by Unknown
EFFIE. Tell a lie, na, I couldna. But I’ll do that if you’ll go out at the side door and stand on the steps.
PROFESSOR. Very well.
(She goes to get his hat, cane and coat and returns immediately with them.)
PROFESSOR. It would look rather undignified, but I know what I’ll do. I’ll go out and do what my sister told me to do, in her last letter. (Rises and unfastens dressing-gown.)
EFFIE. What was that? (Having put coat and stick on sofa.)
PROFESSOR. Well, now, what was it? (Taking hat which EFFIE is holding towards him.) It was either to complain about the butcher’s bill or to order a new suit of clothes. (Puts on hat and is going.)
EFFIE (bringing him back). You’ve got your gown on.
PROFESSOR (smiling). Oh yes, very wrong, very wrong. Take it off.
(She puts it on sofa and is getting him into coat, etc.)
Ah, that’s better, that’s better! (Patting her on the shoulder.)
Good girl, good girl, how thoughtful of you.
(Puts on coat, is going towards his armchair. He is going to write, EFFIE stops him and points to his hat.)
Oh yes, of course, going out, going out.
EFFIE. Well, what was it your sister told you to do?
PROFESSOR. Eh? Oh, where’s her letter? (Searches pockets, hat, etc., to find his watch in trousers’ pocket.) So there you are! I have been looking for you. (Finds letter in pocket.)
Ah, here it is, now we shall see. ‘Always change your flannels on Wednesdays and Sundays.’ Yes, I’ve done that. ‘Never carry cheques or bank-notes loose in your trousers’ pocket.’ (The PROFESSOR looks at EFFIE, puts his right hand into pocket, draws out bank-note, shakes his head at EFFIE, muttering.)
Very wrong, I mustn’t do that, I mustn’t do that.
(Changes bank-note from right to left hand, goes on reading letter, absent-mindedly putting note into left trousers’ pocket. A knock is heard.)
Ah, here it is, here it is: ‘Get your hair cut at once, for if it is not cut by the time I next see you, I’ll put a bowl on your head and cut it myself.’ Effie, I think I’d better slip out by the side door and get my hair cut.
(He leaves on tiptoe, EFFIE puts gown on chair, COSENS enters.)
COSENS. I thought they were never going to let me in.
EFFIE. I didna know it was you, Doctor, and the Professor’s gone out.
COSENS. It is Miss White I want to see. (Gives EFFIE his umbrella.)
EFFIE. She’s at the telegraph office. (Taking umbrella to hatrack in hallway.)
COSENS. No, I looked in there for her. I shall wait —
EFFIE (from hatrack in hall). Is it raining, sir?
COSENS. A little.
EFFIE. Then the Professor will get wet. (Goes to window.) I see him. Of all the absent-minded men, if he isn’t holding up his stick and thinking it is an umbrella! Well, I never, he’s gone past the hairdresser’s. Oh!
COSENS. What?
EFFIE. He’s gone into the telegraph office.
(Light knock.)
COSENS. If that is Miss White, send her here.
EFFIE. It’s no Miss White, but it sounds like a lady’s knock, and it’s no safe to let ladies into this house. (Going to door.)
COSENS. Why?
EFFIE. The Professor is so absent-minded.
(EFFIE goes, COSENS, left alone, puzzles, looks at wastepaper basket, etc.)
LADY GILDING (heard off). Ah! But we must see the Doctor.
(Enter LADY GILDING.)
COSENS. Lady Gilding.
LADY GILDING. Doctor Cosens. (Shakes hands.) I didn’t know it was you who was attending the Professor. We only heard of his illness last night.
COSENS. He is not precisely an invalid. He is able to be out.
LADY GILDING. But not to work, I understand. Poor man!
(Calling) George!
(Enter SIR GEORGE GILDING and the DOWAGER LADY GILDING, who looks about twenty.)
George, the Professor is suffering from — what did you say it was, Doctor Cosens?
COSENS. Heamtontitus.
DOWAGER. Fancy!
SIR GEORGE. Ah — ah — a troublesome thing, I believe.
LADY GILDING. You don’t know my husband, Doctor Cosens? George, Dr. Cosens; Mamma, Dr. Cosens; Dr. Cosens, Mamma.
(They bow.)
COSENS. Mamma! Wonderful!
DOWAGER. You are surprised?
COSENS. I assure you, ladies, that nothing has surprised me so much in the whole course of my professional experience.
SIR GEORGE. It is not so surprising as it seems, Doctor — ah — Cosens — This lady is my father’s widow. He married a second time, late in life, and —
DOWAGER (humorously). And they call me mamma to annoy me!
(She sits, COSENS and SIR GEORGE go up stage talking.
LADY GILDING sits on the sofa by DOWAGER.)
LADY GILDING. Mamma!
DOWAGER. Mildred, how hateful of you to call me by that hideous name.
LADY GILDING. My dear, of what should a woman be prouder than to be called by the sacred name of mother?
SIR GEORGE. Mildred, Miss Goodwillie is not in London.
DOWAGER. Miss Goodwillie away!
COSENS. Yes, she has been in Scotland for a month.
LADY GILDING. Is she at Tullochmains?
COSENS. Yes, yes. You know it?
SIR GEORGE. My dear sir, I may say Tullochmains belongs to me. I am member for it.
LADY GILDING. We are the Professor’s dearest friends.
DOWAGER. We so admire him — and we flatter ourselves that he likes us a tiny bit also.
SIR GEORGE. He will be extremely vexed if he misses us.
(The professor is entering, when he sees them and retires hurriedly, effie appears also.)
DOWAGER. Ah, Effie, we shall remain a little on the chance of the Professor’s returning soon.
(EFFIE looks despairingly towards the PROFESSOR, who is evidently making signs to her to get rid of the visitors.)
EFFIE. Then, my lady, will you please come to the drawingroom i COSENS. Is it worth while, Effie?
(effie signs to him, pointing.)
Yes, let us go to the drawingroom.
(dowager sitting on sofa apparently crying.)
LADY GILDING. We’ll follow you, George.
(Exeunt cosens, sir george, and effie.)
Why are you looking such a picture of woe?
DOWAGER. Miss Goodwillie has been away a month.
LADY GILDING. Nothing to cry about in that.
DOWAGER. But the Professor has been alone. To think what I might have done with that man in a month.
LADY GILDING. Not much.
DOWAGER. I am not sure that he is not already rather fond of me.
LADY GILDING. He runs away from you.
DOWAGER. Perhaps that is his shy way of showing it.
LADY GILDING. Do you really think that the man cares twopence about you?
DOWAGER (who has a strong comic sense). Well, twopence is rather a large sum — still, don’t dash my hopes, Mildred. He has admitted to me that he feels more at ease with me than with other women. It’s a beginning. And my extraordinary charm ought to do the rest.
LADY GILDING. Well, heaven knows George and I would be glad enough to see you comfortably settled again.
DOWAGER. And well I know why.
LADY GILDING. It’s because your frivolity is painful to us. We want you to have a sphere of usefulness. Every woman should have a sphere.
DOWAGER. Fiddlesticks! It is because George’s father left it in his will that if I married again, my paltry five hundred a year was to go to George.
LADY GILDING. No, mamma, as if such a worldly thought had ever entered our heads!
DOWAGER. Mildred, a little less of the ‘mamma,’ if you please. Let us rejoin darling George.
(Exeunt DOWAGER and LADY GILDING. The PROFESSOR enters cautiously.)
PROFESSOR. Are they gone, Effie? The side door?
EFFIE. The
y did not take the hint to go, so you’ll need to speak to them in the drawingroom.
PROFESSOR. I won’t.
EFFIE. You must.
PROFESSOR. I will not. The side door, Effie!
EFFIE (takes off his hat). Oh, you promised to get your hair cut.
PROFESSOR. So I have, Effie, so I have. (Feeling.) Bless my soul, I thought I had. (Removes pen from ear suddenly.) The man must have forgotten. Careless, careless!
EFFIE. Did you remember to take your pill?
(Takes up pill-hox — counts pills, is horrified, and exits with pill-box. The PROFESSOR left alone sets to work, rises, sees dressing-gown, puts it on instead of coat, sits.
DOWAGER peeps in.)
DOWAGER. Professor!
PROFESSOR (without looking up). Have you got rid of them, Effie?
DOWAGER (giggles, retires, and returns noisily). Ah, Professor!
PROFESSOR. Lady Gilding. (Rises and shakes hands.)
DOWAGER. I am so sorry to hear you are unwell, and dear Miss Goodwillie away, too.
PROFESSOR. I don’t know what is wrong with me — but I can’t work.
DOWAGER. You work too much — that must be it. Come over here and talk to me.
PROFESSOR (who really thinks her nice). You are very kind.
(She goes to sofa rather afraid of electric machine, sits. The PROFESSOR goes towards her. DOWAGER turns to him, motions him to be seated. He sits, the electric machine between them.)
DOWAGER. If we had known your sister was away, we would have come often to see you.
PROFESSOR. Yes, she told me not to tell you. (Innocently) I suppose she was afraid that you would find me a handful. I’m unfortunately very boorish.
DOWAGER. No, indeed.
PROFESSOR (who thinks her a dear, kindly woman). It’s very kind of you to say that. I enjoyed myself very much that day you took me to the Zoo.
DOWAGER. But, dear Professor, I waited for you and you never came.
PROFESSOR (distressed). Did I not? I must have forgotten. Very wrong. Very wrong.
DOWAGER. You did enjoy yourself that night we went to the theatre, didn’t you?
PROFESSOR. That was very delightful. (Doubtfully) I went there, didn’t I?
DOWAGER. Yes, yes, I called for you!
PROFESSOR (proud). Aha, I didn’t forget that! A most amusing play. I forget what it was called, but you ought to go and see it.
DOWAGER. I will! Professor, why shouldn’t you and I be great friends? I assure you I would esteem it an honour.
PROFESSOR. The honour would be mine. You’re so young and charming.
DOWAGER. It is dear of you to put it in that way. You must have guessed that my life is a rather lonely one. George and Mildred are the dearest creatures, of course, but not very sympathetic, and what I crave for is sympathy, not so much to get it, I think, as to give it. Don’t you think that is the true woman’s sphere?
PROFESSOR (whose mind has evidently been wandering). But suppose we introduced another galvanometer?
DOWAGER. What?
PROFESSOR. And decrease the pressure on piston.
DOWAGER. I don’t think you follow me.
PROFESSOR (turning to her). Oh, I — I beg your pardon. I was thinking of my last chapter. It’s very unmannerly of me, very!
DOWAGER. On the contrary, it is delightful to me to hear you discussing your work with me. I am so interested in your electrical discoveries. Now how (Indicating machine between them) is such a delightful little duck of a thingumbob — but don’t you think it is rather in the way?
PROFESSOR. It always stands there.
DOWAGER. Ah! A very useful and wonderful little thing it is, I don’t doubt. I can’t be wonderful, but I do wish I could, at least, be useful.
PROFESSOR. I’m sure you are.
DOWAGER. I don’t know. A widow has so few opportunities. Some people press me to marry them. What do you think?
PROFESSOR. I wouldn’t.
DOWAGER. That is my inclination also. But if ever I do marry — mind you, I don’t think I ever will — but if I should, it will be someone I can look up to, not a boy, not too young a man, but one whose intellect — for I worship intellect — indeed, I — are you listening?
PROFESSOR. I beg your pardon, but would you mind saying that over again?
(Enter LUCY. She takes off her hat. DOWAGER stares at her in amazement. The PROFESSOR follows DOWAGER’S glance, sees LUCY, rises, shakes hands with her. He clumsily crosses behind table to place chair for her. He sits and beams on LUCY, who goes on opening letters.)
DOWAGER. Professor.
(He doesn’t notice her.)
Professor!
(He goes to her.)
Who is this?
PROFESSOR (glowing). My new secretary.
DOWAGER. Engaged since Miss Goodwillie left?
PROFESSOR. Yes.
DOWAGER (to LUCY). But you are not a man.
LUCY. I’m — sorry.
DOWAGER. Your secretaries used to be men.
PROFESSOR. Oh, men are no use.
DOWAGER. Does Miss Goodwillie know that your new secretary is a lady?
PROFESSOR. Does she? No, I believe I forgot to mention it.
DOWAGER. Introduce us, Professor.
PROFESSOR. Miss White, Lady Gilding.
DOWAGER. How do you do, Miss White?
LUCY. Thank you, I am quite well.
DOWAGER. If you have work — elsewhere — please don’t let me detain you.
LUCY. We do it here, thank you, Lady Gilding.
(LUCY bows to DOWAGER and resumes her chair, all with great civility.)
DOWAGER. Professor, I am dying to see your new laboratory. Will you show it to me?
PROFESSOR. I — are you — Oh, certainly, Lady Gilding, I shall be delighted. (Is about to rise and looks woefully at LUCY.)
Miss Lucy!
LUCY. Let me show it to you, Lady Gilding. This way.
DOWAGER. But —
LUCY. No trouble at all.
(The DOWAGER with a gesture of despair goes and LUCY follows. There is a pause and the PROFESSOR stares after them.)
SIR GEORGE (heard off stage). Monstrous! It is monstrous! There is no other word for it.
(The PROFESSOR rises and is stealing off but is seen by LADY GILDING, who enters followed by SIR GEORGE and COSENS.)
LADY GILDING. Ah, Professor.
(She goes to him, he turns, shakes hands.)
You ‘re just in time to catch us; we were going.
SIR GEORGE. Sorry you are not well, though. (Shakes hands with PROFESSOR.)
PROFESSOR. I dare say it is only laziness. Idle fellow, idle fellow! What was it you were saying was monstrous as you came in, Sir George?
SIR GEORGE. Oh, I was speaking of ladies’ dress. The fact is, Professor, I had not long been married when certain absurdities in connection with ladies’ dress were forcibly brought home to me.
COSENS. And to me.
SIR GEORGE. For instance: I ask you, Professor, as an unprejudiced outsider, how many yards of material do you think are required to make a dress for Lady Gilding?
PROFESSOR. Four yards.
SIR GEORGE. Nineteen yards.
PROFESSOR. Impossible! Why, a large-sized dust cloth is only four yards.
SIR GEORGE. Ah, you see my point exactly. But I was determined to show that it could be done with four yards, and I did it. I myself, Professor, superintended the making of a dress for Lady Gilding out of four yards, and presented it to her on her birthday. It was a perfect fit, Mildred?
LADY GILDING. Yes, George.
PROFESSOR. This is it? (Pointing to dress.)
SIR GEORGE. Oh no, she never wears it. She looks upon my dress as sacred, don’t you, Mildred?
LADY GILDING. Yes, George.
