Plays Extravagant

by Dan Laurence

  MEEK. Only that the country has very good roads now, sir. Motor coaches ply every day all the year round. The last active brigand retired fifteen years ago, and is ninety years old.

  TALLBOYS. The usual tissue of lies. That headman is in league with the brigands. He takes a turn himself occasionally, I should say.

  MEEK. I think not, sir. The fact is –

  TALLBOYS. Did I hear you say ‘The fact is’?

  MEEK. Sorry, sir. That old brigand was the headman himself. He is sending you a present of a sheep and six turkeys.

  TALLBOYS. Send them back instantly. Take them back on your damned bicycle. Inform him that British officers are not orientals, and do not accept bribes from officials in whose districts they have to restore order.

  MEEK. He wont understand, sir. He wont believe you have any authority unless you take presents. Besides, they havnt arrived yet.

  TALLBOYS. Well, when his messengers arrive pack them back with their sheep and their turkeys and a note to say that my favor can be earned by honesty and diligence, but not purchased.

  MEEK. They wont dare take back either the presents or the note, sir. Theyll steal the sheep and turkeys and report gracious messages from you. Better keep the meat and the birds, sir: they will be welcome after a long stretch of regulation food.

  TALLBOYS. Private Meek.

  MEEK. Yessir.

  TALLBOYS. If you should be at any future time entrusted with the command of this expedition you will no doubt give effect to your own views and moral standards. For the present will you be good enough to obey my orders without comment?

  MEEK. Yessir. Sorry, sir.

  As Meek salutes and turns to go, he is confronted by the nurse, who, brilliantly undressed for bathing under a variegated silk wrap, comes from the pavilion, followed by the patient in the character of a native servant. All traces of the patient’s illness have disappeared: she is sunburnt to the color of terra cotta; and her muscles are hard and glistening with unguent. She is disguised en belle sauvage by headdress, wig, ornaments, and girdle proper to no locality on earth except perhaps the Russian ballet. She carries a sun umbrella and a rug.

  TALLBOYS [rising gallantly] Ah, my dear Countess, delighted to see you. How good of you to come!

  THE COUNTESS [giving him her finger tips] How do, Colonel? Hot, isnt it? [Her dialect is now a spirited amalgamation of the foreign accents of all the waiters she has known].

  TALLBOYS. Take my chair. [He goes behind it and moves it nearer to her].

  THE COUNTESS. Thanks. [She throws of her wrap, which the patient takes, and flings herself with careless elegance into the chair, calling] Mr Meek. Mr Mee-e-e-eek!

  Meek returns smartly, and touches the front of his cap.

  THE COUNTESS. My new things from Paris have arrived at last. If you would be so very sweet as to get them to my bungalow somehow. Of course I will pay anything necessary. And could you get a letter of credit cashed for me. I’d better have three hundred pounds to go on with.

  MEEK [quite at his ease: unconsciously dropping the soldier and assuming the gentleman] How many boxes, Countess?

  THE COUNTESS. Six, I am afraid. Will it be a lot of trouble?

  MEEK. It will involve a camel.

  THE COUNTESS. Oh, strings of camels if necessary. Expense is no object. And the letter of credit?

  MEEK. Sorry, Countess: I have only two hundred on me. You shall have the other hundred tomorrow. [He hands her a roll of notes; and she gives him the letter of credit].

  THE COUNTESS. You are never at a loss. Thanks. So good of you.

  TALLBOYS. Chut! Dismiss.

  Meek comes to attention, salutes, left-turns, and goes out at the double.

  TALLBOYS [who has listened to this colloquy in renewed stupefaction] Countess: that was very naughty of you.

  THE COUNTESS. What have I done?

  TALLBOYS. In camp you must never forget discipline. We keep it in the background; but it is always there and always necessary. That man is a private soldier. Any sort of social relation – any hint of familiarity with him – is impossible for you.

  THE COUNTESS. But surely I may treat him as a human being.

  TALLBOYS. Most certainly not. Your intention is natural and kindly; but if you treat a private soldier as a human being the result is disastrous to himself. He presumes. He takes liberties. And the consequence of that is that he gets into trouble and has a very bad time of it until he is taught his proper place by appropriate disciplinary measures. I must ask you to be particularly careful with this man Meek. He is only half-witted: he carries all his money about with him. If you have occasion to speak to him, make him feel by your tone that the relation between you is one of a superior addressing a very distant inferior. Never let him address you on his own initiative, or call you anything but ‘my lady.’ If there is anything we can do for you we shall be delighted to do it; but you must always ask me.

  The patient, greatly pleased with the colonel for snubbing Sweetie, deposits her rug and umbrella on the sand, and places a chair for him on the lady’s right with grinning courtesy. She then seats herself on the rug, and listens to them, hugging her knees and her umbrella, and trying to look as indigenous as possible.

  TALLBOYS. Thank you. [He sits down].

  THE COUNTESS. I am so sorry. But if I ask anyone else they only look helpless and say ‘You had better see Meek about it.’

  TALLBOYS. No doubt they put everything on the poor fellow because he is not quite all there. Is it understood that in future you come to me, and not to Meek?

  THE COUNTESS. I will indeed, Colonel. I am so sorry, and I thoroughly understand. I am scolded and forgiven, arnt I?

  TALLBOYS [smiling graciously] Admonished, we call it. But of course it is not your fault: I have no right to scold you. It is I who must ask your forgiveness.

  THE COUNTESS. Granted.

  THE PATIENT [in waiting behind them, coughs significantly]!!

  THE COUNTESS [hastily] A vulgar expression, Colonel, isnt it? But so simple and direct. I like it.

  TALLBOYS. I didnt know it was vulgar. It is concise.

  THE COUNTESS. Of course it isnt really vulgar. But a little lower middle class, if you follow me.

  THE PATIENT [pokes the chair with the sun umbrella]!

  THE COUNTESS [as before] Any news of the brigands, Colonel?

  TALLBOYS. No; but Miss Mopply’s mother, who is in a distracted condition – very naturally of course, poor woman! – has actually sent me the ransom. She implores me to pay it and release her child. She is afraid that if I make the slightest hostile demonstration the brigands will cut off the girl’s fingers and send them in one by one until the ransom is paid. She thinks they may even begin with her ears, and disfigure her for life. Of course that is a possibility: such things have been done; and the poor lady points out very justly that I cannot replace her daughter’s ears by exterminating the brigands afterwards, as I shall most certainly do if they dare lay a hand on a British lady. But I cannot countenance such a concession to deliberate criminality as the payment of a ransom. [The two conspirators exchange dismayed glances]. I have sent a message to the old lady by wireless to say that the payment of a ransom is out of the question, but that the British Government is offering a substantial reward for information.

  THE COUNTESS [jumping up excitedly] Wotjesoy? A reward on top of the ransom?

  THE PATIENT [pokes her savagely with the umbrella]!!!

  TALLBOYS [surprised] No. Instead of the ransom.

  THE COUNTESS [recollecting herself] Of course. How silly of me! [She sits down and adds, reflectively] If this native girl could find out anything would she get the reward?

  TALLBOYS. Certainly she would. Good idea that: what?

  THE COUNTESS. Yes, Colonel, isnt it?

  TALLBOYS. By the way, Countess, I met three people yesterday who know you very well.

  THE PATIENT [forgetting herself and scrambling forward to her knees] But you –

  THE COUNTESS [stopping her w
ith a backhand slap on the mouth] Silence, girl. How dare you interrupt the colonel? Go back to your place and hold your tongue.

  The Patient obeys humbly until the Colonel delicately turns his head away, when she shakes her fist threateningly at the smiter.

  TALLBOYS. One of them was a lady. I happened to mention your brother’s name; and she lit up at once and said ‘Dear Aubrey Bagot! I know his sister intimately. We were all three children together.’

  THE COUNTESS. It must have been dear Florence Dorchester. I hope she wont come here. I want to have an absolute holiday. I dont want to see anybody – except you, Colonel.

  TALLBOYS. Haw! Very good of you to say so.

  The Burglar comes from the bathing tent, very elegant in black and white bathing costume and black silken wrap with white silk lapels: a clerical touch.

  TALLBOYS [continuing] Ah, Bagot! Ready for your dip? I was just telling the Countess that I met some friends of yours yesterday. Fancy coming on them out here of all places! Shews how small the world is, after all. [Rising] And now I am off to inspect stores. There is a shortage of maroons that I dont understand.

  THE COUNTESS. What a pity! I love maroons. They have such nice ones at that confectioner’s near the Place Vendôme.

  TALLBOYS. Oh, youre thinking of marrons glacés. No: maroons are fireworks: things that go off with a bang. For signalling.

  THE COUNTESS. Oh! the things they used to have in the war to warn us of an air raid?

  TALLBOYS. Just so. Well, au revoir.

  THE COUNTESS. Au revoir. Au revoir.

  The Colonel touches his cap gallantly and bustles off past the hut to his inspection.

  THE PATIENT [rising vengefully] You dare smack me in the face again, my girl, and I’ll lay you out flat, even if I have to give away the whole show.

  THE COUNTESS. Well, you keep that umbrella to yourself next time. What do you suppose I’m made of? Leather?

  AUBREY [coming between them] Now! now! now! Children! children! Whats wrong?

  THE PATIENT. This silly bitch –

  AUBREY. Oh no, no, no, Mops. Damn it, be a lady. Whats the matter, Sweetie?

  THE COUNTESS. You shouldnt talk like that, dearie. A low girl might say a thing like that; but youre expected to know better.

  AUBREY. Mops: youve shocked Sweetie.

  THE PATIENT. Well: do you think she never shocks me? She’s a walking earthquake. And now what are we to do if these people the colonel has met turn up? There must be a real Countess Valbrioni.

  THE COUNTESS. Not much there isnt. Do you suppose we three are the only liars in the world? All you have to do is to give yourself a swell title, and all the snobs within fifty miles will swear that you are their dearest friend.

  AUBREY. The first lesson a crook has to learn, darling, is that nothing succeeds like lying. Make any statement that is so true that it has been staring us in the face all our lives, and the whole world will rise up and passionately contradict you. If you dont withdraw and apologize, it will be the worse for you. But just tell a thundering silly lie that everyone knows is a lie, and a murmur of pleased assent will hum up from every quarter of the globe. If Sweetie had introduced, herself as what she obviously is: that is, an ex-hotel chambermaid who became a criminal on principle through the preaching of an ex-army chaplain – me! – with whom she fell in love deeply but transitorily, nobody would have believed her. But she has no sooner made the impossible statement that she is a countess, and that the ex-chaplain is her half stepbrother the Honorable Aubrey Bagot, than clouds of witnesses spring up to assure Colonel Tallboys that it is all gospel truth. So have no fear of exposure, darling; and do you, my Sweetie, lie and lie and lie until your imagination bursts.

  THE PATIENT [throwing herself moodily into the deck chair] I wonder are all crooks as fond of preaching as you are.

  AUBREY [bending affectionately over her] Not all, dearest. I dont preach because I am a crook, but because I have a gift – a divine gift – that way.

  THE PATIENT. Where did you get it? Is your father a bishop?

  AUBREY [straightening himself up to declaim] Have I not told you that he is an atheist, and, like all atheists, an inflexible moralist? He said I might become a preacher if I believed what I preached. That, of course, was nonsense: my gift of preaching is not confined to what I believe: I can preach anything, true or false. I am like a violin, on which you can play all sorts of music, from jazz to Mozart. [Relaxing] But the old man never could be brought to see it. He said the proper profession for me was the bar. [He snatches up the rug; replaces it on the patient’s left; and throws himself down lazily on it].

  THE COUNTESS. Aint we going to bathe?

  AUBREY. Oh, dash it, dont lets go into the water. Lets sunbathe.

  THE COUNTESS. Lazy devil! [She takes the folding stool from the pavilion, and sits down discontentedly].

  THE PATIENT. Your father was right. If you have no conscience about what you preach, your proper job is at the bar. But as you have no conscience about what you do, you will probably end in the dock.

  AUBREY. Most likely. But I am a born preacher, not a pleader. The theory of legal procedure is that if you set two liars to expose one another, the truth will emerge. That would not suit me. I greatly dislike being contradicted; and the only place where a man is safe from contradiction is in the pulpit. I detest argument: it is unmannerly, and obscures the preacher’s message. Besides, the law is too much concerned with crude facts and too little with spiritual things; and it is in spiritual things that I am interested: they alone call my gift into full play.

  THE PATIENT. You call preaching things you dont believe spiritual, do you?

  AUBREY. Put a sock in it, Mops. My gift is divine: it is not limited by my petty personal convictions. It is a gift of lucidity as well as of eloquence. Lucidity is one of the most precious of gifts: the gift of the teacher: the gift of explanation. I can explain anything to anybody; and I love doing it. I feel I must do it if only the doctrine is beautiful and subtle and exquisitely put together. I may feel instinctively that it is the rottenest nonsense. Still, if I can get a moving dramatic effect out of it, and preach a really splendid sermon about it, my gift takes possession of me and obliges me to sail in and do it. Sweetie: go and get me a cushion for my head: there’s a dear.

  THE PATIENT. Do nothing of the kind, Sweetie. Let him wait on himself.

  THE COUNTESS [rising] He’d only mess everything about looking for it. I like to have my rooms left tidy. [She goes into the pavilion].

  THE PATIENT. Isnt that funny, Pops? She has a conscience as a chambermaid and none as a woman.

  AUBREY. Very few people have more than one point of honor, Mops. And lots of them havnt even one.

  THE COUNTESS [returning with a silk cushion, which she hurls hard at Aubrey’s head] There! And now I give you both notice. I’m getting bored with this place.

  AUBREY [making himself comfortable with his cushion] Oh, you are always getting bored.

  THE PATIENT. I suppose that means that you are tired of Tallboys.

  THE COUNTESS [moving restlessly about] I am fed up with him to that degree that I sometimes feel I could almost marry him, just to put him on the list of the inevitables that I must put up with willynilly, like getting up in the morning, and washing and dressing and eating and drinking: things you darent let yourself get tired of because if you did theyd drive you mad. Lets go and have a bit of real life somewhere.

  THE PATIENT. Real life! I wonder where thats to be found! Weve spent nearly six thousand pounds in two months looking for it. The money we got for the necklace wont last for ever.

  AUBREY. Sweetie: you will have to stick it in this spot until we touch that ransom; and that’s all about it.

  THE COUNTESS. I’ll do as I like, not what you tell me. And I tell you again – the two of you – you can take a week’s notice. I’m bored with this business. I need a change.

  AUBREY. What are we to do with her, Mops? Always change! change! change!

 
THE COUNTESS. Well, I like to see new faces.

  AUBREY. I could be happy as a Buddha in a temple, eternally contemplating my own middle and having the same old priest to polish me up every day. But Sweetie wants a new face every fortnight. I have known her fall in love with a new face twice in the same week. [Turning to her] Woman: have you any sense of the greatness of constancy?

  THE COUNTESS. I might be constant if I were a real countess. But I’m only a hotel chambermaid; and a hotel chambermaid gets so used to new faces that at last they become a necessity. [She sits down on the stool].