you four.
Holland.
I am overpowered by your
condescension.
Jack Straw.
[To Lady Wanley, who has put a cigarette in her mouth.] Light, madam?
Holland.
I should like to ask you to sit down.
Jack Straw.
It would be eminently improper. Besides, I have other tables to attend to. But I shall be delighted to dine with you to-night if you have no other engagement.
Holland.
It’s very kind of you. But will not your duties here detain you?... Mr. Straw — Lady Wanley.
Jack Straw.
[Bowing.] How do you do. I’m only engaged here for the afternoon. Your ladyship is aware that the lower orders make a speciality in the decease of elderly female relatives.
Lady Wanley.
I have often been impressed by the piety with which they bury their maternal grandmothers.
Jack Straw.
It appears that Pierre, an old acquaintance of mine, wished to attend the funeral of a widowed aunt, the relic of an egg importer in Soho, and a highly respectable person.
Lady Wanley.
I can well imagine that nothing could be more respectable than to import eggs to Soho.
Jack Straw.
The head-waiter, who is an excellent fellow, with female relatives of his own, promised to overlook his absence if he could find a substitute. Pierre, like myself, is a person of somewhat striking physique and could find no one able to wear his clothes. He confided his distress to me, and I, knowing that his uniform would fit me like a glove offered, at once to step into the — breach.
Holland.
I am relieved to hear that your appearance in this capacity is not due to embarrassed circumstances.
Jack Straw.
I deplore the hastiness of your reasoning. My circumstances are excessively embarrassed. Excuse me, I see some people who are proposing to sit at one of my tables.
[Meanwhile people have been coming down from the restaurant and sitting at the various tables. Waiters have been handing them coffee. Horton Withers and Mrs. Withers come down, accompanied by the Rev. Lewis Abbott and Mrs. Abbott (Rosie). Jack Straw leaves Holland and Lady Wanley to attend to some people.
Lady Wanley.
There are the Withers. Why, they’ve got Rosie with them and her husband.
[She gets up and goes towards the Withers, who are honest, simple people, not distinguished, but good-natured and kindly. Lewis Abbott is a nice-looking, frank young parson. Rosie is very pretty and fragile. She is simply dressed.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 328
