Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 348
Dickie.
[With amusement.] Oh, Penelope and I are dining at the Carlton grill room, and going to a music hall.
[Barlow comes up to them.
Barlow.
Good-bye, Mrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Effusively.] Good-bye.
Barlow.
[To Penelope, as he shakes hands with her.] Devilish fine woman.
Penelope.
[Pretending to be outraged.] Uncle Davenport!
Barlow.
Good-bye, dear. Quite a lady.
Penelope.
Good-bye.
[Barlow and Mrs. Golightly go out.
Golightly.
[As he is following.] Are you all right?
Penelope.
Yes, leave it to me. I’m beginning to feel my feet.
Golightly.
[With a smile.] I noticed it.
[Golightly goes out.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Charming man your uncle is, Penelope. So distinguished.
Penelope.
You’ve made a conquest of him. He told me you were a devilish fine woman.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Not really? Men often tell me I’m a womanly woman.
Penelope.
I daresay it means the same thing.
Mrs. Fergusson.
But I must fly too. I really had no idea it was so late.
Penelope.
Are you doing anything to-night?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, no! I live very quietly. There’s nothing that I enjoy more than an evening all by myself, with a book.
Penelope.
You used to be so fond of going out.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I know that my husband prefers me to remain at home. And when I think of him bravely serving his country in a foreign land I have no heart for gaiety.
Penelope.
What a charming nature you have.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[To Dickie.] My husband’s in a man-of-war. He’s stationed at Malta, you know. It’s so dreadful that my health forces me to remain in England.
Penelope.
I wonder if you’d do me a great kindness.
Mrs. Fergusson.
My dear, I’ll always do anything for an old friend.
Penelope.
The fact is, I’ve had a perfectly fiendish headache the whole afternoon.
Dickie.
[Triumphantly.] I knew there was something the matter with you the moment I came in.
Penelope.
We’ve got a couple of stalls for a music hall to-night. It would be awfully kind of you if you’d go with Dickie instead of me.
[A look of intelligence passes between Dickie and Mrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I?
Penelope.
Dickie hates going out alone, and I simply can’t stir. You can have a jolly little dinner together at a restaurant, and you can go on afterwards.
Dickie.
Are you really sure you can’t go, Pen?
Penelope.
It’s absolutely out of the question.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Don’t you think Dr. O’Farrell ought to stay and look after you?
Penelope.
Oh, no! It’ll do him good to go out. He’s been working so dreadfully hard. This afternoon he had a consultation that lasted nearly an hour.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[To Dickie.] Would you like me to come with you?
Dickie.
I should love it, if it wouldn’t bore you.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Then I shall be delighted.
Penelope.
Thanks so much. But it’s getting very late. I think you ought to start at once.
Dickie.
You’re sure you don’t mind my leaving you, Penelope?
Penelope.
Positive.
Dickie.
Well, just wait a moment, and I’ll make you up a dose of something.
Penelope.
[Hastily.] Oh, no, I promise you I’m much better without medicine.
Dickie.
Nonsense. Of course I must give you something.
[He goes out.
Mrs. Fergusson.
That’s the advantage of having a doctor in the family.
Penelope.
[Crossly.] Yes, it’s a great advantage.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I do envy you, having your husband always at hand. When I think of mine bravely serving his country — and you know, every doctor I go to tells me it would be most dangerous for me to join him.
[Dickie comes in with a little medicine glass, filled with a milky fluid.
Dickie.
Here it is.
Penelope.
Oh, no, Dickie, I’d much rather not.
Dickie.
Don’t be silly, darling. This’ll pull you together like anything.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’m sure she ought to lie down.
Penelope.
No, I think I’d rather stand up if you don’t mind.
Dickie.
How extraordinarily unreasonable you are! Now lie down on this sofa.
Penelope.
Of course, if I absolutely must.
[She lies down on a sofa.
Mrs. Fergusson.
We must make you comfortable before we go.
Dickie.
Let’s put all the cushions behind her. Is that nice?
Penelope.
Yes, thank you.
Dickie.
Poor little thing.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’m sure she ought to have something over her feet.
Dickie.
Let’s put this rug over her feet. There. Now take this medicine.... There....
Penelope.
Oh, no, Dickie. I’ll take it after you’ve gone. I really will. I promise you I’ll take it.
Dickie.
Why on earth can’t you take it now?
Penelope.
Well, I hate making faces before you.
Dickie.
But I’ve often seen you make faces.
Penelope.
Yes, at you. That’s quite a different thing.
Dickie.
Now, take it like a good girl.
Penelope.
After you’ve gone.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[With great determination.] I’m not going to stir from this room till you’ve taken it.
Penelope.
[Resigned.] Give it me. Hold my nose, Dickie.
[She swallows it and makes a face.
Oh, I wish I’d never married you, Dickie.
Dickie.
It’ll make you feel like one o’clock.
Penelope.
I don’t want to feel like one o’clock.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Good-bye. So sorry you’re feeling seedy.
Dickie.
Good-bye, darling.
Penelope.
I hope you’ll have an awfully good time.
[Dickie and Mrs. Fergusson go out. Penelope springs up, throws the cushions angrily aside, makes one or two quick steps towards the door as though to call them back, then stops.
Penelope.
No, I won’t. I won’t.
[She comes slowly back, then sinks down and bursts into tears.
End of the First Act.
THE SECOND ACT
Scene: Dr. O’Farrell’s consulting-room. It is a comfortably furnished room, with engravings on the walls, photographs in silver frames, and flowers on the chimney-piece. There is a large desk on one side, with papers on it, books, and a reading-lamp. There is a revolving-chair for Dickie to sit in, and a chair on the other side of the desk for the patient. On a side table are a microscope, a stand for test tubes, one or two medicine bottles, a row of large bottles containing chemicals, and an electric lamp. There is a sofa without arm
s for patients to lie upon, and there are two or three chairs besides. On the shelves are medical books. On a little table is a pile of “Lancets.”
Dickie is sitting at his desk, with his stethoscope still in his ears. A patient is standing up, buttoning up his braces. He puts on his waistcoat and coat as the conversation proceeds. He is a very timid little man, with a bald head and gold spectacles. He has an intensely nervous, apologetic manner.
Dickie.
I’ll just write you out a prescription, shall I?
Patient.
Oh, it’s too good of you. I’m afraid I’m giving you so much trouble.
Dickie.
Not at all. Now what would you like me to give you?
Patient.
[Dreadfully embarrassed.] Oh, whatever you like, please. It’s too good of you.
Dickie.
You know, there’s not much the matter with you.
Patient.
Oh, I’m so sorry. I really, really....
Dickie.
I should have thought you’d be rather pleased.
Patient.
[Apologetically.] Yes, of course, I’m very much pleased. I didn’t mean that. I’ve taken up so much of your time.
Dickie.
It’s only out of the people who’ve got nothing the matter with them that I make a living. The people who are ill either get well or die, and that’s the end of them.
Patient.
Yes, I see. I never thought of that. Beautiful day it is, isn’t it?
Dickie.
Won’t you sit down?
Patient.
Oh, it’s too good of you. Thank you, thank you. I’m afraid I’m taking up so much of your time.
Dickie.
I always make my patients sit on the other side of my desk since one of them suddenly saw a snake on me, and flung himself at my throat in order to save me from being bitten. He nearly throttled me in the process, and when I knelt on his chest, he said I was an ungrateful devil, and he wouldn’t interfere with the snakes next time they went for me.
Patient.
[Extremely agitated.] Oh, but you don’t think there’s any danger of my flying at your throat, do you?
Dickie.
[With a laugh.] No, of course not.
Patient.
I drink nothing for my luncheon, and only claret and water for my dinner.
Dickie.
I suppose you wouldn’t think you’d had your money’s worth if I gave you no medicine?
Patient.
Oh, it’s too good of you, but I think, for my wife’s sake, I’d like to take something.
Dickie.
Well, look here, I’ve given you some strychnine to buck you up, and some bismuth to quiet you down. Take it three times a day after meals.
Patient.
Oh, thank you so much. I’m sure it’s just what I want. And now — er. And now — er....
[He gets up, overcome with embarrassment.
Dickie.
I think there’s nothing more I can do for you.
Patient.
No, er — thank you very much. I — er — it’s so good of you to have taken so much trouble. Yes, er....
Dickie.
[Understanding.] Oh.... My fee is two guineas.
Patient.
[Infinitely relieved.] Oh, thank you so much. That’s just what I wanted to ask you. Shall I write you a cheque?
Dickie.
We always prefer to have it in hard cash, you know, in case it’s a bogus cheque.
Patient.
Oh, certainly. It’s too good of you. I thought you mightn’t like it.
Dickie.
It’s extraordinary how nervous people are about giving a doctor money. If you only knew how jolly glad he is to get it.
Patient.
Yes. Thank you very much.
[The patient takes two guineas out of his pocket and puts them nervously on the chimney-piece.
Dickie.
Hang it all, man, not on the mantelpiece. There are limits.
Patient.
Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m so sorry.
Dickie.
We always like it put on the desk.
Patient.
I don’t often come and consult doctors.
Dickie.
I can see that. If you did you’d probably give me two pounds and say you hadn’t got two shillings on you, especially if you were a woman.
Patient.
You don’t say so. Really it never occurred to me.
Dickie.
Thank you. Well, good-bye.
Patient.
Good-bye, and thank you so much. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Good-bye.
[Dickie leads him to the door and shows him out. At the door he sees Golightly.
Dickie.
Hulloa! Come in, won’t you? [Calling upstairs.] Pen, here’s your noble parent.
[Golightly comes in.
Golightly.
I was just going up to see Pen.
Dickie.
Come and sit down here, and we’ll have a smoke.
Golightly.
Aren’t you expecting patients?
Dickie.
Oh, it’s just on five o’clock. I don’t suppose any one else will come. We might have tea down here.
Golightly.
How are things going?
Dickie.
Rotten. Look here, a wretched two guineas. That’s all I’ve made this afternoon.
[Penelope comes in.
Penelope.
Well, father?
Golightly.
Kiss your noble parent, my child. You’ve got a new dress on.
Penelope.
I rather like it, don’t you?
Dickie.
Is that another new frock, Pen?
Penelope.
Yes, darling. Why?
Dickie.
Oh, nothing.
Penelope.
The wife of a fashionable physician has to spend a lot of money on her clothes.
Golightly.
Dickie was lamenting that times were very bad.
Dickie.
What can you expect with this beastly weather! Fine, dry, cold day after day. We haven’t had a fog this autumn. It doesn’t give one a chance. Of course everybody keeps well. Times are getting worse and worse. Everybody has decent drains now. An officious Government gives people pure water. If it weren’t for patent medicines and the malade imaginaire half the doctors in London would starve.
Penelope.
Never mind, Dickie. There may be a motor accident just outside our front door one of these days.
Dickie.
It would be just like my luck if they were all killed outright. No, what I want is a really good epidemic, a very complicated form of influenza that’d keep people on their backs for about a month.
Penelope.
And supposing I got it?
Dickie.
Well, if you got it that bounder on the other side of the street would have to treat you. And he couldn’t charge you as you’re my wife, and he’d simply grind his teeth at having to waste his time.
Penelope.
The bounder on the other side of the street is Dr. Rogers. I like him much better than Dickie.
Dickie.
Pompous ass.
Penelope.
He’s got such a pleasant bedside manner.
Dickie.
You’ve never seen my bedside manner. [Looking at his hands.] I say, I must just go and wash my hands, they’re covered with Picric Acid.
[Exit.
Penelope.
Where’s mother? Converting the heathen?
Golightly.
From the safe distance of the Albert Hall.
Penelope.
[With a change of manner.] I’m glad you came alone.
Golightly.
Is anything the matter?
Penelope.
[Breaking out.] I can’t go on with it any longer. I
’ve come to the end of my strength.
Golightly.
Is Dickie still ...?
Penelope.
Yes. I can’t imagine what he sees in her. I sit and watch her sometimes and wonder what she has that I haven’t got. You don’t think I’m plain, do you?
Golightly.
Certainly not. If you had been I should have exposed you at your birth, like the ancient Spartans.
Penelope.
There are lots of men who are willing to tell me that I’m extremely attractive.
Golightly.
Why don’t you let them?
Penelope.
My dear father, you’re the most immoral parent I’ve ever come across.
Golightly.
[With a little deprecatory shrug.] It might be politic.
Penelope.
[Shaking her head.] No, I don’t know whether I shall ever get Dickie back again, but I don’t want to get him back by exciting his jealousy. I don’t want his love if I can only have it by making him think other men are in love with me.
Golightly.
Remember that two and two never make five.
Penelope.
[Impatiently.] It’s easy enough to give advice. You’ve only got to sit still and watch. I’ve got to do things. And the worst of it is that doing things means doing nothing.
Golightly.
My dear.
Penelope.
Now, father, don’t look as if you didn’t understand or I shall throw something at your head. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could be up and doing, but I just have to sit still and keep my temper. You don’t know what I’ve suffered this month with a smiling face. I’ve laughed while my heart ached. I’ve chaffed Dickie when I’ve known he was just going to meet Ada Fergusson. I’ve arranged little parties so that they might be together. I haven’t even dared to cry by myself in case Ada Fergusson should see that my eyes were red and tell Dickie. He’s seen her every day, every single day for the last month, and all the time I’ve been cheerful and pleasant and amusing.
Golightly.
But how does he manage to get the time?
Penelope.
Of course he’s been neglecting his practice. He’s sent his assistant to people he ought to have seen himself. You remember Mrs. Mack, don’t you?
Golightly.
[Smiling.] The imaginary Mrs. Mack? Yes.
Penelope.
If you knew how I hated Mrs. Mack! She’s been having operations. She has an operation about once a week, and Dickie goes off for the whole day in his car.
Golightly.
She must have the constitution of a boa-constrictor.
Penelope.
And the curious thing is that she always has an operation when there’s a race meeting. She had an operation for the Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton; and she had another operation for the Cesarewitch, and a third for Sandown.