E. J. Wheeler. “She announced her intention of leaving the house for ever.”
Aubrey.
[Relenting.] If youverymuch want to smoke, I dare say it might be managed. If we have this window wide open, and you sit by it, a cigarette might not be noticed.
Cayley.
[Shortly.] Thanks.
[Takes out cigarette, and lights it, as soon asAubreyhas made the elaborate arrangements indicated above.
Aubrey.
[Politely.] I hope you won’t find it cold.
Cayley.
[Grimly.] England in March is always cold. [Sneezes violently.] But, perhaps, if you ring for my overcoat, I may manage to survive the evening.
Aubrey.
Certainly. What is it like?
Cayley.
I’ve no idea. It’s an ordinary sort of coat. Your man will know it if you ring for him.
Aubrey.
[Hesitating.] I’d rather fetch it for you myself, if you don’t mind. I should not like Parkes to see that you were smoking. It would set such a bad example.
Cayley.
[Throwing his cigarette on to the lawn in a rage, and closing the window with a shiver.] Don’t trouble. I’ll smoke in the train. By-the-way, what timeismy train?
Aubrey.
Your train?
Cayley.
Yes. I must get back to town, my dear fellow.
Aubrey.
Nonsense! You said you’d stay a week.
Cayley.
Did I? Then I didn’t know what I was saying. I must get back to-night.
Aubrey.
But you brought a bag.
Cayley.
Only to dress, Aubrey. By the way, will you tell your man to pack it?
Aubrey.
You can’t go to-night. The last train leaves at 9.30. It’s 9.15 now.
Cayley.
[Jumping up.] Then I must start at once. Send my bag after me.
Aubrey.
You’ve not a chance of catching it.
Cayley.
[Solemnly.] My dear old friend, I shall return to town to-night if I have to walk!
Aubrey.
[Detaining him.] But my wife? You haven’t even made her acquaintance yet. She’ll think it so strange.
Cayley.
Not half so strange as I have thought her dinner. [Shaking himself free.] No, Aubrey, this is really good-bye. I like you very much, and it cuts me to the heart to have to drop your acquaintance; but nothing in the world would induce me to face another dinner such as I have had to-night!
Aubrey.
Cayley!
Cayley.
[Making for the door.] And nothing in the world would induce me to be introduced to the third Mrs. Tanqueray.
[Exit hurriedly.
Curtain.
When Ibsen ended “The Lady from the Sea” by making Mrs. Wangel give up her idea of eloping with “The Stranger” and decide to remain with her husband and her step-children, many people must have felt that there was a want of finality about the arrangement. Having discussed so exhaustively with Dr. Wangel the advisability of leaving him, she could hardly be expected to give up the project permanently. The play is therefore one which emphatically calls for a sequel.
Scene I.—Beside the pond in theWangels’garden. It is a malarious evening in September.HildaandBoletta,Mrs. Wangel’sstep-daughters, are, as usual, failing to catch the carp which are said to haunt the pond.
Boletta.
Do you thinkshe[nodding towardsMrs. Wangel, who prowls to and fro on the damp lawn with a shawl over her head] is any better?
Hilda.
No, worse.
Boletta.
[Cheerfully.] Oh, she can’t be worse.
Hilda.
That’s all very well for you. You’re going to be married. It doesn’t matter to youhowmad she is! You’ll be out of it before long.
Boletta.
[Jubilantly.] Yes, I shall be out of it.
Hilda.
But I shan’t. [Darkly.] However, perhaps she’ll go away soon.
Boletta.
Papa still thinks of moving to the sea-side then?
Hilda.
[Crossly.] Oh, Papa—Papa never thinks!
Boletta.
Hush, Hilda. What dreadful things you say!
Hilda.
[Grimly.] Not half so dreadful as the things I should like to do.
Boletta.
Hilda!
Hilda.
Oh, yes, I should. And Iwillwhen I grow up. I’ll make Master-builder Solnes tumble off one of his own steeples. Think of that now!
Boletta.
What a horrid child you are! And just when I thought you were beginning to get on better withhertoo! [Nodding towardMrs. Wangel.] It’s most provoking.
Hilda.
I call it perfectly thrilling, myself. But here she comes. [Mrs. Wangelapproaches.] Go away. I want to talk to her. [ExitBolettadoubtfully.] How are you to-day, Mother?
Mrs. Wangel.
[Absently.] Eh?
Hilda.
[Controlling her impatience.] I asked how you were.
Mrs. Wangel.
But you called me mother. I’m not your mother. I’m only your step-mother.
Hilda.
But I can’t address you as step-mother. “People don’t do those things,” as dear Hedda Gabler always says.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Whose attention is clearly wandering.] I suppose they don’t.
Hilda.
Mother, have you seenhim?
Mrs. Wangel.
I believe Wangel is in the surgery.
Hilda.
I don’t mean Papa. What does it matter where Papa is! I mean The Stranger. The English steamer is at the pier. It arrived last night. [Looks atMrs. Wangelmeaningly.]
Mrs. Wangel.
[Vaguely.] Is it, dear? You astonish me.
Hilda.
You will go and see him, won’t you?
Mrs. Wangel.
Oh, of course, of course.
Hilda.
I think it must be so perfectly thrilling to go down all by one’s self to a steamer to see a strange man who is not one’s husband.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Recalling with difficulty her old phrase.] Oh, yes—yes. It allures me wonderfully.
Hilda.
I should go at once, if I were you, before Papa comes out.
Mrs. Wangel.
Don’t you think I ought to tell Wangel? I have always been accustomed to consult him before eloping with anyone else.
Hilda.
I think not. You must go of your own free will. You see, Papa mighturgeyou to go. And then it would not be altogether your own will that sent you, would it? It would be partly his.
Mrs. Wangel.
So it would.
Hilda.
Isn’t it splendid to think of your going away with him to-night, quite, quite away, across the sea?
Mrs. Wangel.
[Doubtfully.] Yes.
Hilda.
You know you always like the sea. You talk so much about it. Italluresyou, you know.
Mrs. Wangel.
Yes, the idea of it is wonderfully alluring. [With misgiving.] But I’ve never beenonthe sea.
Hilda.
[Enthusiastically.] That’s what makes the idea so thrilling. It will be quite a new sensation! The sea is so fresh and buoyant, you know! Sorough! Not like these vapid fiords where it’s always calm. Quite different altogether.
Mrs. Wangel.
Ah, there’s Wangel.
[EnterDr. Wangel.
Hilda.
Bother!
[She returns to her fishing for the carp, which are never caught.
Dr. Wangel.
Ah, Ellida, is that you?
Mrs. Wangel.
Yes, Wangel.
Dr. Wangel.
Not brooding, I trust, dear? Not letting your mind dwell on The Stranger, eh?
Mrs. Wangel.
[Always ready to adopt an idea from any quarter.] Ofcourse, Wangel, I never can quite get the idea of The Stranger out of my mind.
E. J. Wheeler. “Not brooding, I trust, dear?”
Dr. Wangel.
[Shaking his head.] Silly girl, silly girl. And the sea, too? Still full of the sea?
Mrs. Wangel.
[Taking up the cue at once.] Ah, the sea, the wonderful, changeful sea! So fresh and buoyant, you know! So rough! Not like these vapid fiords. I had a child whose eyes were like the sea.
Dr. Wangel.
[Testily.] I assure you, Ellida, you are wrong. The child’s eyes were just like other children’s eyes. All children’s eyes are. [Hildasuppresses a slight giggle.Wangelnotices her for the first time.] Fishing, Hilda?
Hilda.
[Darkly.] Yes, Papa. Trying to hook a silly old carp. I think I shall catch her in the end.
Dr. Wangel.
[With interest.] What bait do you use?
Hilda.
Oh, I have been very careful about thebait. My fish rose to it at once.
Dr. Wangel.
Well, well, I must go back to the surgery. Good-bye, Ellida; and, mind, no brooding about the sea!
[Exit.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Ecstatically.] Oh, the sea, the sea!
Hilda.
Yes, you’ll be on it soon. Won’t it be thrilling? I really think you ought to start at once.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Helplessly.] I suppose I ought to pack a few things first?
Hilda.
I wouldn’t mind about that if I were you. I’d go down to the ship just as I was, slip on board without being noticed, and hide until I was well outside the fiord and began to feel therealsea heaving under me!
Mrs. Wangel.
[Nervously.] Shall I like that?
Hilda.
Of course you will. It’s your native element, you know. You always said so. Before you’ve been on it half an hour you’ll wish you were overboard, you’ll like the sea so!
Mrs. Wangel.
[Fired by this vicarious enthusiasm.] I shall, I know I shall.Hewill be there too! And he’s so frightfully alluring. I must go at once.
[Exit hurriedly by the garden gate.
Hilda.
[Giggling joyously.] Caught, by Jove! My fish caught! She’ll go off with her second mate on the English steamer, and never come back any more. What a triumph for my bait!
[Picks up fishing tackle, and exit into the house in high good humour.
Scene II.—The deck of the English steamer. The vessel has got outside the shelter of the fiord, and is beginning topitch a little in the long sea rollers.Mrs. Wangelis discovered groping her way cautiously up the companion in the darkness.
Mrs. Wangel.
This motion is very disagreeable—[The vessel gives a very heavy lurch]—mostdisagreeable! I wonder if I could speak to The Stranger now? Hilda said I ought to wait till we were out at sea. Oh! [The vessel gives another lurch.]
A Steward.
[Passing.] Did you call?
Mrs. Wangel.
No—er—that is, yes. Will you send Mr. Johnston to me.
Steward.
There’s no one of that name among the passengers, Madam.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Fretfully.] Mr. Johnston isn’t a passenger. Mr. Johnston is the second mate. [The vessel lurches again.] Oh, oh!
Steward.
[Looking suspiciously at her.] But the second mate’s name is Brown.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Under her breath.] Anotheralias! [Aloud.] It’s the same person. Will you ask him to come to me?
Steward.
Very well, Madam. [To himself.] Queer, that! Wants to see the second mate, and don’t remember his name. But, there, what can you expect on these excursion steamers!
[Exit.
Mrs. Wangel.
[As the boat gets further out to sea and begins to roll heavily.] This is horrible. I begin to think I don’t like the sea at all. I feel positively ill. And I always thought the motion would be so exhilarating. It doesn’t exhilaratemein the least. I wish Johnston would come—or Brown, I mean Brown. Perhaps he could find somewhere for me to lie down.
[Brown—orJohnston—accompanied by theSteward, comes up the hatchway. He is the same disreputable looking seaman whose acquaintance the reader of “The Lady from the Sea” has already made.
Steward.
This is the lady. [IndicatingMrs. Wangel.]
Brown.
[In his most nautical manner.] I know that you swob. Haven’t I eyes? Get out. [ExitSteward.] Well, woman, what do you want?
Mrs. Wangel.
[Faintly, too much overcome by the rolling of the vessel to resent his roughness.] I—I have come to you.
Brown.
So I see.
Mrs. Wangel
Don’t you want me, Alfred?
Brown.
My name isn’t Alfred. It’s John.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Plaintively.] Itusedto be Alfred.
Brown.
Well, now it’s John.
Mrs. Wangel.
Are you—glad to see me?
Brown.
[Briskly.] Not a bit. Never was so sorry to see a woman in my life.
Mrs. Wangel.
[In horror.] But you came for me. You said you wanted me.
Brown.
I know I did. Thought old Quangle-Wangle would buy me off if I put the screw on. He didn’t see it. Stingy old cuss!
Mrs. Wangel.
[Appalled at this way of speaking of her husband.] But you never asked Dr. Wangel for anything?
Brown.
No fear. Too old a hand for that. He’d have put me in prison for trying to extort money.
Mrs. Wangel.
How could you expect him to give you money if you didn’t ask for it?
Brown.
I didn’t suppose he was an absolute fool. When a man has a crazy wife he can’t be such a born natural as to suppose that another man really wants her to go away with him. He wants the price of a drink. That’s whathewants. But old Quangle-Wangle was too clever for me. He wouldn’t part.
Mrs. Wangel.
Wouldn’t part husband and wife, you mean?
Brown.
No, I don’t, and you know I don’t. Wouldn’t part with the dibs; that’s whatImean.
Mrs. Wangel.
[As the vessel gives a big roll.] Oh, I’m going to be very ill indeed. Why did I think I should like the sea?
Brown.
Why, indeed?Idon’t know. Dash me if I do. Mad, I suppose.
Mrs. Wangel.
What am I to do now?
Brown.
Go back to old Quangle, if he’ll take you. He’s fool enough, I dare say.
Mrs. Wangel.
But I can’t. We’re out at sea. I can’t get back now. I think I’m going to die.
[She sinks upon a seat.
Brown.
Die? You won’t die. No such luck. You’re going to be sea-sick, you are. Where’s your cabin?
Mrs. Wangel.
[Feebly.] I don’t know.
Brown.
Where’s your luggage? Hand me over your keys.
Mrs. Wangel.
I haven’t any luggage.
Brown.
Bilked again, s’help me! And not so much as a half a sovereign on you, I suppose?
Mrs. Wangel.
[Feeling limply in her pocket.] No. I must have left my purse at home.
Brown.
Well, I’m——!
[He looks sourly at her.
Mrs. Wangel.
[Growing frightened.] What are you going to dowith me?
Brown.
Do with you? Send you back to Quangle by the first steamer, of course. You’ll have to work your passage back as stewardess. Heaven help the passengers!
[He stalks to the hatchway and disappears.Mrs. Wangel, with a groan, resigns herself to sea-sickness.
Curtain.
It might have been thought that Shakespeare’s “Antony and Cleopatra” rather than Mr. Bernard Shaw’s “Cæsar and Cleopatra” demanded a dramatic sequel, but as Mr. Shaw has pointed out repeatedly that he is the greater dramatist of the two, his play has been chosen in preference to Shakespeare’s. A prefatory essay proving—at great length—that the dialogue of this sequel is true to life, and is in fact substantially a reproduction of what was spoken in the yearB.C.31, has been omitted for lack of space.
Scene.—An extravagantly furnished apartment in the Palace at Alexandria.Cleopatrais discovered seated upon her throne. She is dressed with mournful splendour, as befits a queen who has been defeated at Actium and has suffered a recent bereavement. Her face is as attractive as a liberal use of cosmetics can make it, and her whole appearance is that of a middle-aged and rather dissipated member of the corps de ballet who has gone into half-mourning because the manager has reduced her salary.Charmian, a pretty, shrewish-looking damsel, is in attendance on her.
Cleopatra.
[Nervously.] Am I looking my best, Charmian?
Charmian.
[Sulkily.] Your majesty is looking as well asIcan make you. If you are not satisfied you had better get another maid.
Cleopatra.
[Looking at herself in hand mirror.] Silly child! Of course I am satisfied. I think you are wonderful.
Charmian.
[Mollified.] Yes. I think I’ve not done so badly.
Cleopatra.
Of course, with Antony not even buried yet, it would hardly have done for me to betoomagnificent.
Charmian.
[Decidedly]. Most unsuitable.
Cleopatra.
As it is, I think we’ve arrived at a rather successful blend of splendour and sorrow, suggesting at once the afflicted widow and the queen who is open to consolation.
Charmian.
That is certainly the impression we intended to convey. By the way, when does Cæsar arrive?
Cleopatra.
Octavian? Almost at once.
Charmian.
His first visit, isn’t it?
Cleopatra.
Yes. So much depends on a first impression. [Looks at mirror again.] I think we shall captivate him.
Charmian.
[Dubiously.] He’s not very impressionable, I hear.
Cleopatra.
No. But I shall manage it. Think how completely I fascinated Julius.
Charmian.
His uncle? I’m afraid that’s hardly a reason why you should prove equally attractive to the nephew.
Cleopatra.
My dear child, why not?
Charmian.
Well—the lapse of time, you know. That was seventeen years ago.
Cleopatra.
So long? I am really very well preserved.
Charmian
Considering the wear and tear.
Cleopatra.
My good Charmian, how crudely you put things. I declare I’ve a good mind to have you executed.
Charmian.
[Tranquilly.] Your majesty will hardly do that. I am the only person in Egypt who really understands the secret of your majesty’s complexion.
Cleopatra.
That’s true. But you ought to be more tactful.
Charmian.
[Tossing her head.] You can’t expect me to display tact when my wages haven’t been paid since the battle of Actium.
Cleopatra.
Poor child! Never mind, when Octavian is at my feet you shall be paid [meaningly] in full! Will that satisfy you?
Charmian.
I’d much rather have something on account.
Cleopatra.
I wish you wouldn’t vex me in this way just when it’s so important that I should look my best. You know how unbecoming temper is to a woman when she is ... well, over thirty [beginning to cry].
Charmian.
There, there! I’m sorry I said anything to hurt you. Don’t cry, for Heaven’s sake, or that rouge will run. Then I shall have to go all over you again. Dry your eyes, there’s a good creature. [Cleopatradoes so obediently.] I declare you’re all in streaks. Come here, and let me put you straight.
[Cleopatragoes toCharmian, who produces powder-puff etc., and repairs the ravages of emotion.
Cleopatra.
Quick, quick! They’re coming. I hear them. I’m glad he’s so early. Only a quarter of an hour after his time. [Proudly] That shows how eager he is to see me! I feel that this is going to be another of my triumphs.
[Charmianputs the finishing touch to theQueenjust asCæsarenters. She then hastily conceals powder-puff, etc., behind her.Cleopatrahas no time to return to the throne, and stands rather awkwardly withCharmianto receive her visitors. These prove to beOctavian, a pale, dyspeptic-looking young man of about thirty;Agrippa, a bluff, thickset, red-faced warrior past middle age, and a guard of Roman soldiers.
Octavian.
[Looking round the gorgeous apartment with much disgust, and speaking in a soft, weary voice.] Ugh! Bad taste, very bad taste all this.
Agrippa.
You know what these barbarians are. [To the two women.] Kindly inform the Queen Cæsar is here.
Cleopatra.
[Advancing.]Iam the Queen. How do you do?
Agrippa.
You! Nonsense!
Cleopatra.
[Archly.] Oh, yes, I am.
Octavian.
[With gentle melancholy.] Dear, dear, another illusion gone!
Cleopatra.
Illusion?
Octavian.
Your beauty, you know; your grace, your charm. I had heard so much of them. So had Agrippa. Let me introduce you, by the way. Agrippa—Cleopatra. [Wearily.] As I was saying, it ismostdisappointing.
Agrippa.
[Gruffly.] Not whatIexpected at all!
[Charmiangiggles furtively.
Cleopatra.
[Puzzled.] You—don’t admire me?
Octavian.
[Gently.] Admire you? My dear lady!
Cleopatra.
[Bridling.] Antony was of a different opinion.
Agrippa.
[Bluntly.] Antony was a fool.
Octavian.
Hush, my dear Agrippa! You hurt her feelings.
[Agrippashrugs his shoulders and crosses toCharmian, with whom he begins a vigorous flirtation.
Cleopatra.
[Angrily.] Never mind my feelings.
Octavian.
Frankly then, dear lady, we are not impressed. We came here prepared for a beautiful temptress, a dazzling siren whom I must resist or perish, something seductive, enticing. And what do we find?
Cleopatra.
[Furious.] Well, whatdoyou find.
Octavian.
[In his gentlest voice.] Dear lady, don’t let us pursue this painful subject. Probably we had not allowed for the flight of time. Suffice it that our poor hopes are unrealised. [Looking round] But I don’t see Cæsarion.
Cleopatra.
[Sullenly.] My son is not here.
Octavian.
Another disappointment.
Cleopatra.
You wished to speak to him?
Octavian.
Yes. They talk of him as a son of Julius, don’t they?
Cleopatra.
Heisa son of Julius.
Octavian.
A sort of relation of mine, then? I must really make his acquaintance. Can you give me his address?
Cleopatra.
[Sulkily.] No. If you want him, you will have to find him for yourself.
Octavian.
[Blandly.] I shall find him, dearest Queen. You need be under no apprehensions about that.
Cleopatra.
Brute!
Octavian.
Eh?
Cleopatra.
Nothing. I was only thinking.
Octavian.
Never thinkaloud, dear lady. It’s a dangerous habit.
Cleopatra.
[Impatiently.] Is there anything further you want with me?
Octavian.
[Affably.] Nothing, thank you, nothing. At least, nothing just now.
Cleopatra.
You would like to see me later?
Octavian.
[Gentler than a sucking dove.] In a few weeks, perhaps. The Triumph, you know. The sovereign people throwing up their caps and hallooing. The Procession up the Sacred Way, with the headsman at the end of it all. [Yawning slightly.] The usual thing.
Cleopatra.
[Losing her temper.] Oh, you’re not a man at all! You’re a block, a stone! You have no blood in your veins. You’re not like Antony.
Octavian.
No, dear lady, I’m not like Antony. If I were, I shouldn’t have beaten him at Actium.
Cleopatra.
I won’t stay to be baited in this way. I won’t! I won’t!
[Goes towards door.
Octavian.
[Gallantly.] Farewell, then. We shall meet again. Agrippa, the Queen is going.
Agrippa.
[Breaking off in the midst of his flirtation.] Eh? Oh, good-bye.
Cleopatra.
[Stamping her foot.] Charmian!
[Exit.
[Charmianjumps up, kisses her hand toAgrippaand follows her mistress out.
Agrippa.
[Looking after her.] That’s a pretty little minx.
Octavian.
[Who has seated himself wearily on the throne.] Is she? I didn’t notice ... Cæsarion’s fled.
Agrippa.
So I supposed.
Octavian.
It’s a great nuisance. We must find him. Will you see about it?
Agrippa.
If you wish it. What shall I do with him?
Octavian.
[In his tired voice.] Better put him to death. It will save a lot of trouble in the end.
Agrippa.
But the boy’s your own cousin.
Octavian.
Yes. I have always disliked my relations.
Agrippa.
[Admiringly.] I begin to think youarea genius, Cæsar, after all.
Octavian.
Iam. Much good it does me! I’d give my genius for your digestion any day.
[Leans back on throne and closes his eyes.
[EnterCharmianhurriedly, looking pale and dishevelled.
Charmian.
Help! Help! The Queen is dying!
Octavian.
[Irritably, opening his eyes.] Stop that noise, girl! You make my head ache.
Charmian.
She is dying, I tell you! She has taken poison!
[Exit, squealing.
Agrippa.
Poison, by Jove! Confound it, she mustn’t do that, must she?
[Is about to followCharmian.