by Unknown
Garson (with delicacy). Oh, come!
Dr. Brodie. She kept crying, what could she do.
Garson. She knew what she could do!
Lilian. What could she do, Richard?
Garson. Pooh! They don’t all get run over by motor buses, my dear.
Dr. Brodie. I thought she might find a job — women do nowadays — and live on, true to the dead. After all, it was the test of her.
Lilian. I suppose it was.
Garson. What a sentimental fellow you are, Brodie! That kind can look after themselves all right. I say, Redding, suppose she is a married woman and has bolted back to unsuspecting No. 1!
Redding. Lordy!
Dr. Brodie. When she left the house at my request I couldn’t have thought so despicably of her as that.
Lilian. Is it more abject than my husband’s other end for her?
Dr. Brodie. I should say, yes.
Redding. It’s quite possible, you know, Garson. Makes a pretty chump of the husband, though.
Garson. No doubt. And yet there is humour in it. You don’t see, Brodie, that it has its humorous side?
Dr. Brodie. Oh, yes, I do, Garson. But as I walked here I was picturing her in dire desolation.
Lilian. Don’t you think she may be in dire desolation still?
Dr. Brodie. Thinking it over, Lady Lilian, I have come to the conclusion that your husband is right, and that I was a sentimental fellow, wasting my sympathy on that lady.
Garson (who is not unsusceptible to praise). Exactly.
(Dinner is announced, and he is indicating to Brodie to take in Lady Lilian, when Mrs. Redding, the only one who has remembered the jewellery, touches her throat and wrists significantly. He gives her and her husband a private wink.)
Hullo, Lil, where are those emeralds? Didn’t you get ‘em out of me specially for that frock?
(Only one of the company, a new acquaintance, notices his hostess go rigid for a moment. So her husband has found the jewels! Something inside her that is clamouring for utterance is about to betray her, when she sees a glance pass from her husband to the drawer. She is uncertain how much has been found out, but she cannot believe that if this man knows everything he could have had the self-control to play cat to her for so long.)
Lilian (taking a risk). I took them off down here and left them for safety in one of your drawers.
Garson. Which drawer?
Lilian (crossing to it). This one.
Garson (making a sign with his fingers behind his back to the Reddings). Best put them on; I like you in ‘em.
(He tosses her his keys, and as she opens the drawer he has another gleeful moment with his accomplices. Brodie, whose attention is confined to her, understands that somehow a crisis has been reached, and oddly enough he does not want her to be caught.)
Lilian (turning round, aghast). They are gone!
Garson (histrionically). Gone?
Lilian. Richard, what is to be done? My emeralds!
Garson. Gone! The police ——
Lilian. Yes, yes!
Mrs. Redding. Mr. Garson, how can you keep it up? Don’t you see she is nearly fainting, and so should I be. Emeralds!
Garson (with the conqueror’s good nature). Come, come, Lil, calm yourself. This should be a lesson to you, though. But it’s all right — just a trick I was playing on you. I found them in the drawer.
Redding (admiringly). Never was such a masterpiece at a trick as Garson!
Garson (producing the jewels from his pocket like a wizard). Here they are!
(He gallantly places them on her person, and even gives her a peck, which brings him very near to something she is holding in her hand beneath her handkerchief. Garson takes in Mrs. Redding, and Redding has to go without a lady. Before Lilian and Brodie follow them she throws a letter into the fire, and as the little spitfire turns to ashes she puts on her finger a wedding-ring that she has taken out of it. She reels for a moment, then looks to Brodie for his commentary. He has none, but as a medical man he feels her pulse.)
THE NEW WORD
Produced at the Duke of York’s Theatre on March 22, 1915, with the following cast:
Father... O. B. Clarence
Mother... Helen Haye
Son...Geoffrey Wilmer
Daughter... Gertrude Lang
THE NEW WORD
Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any son are the dramatis persona. We could pick them up in Mayfair, in Tooting, on the Veldt, in rectories or in grocers’ back parlours, dump them down on our toy stage and tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to choose from, but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and all go away but two. In other words, it is wartime. The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are Mr. Torrance and his boy; so let us make use of them. Torrance did not linger in order to be chosen, he was anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we recognised him, and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never forget a face) as the legal person who reads out the names of the jury before the court opens, and who brushes aside your reasons for wanting to be let off. It pleases our humour to tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off. He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and this is perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with others on those unfeeling benches. It is not because he is without a wig, for we saw him, on the occasion to which we are so guardedly referring, both in a wig and out of it; he passed behind a screen without it, and immediately (as quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing touch rather like the butler’s wriggle to his coat as he goes to the door. There are the two kinds of learned brothers, those who use the screen, and those who (so far as the jury knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter are the swells, and include the judges; whom, however, we who write have seen in public thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has doubtless led many an onlooker to crime. Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we accompany him to his house, as we must, in order to set our scene properly, we find that it is quite a suburban affair, only one servant kept, and her niece engaged twice a week to crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the drawingroom, so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the room but Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the unseeing eye all the family are there except Roger. They consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Torrance. Mr. Torrance is enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and every line of him is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is happening in the house.
In the home circle (and now that we think of it, even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat sarcastic gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he would have ceased long ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on whom wit falls like pellets on sandbags; all the dents they make are dimples. Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is listening to Roger’s step overhead. You know what a delightful step the boy has. And what is more remarkable is that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is seventeen, and who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since he first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a pass when a sister so openly admits that she is only number two in the house. Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two ladies as they gaze upward. ‘I think — didn’t I, Emma?’ is the mother’s contribution, while it is Emma who replies in a whisper, ‘No, not yet!’ Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not possible that there can be anything in the paper as good as this. Indeed he occasionally casts a humorous glance at his womenfolk. Perhaps he is trying to steady them. Let us hope he has some such good reason for breaking in from time to time on their entrancing occupation.
MR. TORRANCE. Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says, upon apparently good authority, that love laughs at locksmiths.
(His wife answers without lowering her eyes.)
MRS. TORRANCE. Did you speak, John! I am listening.
MRS. TORRANCE. I hear, John. How thoughtful!
MR. TORRANCE. And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.
MRS. TORRANCE. I shouldn’t wonder, John.
MR. TORRANCE. Hence the name Petrograd.
MRS. TORRANCE. Oh, was that the reason?
MR. TORRANCE. YOU will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable gentleman then resumed his seat.
MRS. TORRANCE. That was nice of him.
MR. TORRANCE. As I (good-naturedly) now resume mine, having made my usual impression.
MRS. TORRANCE. Yes, John.
(emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes her mother that JOHN has been saying something. They are on too good terms to make an apology necessary.)
MRS TORRANCE (blandly). JOHN,! HAVEN’T HEARD A WORD YOU SAID.
MR. TORRANCE. I’m sure you haven’t, woman.
MRS. TORRANCE. I can’t help being like this, John.
MR. TORRANCE. Go on being like yourself, dear.
MRS. TORRANCE. Am! Foolish?
MR. TORRANCE. Um.
MRS. TORRANCE. Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm — with him up there?
MR. TORRANCE. He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we presented him to an astounded world nineteen years ago.
MRS TORRANCE. But he — he is not going to be up there much longer, John. (She sits on the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle him that it is not worth his while to smile. Her voice is tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal nothing.) YOU WILL BE NICE TO HIM — TONIGHT — WON’T YOU, JOHN?
MR. TORRANCE (A LITTLE PAINED). Do I just begin tonight, Ellen?
MRS. TORRANCE. Oh no, no; but I think he is rather — shy of you at times.
MR. TORRANCE (WRYLY). That is because he is my son, Ellen.
MRS. TORRANCE. Yes — it’s strange; but — yes.
MR. TORRANCE (WITH A TWINKLE THAT IS NOT ALL HUMOROUS). Did it ever strike you, Ellen, that I am a bit — shy of him?
(She is indeed surprised.)
MRS TORRANCE. OF ROGIE!
MR. TORRANCE. I suppose it is because I am his father.
(She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass at that. It reminds her of what she wants to say.)
MRS TORRANCE. You are so sarcastic (she has never quite got the meaning of this word) to Rogie at times. boys don’t like that, John.
MR. TORRANCE. Is that so, Ellen?
MRS. TORRANCE. Of course I don’t mind your being sarcastic to ME —
MR. TORRANCE. Much good (groaning) my being sarcastic to you! You are so seldom aware of it.
MRS. TORRANCE. I am not asking you to be a mother to him,John.
MR. TORRANCE. Thank you, my dear.
(she does not know that he is sarcastic again.)
MRS. TORRANCE. I quite understand that a man can’t think all the time about his son as a mother does.
MR. TORRANCE. Can’t he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?
MRS. TORRANCE. I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his troubles rather than to his father. Rogie tells me everything.
MR. TORRANCE (venturing). I dare say he might tell me things he wouldn’t tell you.
(SHE SMILES AT THIS. IT IS VERY PROBABLY SARCASM.)
MRS. TORRANCE. I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth to him, John?
MR. TORRANCE (WITH AN UNSPOKEN SIGH). It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men show warmth to each other? Shame, woman!
MRS. TORRANCE. Two men! (INDIGNANTLY). John, he is only nineteen.
MR. TORRANCE (PATTING HER HAND). That’s all. Ellen, it is the great age to be to-day, nineteen.
(emma darts in.)
EMMA. Mother, he has unlocked the door! He IS taking a last look at himself in the mirror before coming down!
(HAVING MADE THE GREAT ANNOUNCEMENT, SHE IS OFF AGAIN.)
MRS. TORRANCE. You won’t be sarcastic, John?
MR. TORRANCE. I give you my word — if you promise not to break down.
MRS. TORRANCE (RASHLY). I promise. (SHE HURRIES TO THE DOOR AND BACK AGAIN.) John, I’ll contrive to leave you and him alone together for a little.
(MR. TORRANCE IS AS ALARMED AS IF THE JUDGE HAD LOOKED OVER THE BENCH AND ASKED HIM TO STEP UP.)
MR. TORRANCE. For God’s sake, woman, don’t do that. Father and son! He’ll bolt; or if he doesn’t, I will.
(EMMA TORRANCE THROWS OPEN THE DOOR GRANDLY, AND WE LEARN WHAT ALL THE TO-DO IS ABOUT.)
EMMA. Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the Royal Sussex. Father — your son; 2nd Lieutenant Torrance — your father. Mother — your little Rogie.
(roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or the uniform comes forward with roger inside it. He has been a very ordinary nice boy up to now, dull at his ‘ books ‘; by an effort mr torrance had sent him to an obscure boarding-school, but at sixteen it was evident that an office was the proper place for roger. Before the war broke out he was treasurer of the local lawn tennis club, and his golf handicap was seven; he carried his little bag daily to and from the city, and his highest relaxation was giggling with girls or about them. Socially he had fallen from the standards of the home; even now that he is in his uniform the hasty might say something clever about ‘temporary gentleman.’ But there are great ideas buzzing in roger’s head, which would never have been there save for the war. At present he is chiefly conscious of his clothes. His mother embraces him with cries of rapture, while MR. torrance surveys him quizzically over the paper; and emma, rushing to the piano, which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can also be used as a sideboard, plays ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes.’)
ROGER (IN AN AGONY). Mater, do stop that chit making an ass of me.
(He must be excused for his ‘mater.’ That was the sort of school; and his mother is rather proud of the phrase, though it sometimes makes his father wince.)
MRS TORRANCE. EMMA, PLEASE, DON’T. BUT I’M SURE YOU DESERVE THE WORDS, MY DARLING. DOESN’T HE, JOHN?
MR. TORRANCE (MISSING HIS CHANCE). Hardly yet, you know. Can’t be exactly a conquering hero the first night you put them on, can you, Roger?
ROGER (HOTLY). Did I say I was?
MRS. TORRANCE. Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never did — I never did!
EMMA. Isn’t he a pet!
ROGER. Shut up, Emma.
MRS. TORRANCE (CHALLENGING THE WORLD). Though I say it who shouldn’t — and yet, why shouldn’t I?
MR. TORRANCE. In any case you will — so go ahead, ‘mater.’ MRS. TORRANCE. I knew he would look splendid; but I — of course I couldn’t know that he would look quite so splendid as this.
ROGER. I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a time in coming down.
MR. TORRANCE. We thought we heard you upstairs strutting about.
MRS. TORRANCE. John! Don’t mind him, Rogie.
ROGER (HAUGHTILY). I don’t.
MR. TORRANCE. Oh!
ROGER. But I wasn’t strutting.
MRS. TORRANCE. That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you not to draw it, dear — not till necessity makes you.
MR. TORRANCE. Come, come, Ellen; that’s rather hard lines on the boy. If he isn’t to draw it here, where is he to draw it?
EMMA (WITH PRIDE). At the Front, father.
MR. TORRANCE. I thought they left them at home nowadays, Roger?
ROGER. Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.
MRS. TORRANCE (FOOLISHLY). Not when you have got used to them.
MR. TORRANCE. That isn’t what Roger means.
(His son glares.)
EMMA (who, though she has not formerly thought much of roger, is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count the salutes).! KNOW WHAT HE MEANS. IF YOU CARRY A SWORD THE SNIPERS KNOW YOU ARE AN OFFICER, AND THEY TRY TO PICK YOU OFF.
MRS. TORRANCE. It’s no w
onder they are called Huns. Fancy a British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, won’t you, in the trenches?
ROGER. Honour bright, mater.
MRS. TORRANCE. Above all, don’t look up.
MR. TORRANCE. The trenches ought to be so deep that they can’t look up.
MRS. TORRANCE. What a good idea, John!
