Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  MISS HENRIETTA. Mr. Blades, I have been saying that if I were a gentleman I would pay my addresses to Miss Phoebe much rather than to her niece.

  BLADES. Ma’am, excuse me.

  MISS HENRIETTA (indignant that MISS PHOEBE should be slighted so publicly). Sir, you are a most ungallant and deficient young man.

  BLADES. Really, ma’am, I assure you ——

  MISS HENRIETTA. Not another word, sir.

  PHOEBE (in her most oldmaidish manner). Miss Fanny, Miss Henrietta, it is time I spoke plainly to this gentleman. Please leave him to me. Surely ‘twill come best from me.

  MISS HENRIETTA. Indeed, yes, if it be not too painful to you.

  PHOEBE. I must do my duty.

  MISS FANNY (wistfully). If we could remain —

  PHOEBE. Would it be seemly, Miss Fanny?

  MISS HENRIETTA. Come, Fanny. (To BLADES.) Sir, you bring your punishment upon yourself.

  (They press PHOEBE’S hand, and go. Her heart returns to its usual abode.)

  BLADES (bewildered). Are you angry with me, Miss Livvy?

  PHOEBE. Oh, no.

  BLADES. Miss Livvy, I have something to say to you of supreme importance to me. With regard to my complexion, I am aware, Miss Livvy, that it has retained a too youthful bloom. My brother officers comment on it with a certain lack of generosity. (Anxiously.) Might I inquire, ma’am, whether you regard my complexion as a subject for light talk.

  PHOEBE. No indeed, sir, I only wish I had it.

  BLADES (who has had no intention of offering, but is suddenly carried off his feet by the excellence of the opportunity, which is no doubt responsible for many proposals). Miss Livvy, ma’am, you may have it.

  (She has a great and humorous longing that she could turn before his affrighted eyes into the schoolmistress she really is. She would endure much to be able at this moment to say, ‘I have listened to you, ENSIGN BLADES, with attention, but I am really MISS PHOEBE, and I must now request you to fetch me the implement.’ Under the shock, would he have surrendered his palm for punishment? It can never be known, for as she looks at him longingly, LIEUTENANT SPICER enters, and he mistakes the meaning of that longing look.)

  SPICER. ‘Tis my dance, ma’am—’tis not Ensign Blades’.

  BLADES. Leave us, sir. We have matter of moment to discuss.

  SPICER (fearing the worst). His affection, Miss Livvy, is not so deep as mine. He is a light and shallow nature.

  PHOEBE. Pooh! You are both light and shallow natures.

  BLADES. Both, ma’am? (But he is not sure that he has not had a miraculous escape.)

  PHOEBE (severely). ‘Tis such as you, with your foolish flirting ways, that confuse the minds of women and make us try to be as silly as yourselves.

  SPICER (crushed). Ma’am.

  PHOEBE. I did not mean to hurt you. (She takes a hand of each and tries to advise them as if her curls were once more hidden under a cap.) You are so like little boys in a school. Do be good. Sit here beside me. I know you are very brave —

  BLADES. Ha!

  PHOEBE. And when you come back from the wars it must be so delightful to you to flirt with the ladies again.

  SPICER. Oh, ma’am.

  PHOEBE. As soon as you see a lady with a pretty nose you cannot help saying that you adore her.

  BLADES (in an ecstasy). Nay, I swear.

  PHOEBE. And you offer to her, not from love, but because you are so deficient in conversation.

  SPICER. Charming, Miss Livvy.

  PHOEBE (with sudden irritation). Oh, sir, go away; go away, both of you, and read improving books.

  (They are cast down. She has not been quite fair to these gallants, for it is not really of them she has grown weary so much as of the lady they temporarily adore. If MISS PHOEBE were to analyse her feelings she would find that her remark is addressed to LIVVY, and that it means, ‘I have enjoyed for a little pretending to be you, but I am not you and I do not wish to be you. Your glitter and the airs of you and the racket of you tire me, I want to be done with you, and to be back in quiet Quality Street, of which I am a part; it is really pleasant to me to know that I shall wake up tomorrow slightly middle-aged.’ With the entrance of CAPTAIN BROWN, however, she is at once a frivol again. He frowns at sight of her cavaliers.)

  VALENTINE. Gentlemen, I instructed this lady to rest, and I am surprised to find you in attendance. Miss Livvy, you must be weary of their fatuities, and I have taken the liberty to order your chaise.

  PHOEBE. It is indeed a liberty.

  BLADES. An outrage.

  PHOEBE. I prefer to remain.

  VALENTINE. Nay.

  PHOEBE. I promised this dance to Ensign Blades.

  SPICER. To me, ma’am.

  PHOEBE. And the following one to Lieutenant Spicer. Mr. Blades, your arm.

  VALENTINE. I forbid any further dancing.

  PHOEBE. Forbid. La!

  BLADES. Sir, by what right ——

  VALENTINE. By a right which I hope to make clear to Miss Livvy as soon as you gentlemen have retired.

  (PHOEBE sees that the declaration is coming. She steels herself.)

  PHOEBE. I am curious to know what Captain Brown can have to say to me. In a few minutes, Mr. Blades, Lieutenant Spicer, I shall be at your service.

  VALENTINE. I trust not.

  PHOEBE. I give them my word.

  (The young gentlemen retire, treading air once more. BROWN surveys her rather grimly.)

  VALENTINE. You are an amazing pretty girl, ma’am, but you are a shocking flirt.

  PHOEBE. La!

  VALENTINE. It has somewhat diverted me to watch them go down before you. But I know you have a kind heart, and that if there be a rapier in your one hand there is a handkerchief in the other ready to staunch their wounds.

  PHOEBE. I have not observed that they bled much.

  VALENTINE. The Blades and the like, no. But one may, perhaps.

  PHOEBE (obviously the reference is to himself). Perhaps I may wish to see him bleed.

  VALENTINE (grown stern). For shame, Miss Livvy. (Anger rises in her, but she wishes him to proceed.) I speak, ma’am, in the interests of the man to whom I hope to see you affianced.

  (No, she does not wish him to proceed. She had esteemed him for so long, she cannot have him debase himself before her now.)

  PHOEBE. Shall we — I have changed my mind, I consent to go home. Please to say nothing.

  VALENTINE. Nay ——

  PHOEBE. I beg you.

  VALENTINE. No. We must have it out.

  PHOEBE. Then if you must go on, do so. But remember I begged you to desist. Who is this happy man?

  (His next words are a great shock to her.)

  VALENTINE. As to who he is, ma’am, of course I have no notion. Nor, I am sure, have you, else you would be more guarded in your conduct. But some day, Miss Livvy, the right man will come. Not to be able to tell him all, would it not be hard? And how could you acquaint him with this poor sport? His face would change, ma’am, as you told him of it, and yours would be a false face until it was told. This is what I have been so desirous to say to you — by the right of a friend.

  PHOEBE (in a low voice but bravely). I see.

  VALENTINE (afraid that he has hurt her). It has been hard to say and I have done it bunglingly. Ah, but believe me, Miss Livvy, it is not the flaunting flower men love; it is the modest violet.

  PHOEBE. The modest violet! You dare to say that.

  VALENTINE. Yes, indeed, and when you are acquaint with what love really is ——

  PHOEBE. Love! What do you know of love?

  VALENTINE (a little complacently). Why, ma’am, I know all about it. I am in love, Miss Livvy.

  PHOEBE (with a disdainful inclination of the head). I wish you happy.

  VALENTINE. With a lady who was once very like you, ma’am.

  (At first PHOEBE does not understand, then a suspicion of his meaning comes to her.)

  PHOEBE. Not — not — oh no.

  VALENTINE. I had not
meant to speak of it, but why should not I? It will be a fine lesson to you, Miss Livvy. Ma’am, it is your Aunt Phoebe whom I love.

  PHOEBE (rigid). You do not mean that.

  VALENTINE. Most ardently.

  PHOEBE. It is not true; how dare you make sport of her.

  VALENTINE. Is it sport to wish she may be my wife?

  PHOEBE. Your wife!

  VALENTINE. If I could win her.

  PHOEBE (bewildered). May I solicit, sir, for how long you have been attached to Miss Phoebe?

  VALENTINE. For nine years, I think.

  PHOEBE. You think!

  VALENTINE. I want to be honest. Never in all that time had I thought myself in love. Your aunts were my dear friends, and while I was at the wars we sometimes wrote to each other, but they were only friendly letters. I presume the affection was too placid to be love.

  PHOEBE. I think that would be Aunt Phoebe’s opinion.

  VALENTINE. Yet I remember, before we went into action for the first time — I suppose the fear of death was upon me — some of them were making their wills — I have no near relative — I left everything to these two ladies.

  PHOEBE (softly). Did you?

  (What is it that MISS PHOEBE begins to see as she sits there so quietly, with her hands pressed together as if upon some treasure? It is PHOEBE of the ringlets with the stain taken out of her.)

  VALENTINE. And when I returned a week ago and saw Miss Phoebe, grown so tired-looking and so poor ——

  PHOEBE. The shock made you feel old, I know.

  VALENTINE. No, Miss Livvy, but it filled me with a sudden passionate regret that I had not gone down in that first engagement. They would have been very comfortably left.

  PHOEBE. Oh, sir!

  VALENTINE. I am not calling it love.

  PHOEBE. It was sweet and kind, but it was not love.

  VALENTINE. It is love now.

  PHOEBE. No, it is only pity.

  VALENTINE. It is love.

  PHOEBE (she smiles tremulously). You really mean Phoebe — tired, unattractive Phoebe, that woman whose girlhood is gone. Nay, impossible.

  VALENTINE (stoutly). Phoebe of the fascinating playful ways, whose ringlets were once as pretty as yours, ma’am. I have visited her in her home several times this week — you were always out — I thank you for that! I was alone with her, and with fragrant memories of her.

  PHOEBE. Memories! Yes, that is the Phoebe you love, the bright girl of the past — not the schoolmistress in her oldmaid’s cap.

  VALENTINE. There you wrong me, for I have discovered for myself that the schoolmistress in her oldmaid’s cap is the noblest Miss Phoebe of them all. (If only he would go away, and let MISS PHOEBE cry.) When I enlisted, I remember I compared her to a garden. I have often thought of that.

  PHOEBE. ‘Tis an old garden now.

  VALENTINE. The paths, ma’am, are better shaded.

  PHOEBE. The flowers have grown old-fashioned.

  VALENTINE. They smell the sweeter. Miss Livvy, do you think there is any hope for me?

  PHOEBE. There was a man whom Miss Phoebe loved — long ago. He did not love her.

  VALENTINE. Now here was a fool!

  PHOEBE. He kissed her once.

  VALENTINE. If Miss Phoebe suffered him to do that she thought he loved her.

  PHOEBE. Yes, yes. (She has to ask him the ten years old question.) Do you opinion that this makes her action in allowing it less reprehensible? It has been such a pain to her ever since.

  VALENTINE. How like Miss Phoebe! (Sternly.) But that man was a knave.

  PHOEBE. No, he was a good man — only a little — inconsiderate. She knows now that he has even forgotten that he did it. I suppose men are like that?

  VALENTINE. No, Miss Livvy, men are not like that. I am a very average man, but I thank God I am not like that.

  PHOEBE. It was you.

  VALENTINE (after a pause). Did Miss Phoebe say that?

  PHOEBE. Yes.

  VALENTINE. Then it is true.

  (He is very grave and quiet.)

  PHOEBE. It was raining and her face was wet. You said you did it because her face was wet.

  VALENTINE. I had quite forgotten.

  PHOEBE. But she remembers, and how often do you think the shameful memory has made her face wet since? The face you love, Captain Brown, you were the first to give it pain. The tired eyes — how much less tired they might be if they had never known you. You who are torturing me with every word, what have you done to Miss Phoebe? You who think you can bring back the bloom to that faded garden, and all the pretty airs and graces that fluttered round it once like little birds before the nest is torn down — bring them back to her if you can, sir; it was you who took them away.

  VALENTINE. I vow I shall do my best to bring them back. (MISS PHOEBE shakes her head.) Miss Livvy, with your help ——

  PHOEBE. My help! I have not helped. I tried to spoil it all.

  VALENTINE (smiling). To spoil it? You mean that you sought to flirt even with me. Ah, I knew you did. But that is nothing.

  PHOEBE. Oh, sir, if you could overlook it.

  VALENTINE. I do.

  PHOEBE. And forget these hateful balls.

  VALENTINE. Hateful! Nay, I shall never call them that. They have done me too great a service. It was at the balls that I fell in love with Miss Phoebe.

  PHOEBE. What can you mean?

  VALENTINE. She who was never at a ball! (Checking himself humorously.) But I must not tell you, it might hurt you.

  PHOEBE. Tell me.

  VALENTINE (gaily). Then on your own head be the blame. It is you who have made me love her, Miss Livvy.

  PHOEBE. Sir?

  VALENTINE. Yes, it is odd, and yet very simple. You who so resembled her as she was! for an hour, ma’am, you bewitched me; yes, I confess it, but ‘twas only for an hour. How like, I cried at first, but soon it was, how unlike. There was almost nothing she would have said that you said; you did so much that she would have scorned to do. But I must not say these things to you!

  PHOEBE. I ask it of you, Captain Brown.

  VALENTINE. Well! Miss Phoebe’s ‘ladylikeness,’ on which she set such store that I used to make merry of the word — I gradually perceived that it is a woman’s most beautiful garment, and the casket which contains all the adorable qualities that go to the making of a perfect female. When Miss Livvy rolled her eyes — ah!

  (He stops apologetically.)

  PHOEBE. Proceed, sir.

  VALENTINE. It but made me the more complacent that never in her life had Miss Phoebe been guilty of the slightest deviation from the strictest propriety. (She shudders.) I was always conceiving her in your place. Oh, it was monstrous unfair to you. I stood looking at you, Miss Livvy, and seeing in my mind her and the pretty things she did, and you did not do; why, ma’am, that is how I fell in love with Miss Phoebe at the balls.

  PHOEBE. I thank you.

  VALENTINE. Ma’am, tell me, do you think there is any hope for me?

  PHOEBE. Hope!

  VALENTINE. I shall go to her. ‘Miss Phoebe,’ I will say — oh, ma’am, so reverently—’Miss Phoebe, my beautiful, most estimable of women, let me take care of you for ever more.’

  (MISS PHOEBE presses the words to her heart and then drops them.)

  PHOEBE. Beautiful. La, Aunt Phoebe!

  VALENTINE. Ah, ma’am, you may laugh at a rough soldier so much enamoured, but ‘tis true. ‘Marry me, Miss Phoebe,’ I will say, ‘and I will take you back through those years of hardships that have made your sweet eyes too patient. Instead of growing older you shall grow younger. We will travel back together to pick up the many little joys and pleasures you had to pass by when you trod that thorny path alone.’

  PHOEBE. Can’t be — can’t be.

  VALENTINE. Nay, Miss Phoebe has loved me. ‘Tis you have said it.

  PHOEBE. I did not mean to tell you.

  VALENTINE. She will be my wife yet.

  PHOEBE. Never.

  VALENTINE. You
are severe, Miss Livvy. But it is because you are partial to her, and I am happy of that.