by Dan Laurence
ADRIAN [puts his hand in his pocket] –
EPIFANIA. Stop. Mr Sagamore: your had better be my family solicitor and send me your bill at the end of the year.
ALASTAIR. Send a County Court summons with it, Sagamore; or you may go whistle for your money.
EPIFANIA. Do hold your tongue, Alastair. Of course I always wait for a summons. It is a simple precaution against paying bills sent in twice over.
SAGAMORE. Quite, Mrs Fitzfassenden. An excellent rule.
EPIFANIA. You are a man of sense, Mr Sagamore. And now I must have some fresh air: this orgy of domesticity has made the room stuffy. Come along, Adrian: we’ll drive out into the country somewhere, and lunch there. I know the quaintest little place up the river. Goodbye, Mr Sagamore. Goodbye, Seedy: take care of Alastair for me. His good looks will give you a pleasing sensation down your spine. [She goes out].
SAGAMORE [as Adrian is following her out] By the way, Mr Blenderbland, what did you come for?
ADRIAN. I totally forget. I dont feel equal to any more this morning. [He goes out without further salutations].
SAGAMORE [to Alastair] Your wife is a most extraordinary lady.
ALASTAIR [utters a stifled howl]!
PATRICIA. He cant find words for her, poor dear.
SAGAMORE. And now, Mr Fitzfassenden, may I ask what you came to consult me about?
ALASTAIR. I dont know. After ten minutes of Eppy I never do know whether I am standing on my head or my heels.
PATRICIA. It was about a separation. Pull yourself together a bit, dear.
ALASTAIR. Separation! You might as well try to separate yourself from a hurricane. [He becomes sententious]. Listen to me, Sagamore. I am one of those unfortunate people – you must know a lot of them – I daresay many of them have sat in this chair and talked to you as I am talking to you –
SAGAMORE [after waiting in vain for a completion of the sentence] Yes? You were saying – ?
PATRICIA. Dont wander, Ally. Tell Mr Sagamore what sort of people.
ALASTAIR. The people that have bitten off more than they can chew. The ordinary chaps that have married extraordinary women. The commonplace women that have married extraordinary men. They all thought it was a splendid catch for them. Take my advice, Sagamore: marry in your own class. Dont misunderstand me: I dont mean rank or money. What I mean – what I mean –
PATRICIA [coming to the rescue] What he means is that people who marry should think about the same things and like the same things. They shouldnt be over oneanother’s heads, if you follow me.
SAGAMORE. Perfectly. May I take it that Alastair made that mistake, and that later on (too late, unfortunately) he discovered in you a – shall I say a soul mate?
ALASTAIR. No: that sounds silly. Literary, you know.
PATRICIA. More of a mind mate, I should call it.
SAGAMORE. Precisely. Thank you. A mind mate with whom he could be thoroughly comfortable.
ALASTAIR [grasping Sagamore’s hand fervently] Thank you, Sagamore: you are a real friend. Youve got it exactly. Think over it for us. Come on, Seedy darling: we mustnt waste a busy man’s time.
He goes out, leaving Patricia and Sagamore alone together. She rises and goes to the table.
PATRICIA. Mr Sagamore: youll stand by us, wont you? Youll save Ally from that awful woman. Youll save him for me.
SAGAMORE. I’m afraid I cant control her, Miss Smith. Whats worse, I’m afraid she can control me. It’s not only that I cant afford to offend so rich a client. It’s that her will paralyzes mine. It’s a sort of genius some people have.
PATRICIA. Dont you be afraid of her, Mr Sagamore. She has a genius for making money. It’s in her family. Money comes to her. But I have my little bit of genius too; and she cant paralyze me.
SAGAMORE. And what have you a genius for, Miss Smith, if I may ask?
PATRICIA. For making people happy. Unhappy people come to me just as money comes to her.
SAGAMORE [shaking his head] I cant think that your will is stronger than hers, Miss Smith.
PATRICIA. It isnt, Mr Sagamore. I have no will at all. But I get what I want, somehow. Youll see.
ALASTAIR [outside, shouting] Seedy! Come on!
PATRICIA. Coming, darling. [To Sagamore] Goodbye, Mr Sagamore [they shake hands quickly. She hurries to the door]. Youll see. [She goes out].
SAGAMORE [to himself.] I think I shall wait and see.
He resumes his morning’s work.
ACT II
A dismal old coffee room in an ancient riverside inn. An immense and hideous sideboard of the murkiest mahogany stretches across the end wall. Above it hang, picturewise, two signboards, nearly black with age: one shewing the arms of the lord of the manor, and the other a sow standing upright and playing a flageolet. Underneath the sow is inscribed in tall letters The Pig and Whistle. Between these works of art is a glass case containing an enormous stuffed fish, certainly not less than a century old.
At right angles to the sideboard, and extending nearly the whole length of the room, are two separate long tables, laid for lunch for about a dozen people each. The chairs, too close together, are plain wooden ones, hard and uncomfortable. The cutlery is cheap kitchen ware, with rickety silver cruets and salt cellars to keep up appearances. The table cloths are coarse, and are not fresh from the laundry.
The walls are covered with an ugly Victorian paper which may have begun as a design of dull purple wreaths on a dark yellow background, but is now a flyblown muck of no describable color. On the floor a coarse drugget, very old. The door, which stands wide open and has COFFEE ROOM inscribed on it, is to the right of anyone contemplating the sideboard from the opposite end of the room. Next the door an old fashioned hatstand flattens itself against the wall; and on it hang the hat and light overcoat of Mr Adrian Blenderbland.
He, with Epifania, is seated at the end of the table farthest from the door. They have just finished a meal. The cheese and biscuits are still on the table. She looks interested and happy. He is in the worst of tempers.
EPIFANIA. How jolly!
ADRIAN [looking round disparagingly] I must be a very attractive man.
EPIFANIA [opening her eyes wide] Indeed! Not that I am denying it; but what has it to do with what I have just said?
ADRIAN. You said ‘How jolly!’ I look round at this rotten old inn trying to pretend that it’s a riverside hotel. We have just had a horrible meal of tomato tea called soup, the remains of Sunday’s joint, sprouts, potatoes, apple tart and stale American synthetic cheese. If you can suffer this and say ‘How jolly!’ there must be some irresistible attraction present; and I can see nothing that is not utterly repulsive except myself.
EPIFANIA. Dont you like these dear old-world places? I do.
ADRIAN. I dont. They ought all to be rooted up, pulled down, burnt to the ground. Your flat on the Embankment in London cost more to furnish than this place did to build from the cellar to the roof. You can get a decent lunch there, perfectly served, by a word through the telephone. Your luxurious car will whisk you out to one of a dozen first rate hotels in lovely scenery. And yet you choose this filthy old inn and say ‘How jolly!’ What is the use of being a millionairess on such terms?
EPIFANIA. Psha! When I was first let loose on the world with unlimited money, how long do you think it took me to get tired of shopping and sick of the luxuries you think so much of? About a fortnight. My father, when he had a hundred millions, travelled third class and never spent more than ten shillings a day on himself except when he was entertaining people who were useful to him. Why should he? He couldnt eat more than anyone else. He couldnt drink more than anyone else. He couldnt wear more than anyone else. Neither can I.
ADRIAN. Then why do you love money and hate spending it?
EPIFANIA. Because money is power. Money is security. Money is freedom. It’s the difference between living on the slope of a volcano and being safe in the garden of the Hesperides. And there is the continual pleasure of making more of it, which is quite easy if you have ple
nty to start with. I can turn a million into two million much more easily than a poor woman can turn five pounds into ten, even if she could get the five pounds to begin with. It turns itself, in fact.
ADRIAN. To me money is a vulgar bore and a soul destroying worry. I need it, of course; but I dont like it. I never think of it when I can possibly help it.
EPIFANIA. If you dont think about money what do you think about? Women?
ADRIAN. Yes, of course; but not exclusively.
EPIFANIA. Food?
ADRIAN. Well, I am not always thinking about my food; but I am rather particular about it. I confess I looked forward to a better lunch than [indicating the table] that.
EPIFANIA. Oho! So that is what has put you out of temper, is it?
ADRIAN [annoyed] I am not out of temper, I hope. But you promised me a very special treat. You said you had found out the most wonderful place on the river, where we could be ourselves and have a delicious cottage meal in primitive happiness. Where is the charm of this dismal hole? Have you ever eaten a viler lunch? There is not even a private sitting room: anybody can walk in here at any moment. We should have been much more comfortable at Richmond or Maidenhead. And I believe it is raining.
EPIFANIA. Is that my fault?
ADRIAN. It completes your notion of a happy day up the river. Why is it that the people who know how to enjoy themselves never have any money, and the people who have money never know how to enjoy themselves?
EPIFANIA. You are not making yourself agreeable, Adrian.
ADRIAN. You are not entertaining me very munificently, Epifania. For heaven’s sake let us get into the car and drive about the country. It is much more luxurious than this hideous coffee room, and more private.
EPIFANIA. I am tired of my car.
ADRIAN. I am not. I wish I could afford one like it.
EPIFANIA. I thought you would enjoy sitting in this crazy out-of-way place talking to me. But I find you are a spoilt old bachelor: you care about nothing but your food and your little comforts. You are worse than Alastair; for at least he could talk about boxing and tennis.
ADRIAN. And you can talk about nothing but money.
EPIFANIA. And you think money uninteresting! Oh, you should have known my father!
ADRIAN. I am very glad I did not.
EPIFANIA [suddenly dangerous] Whats that you say?
ADRIAN. My dear Epifania, if we are to remain friends, I may as well be quite frank with you. Everything you have told me about your father convinces me that though he was no doubt an affectionate parent and amiable enough to explain your rather tiresome father fixation, as Dr Freud would call it, he must have been quite the most appalling bore that ever devastated even a Rotary club.
EPIFANIA [stunned for a moment by this blasphemy] My father! You infinite nothingness! My father made a hundred and fifty millions. You never made even half a million.
ADRIAN. My good girl, your father never made anything. I have not the slightest notion of how he contrived to get a legal claim on so much of what other people made; but I do know that he lost four fifths of it by being far enough behind the times to buy up the properties of the Russian nobility in the belief that England would squash the Soviet revolution in three weeks or so. Could anyone have made a stupider mistake? Not I.
EPIFANIA [springing up] You rotten thing. [He rises apprehensively]. Take that for calling my father a bore. [She throws him].
ADRIAN [picking himself up painfully] Oh! Restrain yourself. You might hurt me very seriously.
EPIFANIA. I will hurt you until you wish yourself dead. Scum! Filth! Take that for saying he never made anything. [She throws him again].
ADRIAN. Help! help! There is a madwoman here: I shall not be able to hold her single handed. Help! [He comes behind her and seizes her round the waist].
EPIFANIA. Vermin! [She throws him over her shoulder].
ADRIAN. Police! She is murdering me. She is mad. Help! help! [He scrambles up and is flying to the door when she overtakes him].
EPIFANIA. Dirt! Carrion! [She throws him out head over heels and flings his hat and overcoat after him].
ADRIAN [outside, rolling downstairs with appalling bumps] Oh! Oh! Help! Murder! Police! Oh! [He faints. Silence].
EPIFANIA. You brute! You have killed me. [She totters to the nearest chair and sinks into it, scattering the crockery as she clutches the table with her outstretched arms and sprawls on it in convulsions].
A serious looking middleaged Egyptian gentleman in an old black frock coat and a tarboosh, speaking English too well to be mistaken for a native, hurries in.
THE EGYPTIAN [peremptorily] Whats the matter? What is going on here?
EPIFANIA [raising her head slowly and gazing at him] Who the devil are you?
THE EGYPTIAN. I am an Egyptian doctor. I hear a great disturbance. I hasten to ascertain the cause. I find you here in convulsions. Can I help?
EPIFANIA. I am dying.
THE DOCTOR. Nonsense! You can swear. The fit has subsided. You can sit up now: you are quite well. Good afternoon.
EPIFANIA. Stop. I am not quite well: I am on the point of death. I need a doctor. I am a rich woman.
THE DOCTOR. In that case you will have no difficulty in finding an English doctor. Is there anyone else who needs my help? I was upstairs. The noise was of somebody falling downstairs. He may have broken some bones. [He goes out promptly].
EPIFANIA [struggling to her feet and calling after him] Never mind him: if he has broken every bone in his body it is no more than he deserves. Come back instantly. I want you. Come back. Come back.
THE DOCTOR [returning] The landlord is taking the gentleman to the Cottage Hospital in your car.
EPIFANIA. In my car! I will not permit it. Let them get an ambulance.
THE DOCTOR. The car has gone. You should be very glad that it is being so useful.
EPIFANIA. It is your business to doctor me, not to lecture me.
THE DOCTOR. I am not your doctor: I am not in general practice. I keep a clinic for penniless Mahometan refugees; and I work in the hospital. I cannot attend to you.
EPIFANIA. You can attend to me. You must attend to me. Are you going to leave me here to die?
THE DOCTOR. You are not dying. Not yet, at least. Your own doctor will attend to you.
EPIFANIA. You are my own doctor. I tell you I am a rich woman: doctors’ fees are nothing to me: charge me what you please. But you must and shall attend to me. You are abominably rude; but you inspire confidence as a doctor.
THE DOCTOR. If I attended all those in whom I inspire confidence I should be worn out in a week. I have to reserve myself for poor and useful people.
EPIFANIA. Then you are either a fool or a Bolshevik.
THE DOCTOR. I am nothing but a servant of Allah.
EPIFANIA. You are not: you are my doctor: do you hear? I am a sick woman: you cannot abandon me to die in this wretched place.
THE DOCTOR. I see no symptoms of any sickness about you. Are you in pain?
EPIFANIA. Yes. Horrible pain.
THE DOCTOR. Where?
EPIFANIA. Dont cross-examine me as if you didnt believe me. I must have sprained my wrist throwing that beast all over the place.
THE DOCTOR. Which hand?
EPIFANIA [presenting a hand] This.
THE DOCTOR [taking her hand in a businesslike way, and pulling and turning the fingers and wrist] Nothing whatever the matter.
EPIFANIA. How do you know? It’s my hand, not yours.
THE DOCTOR. You would scream the house down if your wrist were sprained. You are shamming. Lying. Why? Is it to make yourself interesting?
EPIFANIA. Make myself interesting! Man: I am interesting.
THE DOCTOR. Not in the least, medically. Are you interesting in any other way?
EPIFANIA. I am the most interesting woman in England. I am Epifania Ognisanti di Parerga.
THE DOCTOR. Never heard of her. Italian aristocrat, I presume.
EPIFANIA. Aristocrat! Do you take me f
or a fool? My ancestors were moneylenders to all Europe five hundred years ago: we are now bankers to all the world.
THE DOCTOR. Jewess, eh?
EPIFANIA. Christian, to the last drop of my blood. Jews throw half their money away on charities and fancies like Zionism. The stupidest di Parerga can just walk round the cleverest Jew when it comes to moneymaking. We are the only real aristocracy in the world: the aristocracy of money.
THE DOCTOR. The plutocracy, in fact.
EPIFANIA. If you like. I am a plutocrat of the plutocrats.
THE DOCTOR. Well, that is a disease for which I do not prescribe. The only known cure is a revolution; but the mortality rate is high; and sometimes, if it is the wrong sort of revolution, it intensifies the disease. I can do nothing for you. I must go back to my work. Good morning.
