by Unknown
Pantaloon. Ay, it’s true. They write that they’re starving.
Clown. And they’ve got a kid to add to their misery. All vagabonds, father, mother, and kid.
Pantaloon. Rub it in, Joey.
Clown. You looks as if you would soon be starving too.
Pantaloon (not without dignity). I’m pinched.
Clown. Well, well, I’m a kindly soul, and what brought me here was to make you an offer.
Pantaloon (glistening). A shop?
Clown. For old times’ sake.
Pantaloon (with indecent eagerness). To be old ‘un again?
Clown. No, you crock, but to carry a sandwich-board in the street wi’ my new old ‘un’s name on it.
(Pantaloon raises his withered arm, but he lets it fall.)
Pantaloon. May you be forgiven for that, Joey.
Clown. Miaw!
Pantaloon (who is near his end). Joey, there stands humbled before you an old artist.
Clown. Never an artist.
Pantaloon (firmly). An artist — at present disengaged.
Clown. Forgotten — clean forgotten.
Pantaloon (bowing his head). Yes, that’s it — forgotten. Once famous — now forgotten. Joey, they don’t know me even at the sausage-shop. I am just one of the public. My worst time is when we should be going on the stage, and I think I hear the gallery boys calling for the old ‘un—’Bravo, old ‘un!’ Then I sort of break up. I sleep bad o’ nights. I think sleep would come to me if I could rub my back on the scenery again. (He shudders.) But the days are longer than the nights. I allus see how I am to get through to-day, but I sit thinking and thinking how I am to get through tomorrow.
Clown. Poor old crock. Well, so long.
Pantaloon (offering him the poker). Joey, gie me one rub before you go — for old times’ sake.
Clown. You’ll never be rubbed by a clown again, Mr. Joseph.
Pantaloon. Call me Joey once — say ‘Goodbye, old ‘un’ — for old times’ sake.
Clown. You will never be called Joey or old ‘un by a clown again, Mr. Joseph.
(With a noble gesture Pantaloon bids him begone and the Clown miaws and goes, twisting a sausage in his mouth as if it were a cigar. So he passes from our sight, funny to the last, or never funny, an equally tragic figure. Pantaloon rummages in the wicker basket among his gods and strokes them lovingly, a painted goose, his famous staff, a bladder on a stick. He does not know that he is hugging the bladder to his cold breast as he again crouches by the fire.
The door opens, and Columbine and Harlequin peep in, prepared to receive a blow for welcome. Their faces are hollow and their clothes in rags, and, saddest of all, they cannot dance in. They walk in like the weary public. Columbine looks as if she could walk as far as her father’s feet, but never any farther. With them is the child. This is the great surprise: HE IS A CLOWN. They sign to the child to intercede for them, but though only a baby, he is a clown, and he must do it in his own way. He pats his nose, grins deliciously with the wrong parts of his face, and dives beneath the table. Pantaloon looks round and sees his daughter on her knees before him.)
Pantaloon. You! Fairy! Come back! (For a moment he is to draw her to him, then he remembers.) No, I’ll have none of you. It was you as brought me to this. Begone, I say begone. (They are backing meekly to the door.) Stop a minute. Little Fairy, is it true — is it true my Fairy has a kid? (She nods, with glistening eyes that say ‘Can you put me out now?’ The baby peers from under the table, and rubs Pantaloon’s legs with the poker. Poor little baby, he is the last of the clowns, and knows not what is in store for him. Pantaloon trembles, it is so long since he has been rubbed. He dare not look down.) Fairy, is it the kid? (She nods again; the moment has come.) My Fairy’s kid! (Somehow he has always taken for granted that his grandchild is merely a columbine. If the child had been something greater they would all have got a shop again and served under him.) Oh, Fairy, if only he had been a clown!
(Now you see how it is going. The babe emerges, and he is a clown.
Just for a moment Pantaloon cries. Then the babe is tantalising him with a sausage. Pantaloon revolves round him like a happy teetotum. Who so gay now as Columbine and Harlequin, dancing merrily as if it were again the morning? Oh what a lark is life. Ring down the curtain quickly, Mr. Prompter, before we see them all swept into the dust-heap.)
THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK
If quite convenient (as they say about cheques) you are to conceive that the scene is laid in your own house, and that Harry Sims is you. Perhaps the ornamentation of the house is a trifle ostentatious, but if you cavil at that we are willing to redecorate: you don’t get out of being Harry Sims on a mere matter of plush and dados. It pleases us to make him a city man, but (rather than lose you) he can be turned with a scrape of the pen into a K.C., fashionable doctor, Secretary of State, or what you will. We conceive him of a pleasant rotundity with a thick red neck, but we shall waive that point if you know him to be thin.
It is that day in your career when everything went wrong just when everything seemed to be superlatively right.
In Harry’s case it was a woman who did the mischief. She came to him in his great hour and told him she did not admire him. Of course he turned her out of the house and was soon himself again, but it spoilt the morning for him. This is the subject of the play, and quite enough too.
Harry is to receive the honour of knighthood in a few days, and we discover him in the sumptuous ‘snuggery’ of his home in Kensington (or is it Westminster?), rehearsing the ceremony with his wife. They have been at it all the morning, a pleasing occupation. Mrs. Sims (as we may call her for the last time, as it were, and strictly as a good-natured joke) is wearing her presentation gown, and personates the august one who is about to dub her Harry knight. She is seated regally. Her jewelled shoulders proclaim aloud her husband’s generosity. She must be an extraordinarily proud and happy woman, yet she has a drawn face and shrinking ways as if there were some one near her of whom she is afraid. She claps her hands, as the signal to Harry. He enters bowing, and with a graceful swerve of the leg. He is only partly in costume, the sword and the real stockings not having arrived yet. With a gliding motion that is only delayed while one leg makes up on the other, he reaches his wife, and, going on one knee, raises her hand superbly to his lips. She taps him on the shoulder with a paper-knife and says huskily, ‘Rise, Sir Harry.’ He rises, bows, and glides about the room, going on his knees to various articles of furniture, and rising from each a knight. It is a radiant domestic scene, and Harry is as dignified as if he knew that royalty was rehearsing it at the other end.
Sir Harry (complacently). Did that seem all right, eh?
Lady Sims (much relieved). I think perfect.
Sir Harry. But was it dignified?
Lady Sims. Oh, very. And it will be still more so when you have the sword.
Sir Harry. The sword will lend it an air. There are really the five moments — (suiting the action to the word) — the glide — the dip — the kiss — the tap — and you back out a knight. It’s short, but it’s a very beautiful ceremony. (Kindly) Anything you can suggest?
Lady Sims. No — oh no. (Nervously, seeing him pause to kiss the tassel of a cushion) You don’t think you have practised till you know what to do almost too well?
(He has been in a blissful temper, but such niggling criticism would try any man.)
Sir Harry. I do not. Don’t talk nonsense. Wait till your opinion is asked for.
Lady Sims (abashed). I’m sorry, Harry.
(A perfect butler appears and presents a card.) ‘The Flora TypeWriting Agency.’
Sir Harry. Ah, yes. I telephoned them to send some one. A woman, I suppose, Tombes?
Tombes. Yes, Sir Harry.
Sir Harry. Show her in here. (He has very lately become a stickler for etiquette.) And, Tombes, strictly speaking, you know, I am not Sir Harry till Thursday.
Tombes. Beg pardon, sir, but it is such a satisfaction to us.
Sir Harry (good-naturedly). Ah, they like it downstairs, do they?
Tombes (unbending). Especially the females, Sir Harry.
Sir Harry. Exactly. You can show her in, Tombes. (The butler departs on his mighty task.) You can tell the woman what she is wanted for, Emmy, while I change. (He is too modest to boast about himself, and prefers to keep a wife in the house for that purpose.) You can tell her the sort of things about me that will come better from you. (Smiling happily) You heard what Tombes said, ‘Especially the females.’ And he is right. Success! The women like it even better than the men. And rightly. For they share. You share, Lady Sims. Not a woman will see that gown without being sick with envy of it. I know them. Have all our lady friends in to see it. It will make them ill for a week.
(These sentiments carry him off light-heartedly, and presently the disturbing element is shown in. She is a mere typist, dressed in uncommonly good taste, but at contemptibly small expense, and she is carrying her typewriter in a friendly way rather than as a badge of slavery, as of course it is. Her eye is clear; and in odd contrast to Lady Sims, she is self-reliant and serene.)
Kate (respectfully, but she should have waited to be spoken to). Good morning, madam.
Lady Sims (in her nervous way, and scarcely noticing that the typist is a little too ready with her tongue). Good morning. (As a first impression she rather likes the woman, and the woman, though it is scarcely worth mentioning, rather likes her. Lady Sims has a maid for buttoning and unbuttoning her, and probably another for waiting on the maid, and she gazes with a little envy perhaps at a woman who does things for herself.) Is that the typewriting machine?
Kate (who is getting it ready for use). Yes (not ‘Yes, madam,’ as it ought to be). I suppose if I am to work here I may take this off. I get on better without it. (She is referring to her hat.)
Lady Sims. Certainly. (But the hat is already off.) I ought to apologise for my gown. I am to be presented this week, and I was trying it on. (Her tone is not really apologetic. She is rather clinging to the glory of her gown, wistfully, as if not absolutely certain, you know, that it is a glory.)
Kate. It is beautiful, if I may presume to say so. (She frankly admires it. She probably has a best, and a second best of her own: that sort of thing.)
Lady Sims (with a flush of pride in the gown). Yes, it is very beautiful. (The beauty of it gives her courage.) Sit down, please.
Kate (the sort of woman who would have sat down in any case). I suppose it is some copying you want done? I got no particulars. I was told to come to this address, but that was all.
Lady Sims (almost with the humility of a servant). Oh, it is not work for me, it is for my husband, and what he needs is not exactly copying. (Swelling, for she is proud of Harry). He wants a number of letters answered — hundreds of them — letters and telegrams of congratulation.
Kate (as if it were all in the day’s work). Yes?
Lady Sims (remembering that Harry expects every wife to do her duty). My husband is a remarkable man. He is about to be knighted. (Pause, but Kate does not fall to the floor.) He is to be knighted for his services to — (on reflection) — for his services. (She is conscious that she is not doing Harry justice.) He can explain it so much better than I can.
Kate (in her businesslike way). And I am to answer the congratulations?
Lady Sims (afraid that it will be a hard task). Yes.
Kate (blithely). It is work I have had some experience of. (She proceeds to type.)
Lady Sims. But you can’t begin till you know what he wants to say.
Kate. Only a specimen letter. Won’t it be the usual thing?
Lady Sims (to whom this is a new idea). Is there a usual thing?
Kate. Oh, yes.
(She continues to type, and Lady Sims, half-mesmerised, gazes at her nimble fingers. The useless woman watches the useful one, and she sighs, she could not tell why.)
Lady Sims. How quickly you do it. It must be delightful to be able to do something, and to do it well.
Kate (thankfully). Yes, it is delightful.
Lady Sims (again remembering the source of all her greatness). But, excuse me, I don’t think that will be any use. My husband wants me to explain to you that his is an exceptional case. He did not try to get this honour in any way. It was a complete surprise to him ——
Kate (who is a practical Kate and no dealer in sarcasm). That is what I have written.
Lady Sims (in whom sarcasm would meet a dead wall). But how could you know?
Kate. I only guessed.
Lady Sims. Is that the usual thing?
Kate. Oh, yes.
Lady Sims. They don’t try to get it?
Kate. I don’t know. That is what we are told to say in the letters.
(To her at present the only important thing about the letters is that they are ten shillings the hundred.)
Lady Sims (returning to surer ground). I should explain that my husband is not a man who cares for honours. So long as he does his duty ——
Kate. Yes, I have been putting that in.
Lady Sims. Have you? But he particularly wants it to be known that he would have declined a title were it not ——
Kate. I have got it here.
Lady Sims. What have you got?
Kate (reading). ‘Indeed I would have asked to be allowed to decline had it not been that I want to please my wife.’
Lady Sims (heavily). But how could you know it was that?
Kate. Is it?
Lady Sims (who after all is the one with the right to ask questions). Do they all accept it for that reason?
Kate. That is what we are told to say in the letters.
Lady Sims (thoughtlessly). It is quite as if you knew my husband.
Kate. I assure you, I don’t even know his name.
Lady Sims (suddenly showing that she knows him). Oh, he wouldn’t like that.
(And it is here that Harry re-enters in his city garments, looking so gay, feeling so jolly that we bleed for him. However, the annoying Katherine is to get a shock also.)
Lady Sims. This is the lady, Harry.
Sir Harry (shooting his cuffs). Yes, yes. Good morning, my dear.
(Then they see each other, and their mouths open, but not for words. After the first surprise Kate seems to find some humour in the situation, but Harry lowers like a thunder-cloud.)
Lady Sims (who has seen nothing). I have been trying to explain to her ——
Sir Harry. Eh — what? (He controls himself.) Leave it to me, Emmy; I’ll attend to her.
(Lady Sims goes, with a dread fear that somehow she has vexed her lord, and then Harry attends to the intruder.)
Sir Harry (with concentrated scorn). You!
Kate (as if agreeing with him). Yes, it’s funny.
Sir Harry. The shamelessness of your daring to come here.
Kate. Believe me, it is not less a surprise to me than it is to you. I was sent here in the ordinary way of business. I was given only the number of the house. I was not told the name.
Sir Harry (withering her). The ordinary way of business! This is what you have fallen to — a typist!
Kate (unwithered). Think of it.
Sir Harry. After going through worse straits, I’ll be bound.
Kate (with some grim memories). Much worse straits.
Sir Harry (alas, laughing coarsely). My congratulations.
Kate. Thank you, Harry.
Sir Harry (who is annoyed, as any man would be, not to find her abject). Eh? What was that you called me, madam?
Kate. Isn’t it Harry? On my soul, I almost forget.
Sir Harry. It isn’t Harry to you. My name is Sims, if you please.
Kate. Yes, I had not forgotten that. It was my name, too, you see.
Sir Harry (in his best manner). It was your name till you forfeited the right to bear it.
Kate. Exactly.
Sir Harry (gloating). I was furious to find you here, but on second thoughts it pleases me. (From the depths of h
is moral nature) There is a grim justice in this.
Kate (sympathetically). Tell me?
Sir Harry. Do you know what you were brought here to do?
Kate. I have just been learning. You have been made a knight, and I was summoned to answer the messages of congratulation.
Sir Harry. That’s it, that’s it. You come on this day as my servant!
