[They talk aside asMrs. Golightlyis helped on with her cloak.Dickieis left practically alone withMrs. Fergusson.
[They talk aside asMrs. Golightlyis helped on with her cloak.Dickieis left practically alone withMrs. Fergusson.
Dickie.
[In an undertone.] I say, what the dickens have you come here for now?
Mrs. Fergusson.
You didn’t tell me when I should see you to-morrow.
Dickie.
Good heavens, you might have rung me up on the telephone.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, I never trust the telephone.
Dickie.
How do you mean you never trust the telephone? Are you in the habit....
Mrs. Fergusson.
Dickie!
Dickie.
I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean that.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Why on earth did you invent that cock-and-bull story about Mrs. Mack?
Dickie.
I didn’t. It invented itself. I was obliged to account for my movements.
Mrs. Fergusson.
D’you mean to say your wife asks you where you’ve been and where you’re going? How like a woman. [Innocently.] By the way, what are you doing this evening?
Dickie.
[With amusement.] Oh, Penelope and I are dining at the Carlton grill room, and going to a music hall.
[Barlowcomes up to them.
[Barlowcomes up to them.
Barlow.
Good-bye, Mrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Effusively.] Good-bye.
Barlow.
[ToPenelope,as he shakes hands with her.] Devilish fine woman.
Penelope.
[Pretending to be outraged.] Uncle Davenport!
Barlow.
Good-bye, dear. Quite a lady.
Penelope.
Good-bye.
[BarlowandMrs. Golightlygo out.
[BarlowandMrs. Golightlygo out.
Golightly.
[As he is following.] Are you all right?
Penelope.
Yes, leave it to me. I’m beginning to feel my feet.
Golightly.
[With a smile.] I noticed it.
[Golightlygoes out.
[Golightlygoes out.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Charming man your uncle is, Penelope. So distinguished.
Penelope.
You’ve made a conquest of him. He told me you were a devilish fine woman.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Not really? Men often tell me I’m a womanly woman.
Penelope.
I daresay it means the same thing.
Mrs. Fergusson.
But I must fly too. I really had no idea it was so late.
Penelope.
Are you doing anything to-night?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, no! I live very quietly. There’s nothing that I enjoy more than an evening all by myself, with a book.
Penelope.
You used to be so fond of going out.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I know that my husband prefers me to remain at home. And when I think of him bravely serving his country in a foreign land I have no heart for gaiety.
Penelope.
What a charming nature you have.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[ToDickie.] My husband’s in a man-of-war. He’s stationed at Malta, you know. It’s so dreadful that my health forces me to remain in England.
Penelope.
I wonder if you’d do me a great kindness.
Mrs. Fergusson.
My dear, I’ll always do anything for an old friend.
Penelope.
The fact is, I’ve had a perfectly fiendish headache the whole afternoon.
Dickie.
[Triumphantly.] I knew there was something the matter with you the moment I came in.
Penelope.
We’ve got a couple of stalls for a music hall to-night. It would be awfully kind of you if you’d go with Dickie instead of me.
[A look of intelligence passes betweenDickieandMrs. Fergusson.
[A look of intelligence passes betweenDickieandMrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I?
Penelope.
Dickie hates going out alone, and I simply can’t stir. You can have a jolly little dinner together at a restaurant, and you can go on afterwards.
Dickie.
Are you really sure you can’t go, Pen?
Penelope.
It’s absolutely out of the question.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Don’t you think Dr. O’Farrell ought to stay and look after you?
Penelope.
Oh, no! It’ll do him good to go out. He’s been working so dreadfully hard. This afternoon he had a consultation that lasted nearly an hour.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[ToDickie.] Would you like me to come with you?
Dickie.
I should love it, if it wouldn’t bore you.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Then I shall be delighted.
Penelope.
Thanks so much. But it’s getting very late. I think you ought to start at once.
Dickie.
You’re sure you don’t mind my leaving you, Penelope?
Penelope.
Positive.
Dickie.
Well, just wait a moment, and I’ll make you up a dose of something.
Penelope.
[Hastily.] Oh, no, I promise you I’m much better without medicine.
Dickie.
Nonsense. Of course I must give you something.
[He goes out.
[He goes out.
Mrs. Fergusson.
That’s the advantage of having a doctor in the family.
Penelope.
[Crossly.] Yes, it’s a great advantage.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I do envy you, having your husband always athand. When I think of mine bravely serving his country—and you know, every doctor I go to tells me it would be most dangerous for me to join him.
[Dickiecomes in with a little medicine glass, filled with a milky fluid.
[Dickiecomes in with a little medicine glass, filled with a milky fluid.
Dickie.
Here it is.
Penelope.
Oh, no, Dickie, I’d much rather not.
Dickie.
Don’t be silly, darling. This’ll pull you together like anything.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’m sure she ought to lie down.
Penelope.
No, I think I’d rather stand up if you don’t mind.
Dickie.
How extraordinarily unreasonable you are! Now lie down on this sofa.
Penelope.
Of course, if I absolutely must.
[She lies down on a sofa.
[She lies down on a sofa.
Mrs. Fergusson.
We must make you comfortable before we go.
Dickie.
Let’s put all the cushions behind her. Is that nice?
Penelope.
Yes, thank you.
Dickie.
Poor little thing.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’m sure she ought to have something over her feet.
Dickie.
Let’s put this rug over her feet. There. Now take this medicine.... There....
Penelope.
Oh, no, Dickie. I’ll take it after you’ve gone. I really will. I promise you I’ll take it.
Dickie.
Why on earth can’t you take it now?
Penelope.
Well, I hate making faces before you.
Dickie.
But I’ve often seen you make faces.
Penelope.
Yes, at you. That’s quite a different thing.
Dickie.
Now, take it like a good girl.
Penelope.
After you’ve gone.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[With great determination.] I’m not going to stir from this room till you’ve taken it.
Penelope.
[Resigned.] Give it me. Hold my nose, Dickie.
[She swallows it and makes a face.
[She swallows it and makes a face.
Oh, I wish I’d never married you, Dickie.
Dickie.
It’ll make you feel like one o’clock.
Penelope.
I don’t want to feel like one o’clock.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Good-bye. So sorry you’re feeling seedy.
Dickie.
Good-bye, darling.
Penelope.
I hope you’ll have an awfully good time.
[DickieandMrs. Fergussongo out.Penelopesprings up, throws the cushionsangrily aside, makes one or two quick steps towards the door as though to call them back, then stops.
[DickieandMrs. Fergussongo out.Penelopesprings up, throws the cushionsangrily aside, makes one or two quick steps towards the door as though to call them back, then stops.
Penelope.
No, I won’t. I won’t.
[She comes slowly back, then sinks down and bursts into tears.
[She comes slowly back, then sinks down and bursts into tears.
End of the First Act.
Scene:Dr. O’Farrell’sconsulting-room. It is a comfortably furnished room, with engravings on the walls, photographs in silver frames, and flowers on the chimney-piece. There is a large desk on one side, with papers on it, books, and a reading-lamp. There is a revolving-chair forDickieto sit in, and a chair on the other side of the desk for the patient. On a side table are a microscope, a stand for test tubes, one or two medicine bottles, a row of large bottles containing chemicals, and an electric lamp. There is a sofa without arms for patients to lie upon, and there are two or three chairs besides. On the shelves are medical books. On a little table is a pile of “Lancets.â€Dickieis sitting at his desk, with his stethoscope still in his ears. A patient is standing up, buttoning up his braces. He puts on his waistcoat and coat as the conversation proceeds. He is a very timid little man, with a bald head and gold spectacles. He has an intensely nervous, apologetic manner.
Scene:Dr. O’Farrell’sconsulting-room. It is a comfortably furnished room, with engravings on the walls, photographs in silver frames, and flowers on the chimney-piece. There is a large desk on one side, with papers on it, books, and a reading-lamp. There is a revolving-chair forDickieto sit in, and a chair on the other side of the desk for the patient. On a side table are a microscope, a stand for test tubes, one or two medicine bottles, a row of large bottles containing chemicals, and an electric lamp. There is a sofa without arms for patients to lie upon, and there are two or three chairs besides. On the shelves are medical books. On a little table is a pile of “Lancets.â€
Dickieis sitting at his desk, with his stethoscope still in his ears. A patient is standing up, buttoning up his braces. He puts on his waistcoat and coat as the conversation proceeds. He is a very timid little man, with a bald head and gold spectacles. He has an intensely nervous, apologetic manner.
Dickie.
I’ll just write you out a prescription, shall I?
Patient.
Oh, it’s too good of you. I’m afraid I’m giving you so much trouble.
Dickie.
Not at all. Now what would you like me to give you?
Patient.
[Dreadfully embarrassed.] Oh, whatever you like, please. It’s too good of you.
Dickie.
You know, there’s not much the matter with you.
Patient.
Oh, I’m so sorry. I really, really....
Dickie.
I should have thought you’d be rather pleased.
Patient.
[Apologetically.] Yes, of course, I’m very much pleased. I didn’t mean that. I’ve taken up so much of your time.
Dickie.
It’s only out of the people who’ve got nothing the matter with them that I make a living. The people who are ill either get well or die, and that’s the end of them.
Patient.
Yes, I see. I never thought of that. Beautiful day it is, isn’t it?
Dickie.
Won’t you sit down?
Patient.
Oh, it’s too good of you. Thank you, thank you. I’m afraid I’m taking up so much of your time.
Dickie.
I always make my patients sit on the other side of my desk since one of them suddenly saw a snake on me, and flung himself at my throat in order to save me from being bitten. He nearly throttled me in the process, and when I knelt on his chest, he said I was an ungrateful devil, and he wouldn’t interfere with the snakes next time they went for me.
Patient.
[Extremely agitated.] Oh, but you don’t think there’s any danger of my flying at your throat, do you?
Dickie.
[With a laugh.] No, of course not.
Patient.
I drink nothing for my luncheon, and only claret and water for my dinner.
Dickie.
I suppose you wouldn’t think you’d had your money’s worth if I gave you no medicine?
Patient.
Oh, it’s too good of you, but I think, for my wife’s sake, I’d like to take something.
Dickie.
Well, look here, I’ve given you some strychnine to buck you up, and some bismuth to quiet you down. Take it three times a day after meals.
Patient.
Oh, thank you so much. I’m sure it’s just what I want. And now—er. And now—er....
[He gets up, overcome with embarrassment.
[He gets up, overcome with embarrassment.
Dickie.
I think there’s nothing more I can do for you.
Patient.
No, er—thank you very much. I—er—it’s so good of you to have taken so much trouble. Yes, er....
Dickie.
[Understanding.] Oh.... My fee is two guineas.
Patient.
[Infinitely relieved.] Oh, thank you so much.That’s just what I wanted to ask you. Shall I write you a cheque?
Dickie.
We always prefer to have it in hard cash, you know, in case it’s a bogus cheque.
Patient.
Oh, certainly. It’s too good of you. I thought you mightn’t like it.
Dickie.
It’s extraordinary how nervous people are about giving a doctor money. If you only knew how jolly glad he is to get it.
Patient.
Yes. Thank you very much.
[The patient takes two guineas out of his pocket and puts them nervously on the chimney-piece.
[The patient takes two guineas out of his pocket and puts them nervously on the chimney-piece.
Dickie.
Hang it all, man, not on the mantelpiece. There are limits.
Patient.
Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m so sorry.
Dickie.
We always like it put on the desk.
Patient.
I don’t often come and consult doctors.
Dickie.
I can see that. If you did you’d probably give me two pounds and say you hadn’t got two shillings on you, especially if you were a woman.
Patient.
You don’t say so. Really it never occurred to me.
Dickie.
Thank you. Well, good-bye.
Patient.
Good-bye, and thank you so much. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Good-bye.
[Dickieleads him to the door and shows him out. At the door he seesGolightly.
[Dickieleads him to the door and shows him out. At the door he seesGolightly.
Dickie.
Hulloa! Come in, won’t you? [Calling upstairs.] Pen, here’s your noble parent.
[Golightlycomes in.
[Golightlycomes in.
Golightly.
I was just going up to see Pen.
Dickie.
Come and sit down here, and we’ll have a smoke.
Golightly.
Aren’t you expecting patients?
Dickie.
Oh, it’s just on five o’clock. I don’t suppose any one else will come. We might have tea down here.
Golightly.
How are things going?
Dickie.
Rotten. Look here, a wretched two guineas. That’s all I’ve made this afternoon.
[Penelopecomes in.
[Penelopecomes in.
Penelope.
Well, father?
Golightly.
Kiss your noble parent, my child. You’ve got a new dress on.
Penelope.
I rather like it, don’t you?
Dickie.
Is that another new frock, Pen?
Penelope.
Yes, darling. Why?
Dickie.
Oh, nothing.
Penelope.
The wife of a fashionable physician has to spend a lot of money on her clothes.
Golightly.
Dickie was lamenting that times were very bad.
Dickie.
What can you expect with this beastly weather! Fine, dry, cold day after day. We haven’t had a fog this autumn. It doesn’t give one a chance. Of course everybody keeps well. Times are getting worse and worse. Everybody has decent drains now. An officious Government gives people pure water. If it weren’t for patent medicines and themalade imaginairehalf the doctors in London would starve.
Penelope.
Never mind, Dickie. There may be a motor accident just outside our front door one of these days.
Dickie.
It would be just like my luck if they were all killed outright. No, what I want is a really good epidemic, a very complicated form of influenza that’d keep people on their backs for about a month.
Penelope.
And supposing I got it?
Dickie.
Well, if you got it that bounder on the other side of the street would have to treat you. And he couldn’t charge you as you’re my wife, and he’d simply grind his teeth at having to waste his time.
Penelope.
The bounder on the other side of the street is Dr. Rogers. I like him much better than Dickie.
Dickie.
Pompous ass.
Penelope.
He’s got such a pleasant bedside manner.
Dickie.
You’ve never seen my bedside manner. [Looking at his hands.] I say, I must just go and wash my hands, they’re covered with Picric Acid.
[Exit.
[Exit.
Penelope.
Where’s mother? Converting the heathen?
Golightly.
From the safe distance of the Albert Hall.
Penelope.
[With a change of manner.] I’m glad you came alone.
Golightly.
Is anything the matter?
Penelope.
[Breaking out.] I can’t go on with it any longer. I’ve come to the end of my strength.
Golightly.
Is Dickie still ...?
Penelope.
Yes. I can’t imagine what he sees in her. I sit and watch her sometimes and wonder what she has that I haven’t got. You don’t think I’m plain, do you?
Golightly.
Certainly not. If you had been I should have exposed you at your birth, like the ancient Spartans.
Penelope.
There are lots of men who are willing to tell me that I’m extremely attractive.
Golightly.
Why don’t you let them?
Penelope.
My dear father, you’re the most immoral parent I’ve ever come across.
Golightly.
[With a little deprecatory shrug.] It might be politic.
Penelope.
[Shaking her head.] No, I don’t know whether I shall ever get Dickie back again, but I don’t want to get him back by exciting his jealousy. I don’t wanthis love if I can only have it by making him think other men are in love with me.
Golightly.
Remember that two and two never make five.
Penelope.
[Impatiently.] It’s easy enough to give advice. You’ve only got to sit still and watch. I’ve got to do things. And the worst of it is that doing things means doing nothing.
Golightly.
My dear.
Penelope.
Now, father, don’t look as if you didn’t understand or I shall throw something at your head. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could be up and doing, but I just have to sit still and keep my temper. You don’t know what I’ve suffered this month with a smiling face. I’ve laughed while my heart ached. I’ve chaffed Dickie when I’ve known he was just going to meet Ada Fergusson. I’ve arranged little parties so that they might be together. I haven’t even dared to cry by myself in case Ada Fergusson should see that my eyes were red and tell Dickie. He’s seen her every day, every single day for the last month, and all the time I’ve been cheerful and pleasant and amusing.
Golightly.
But how does he manage to get the time?
Penelope.
Of course he’s been neglecting his practice. He’s sent his assistant to people he ought to have seen himself. You remember Mrs. Mack, don’t you?
Golightly.
[Smiling.] The imaginary Mrs. Mack? Yes.
Penelope.
If you knew how I hated Mrs. Mack! She’s been having operations. She has an operation about once a week, and Dickie goes off for the whole day in his car.
Golightly.
She must have the constitution of a boa-constrictor.
Penelope.
And the curious thing is that she always has an operation when there’s a race meeting. She had an operation for the Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton; and she had another operation for the Cesarewitch, and a third for Sandown.
Golightly.
How very singular.
Penelope.
It is till you know that Ada Fergusson adores racing. And the thing that makes me so furious is that I’m quite certain Dickie puts on her money forher; and when her horse wins she pockets the profits, and when it loses she doesn’t pay her stake.
Golightly.
That sounds very nasty of her. What makes you think it?
Penelope.
I do it myself.... Poor Dickie, it’s going to cost him a lot of money this month.
Golightly.
Why?
Penelope.
Because whenever he goes out for the day I have to console myself by buying something. I generally choose something rather dear.
Golightly.
I don’t remember that I advised that in the treatment of a volatile husband.
Penelope.
No, I added it of my own accord.
Golightly.
But why did you send for me to-day?
Penelope.
Because the end has come. And I can’t stand it any longer. This morning Dickie said that Mrs. Mack was well enough to be moved, and he was goingto take her over to Paris to put her in the Riviera train.
Golightly.
Do you mean to say that....
Penelope.
[With an angry shrug of the shoulders.] Ada Fergusson wants a little jaunt in Paris.
Golightly.
What are you going to do?
Penelope.
I’m going to tell him he must choose between us. I’m going to do everything I can to prevent him from going. And I mean to let him know that if he goes it’s the end.
Golightly.
Oh!
Penelope.
Don’t say oh! Say I’m quite right. Say it’s the only thing to do.
Golightly.
But I think you’re quite wrong.
Penelope.
Wrong!
Golightly.
You don’t suppose he wants to go to Paris. No man in his senses would take the risk.
Penelope.
Then why is he going?
Golightly.
Because she’s making him. And once a woman in these circumstances makes a man do what he doesn’t want to, it’s the beginning of the end.
Penelope.
How d’you know?
Golightly.
I don’t know. I guess it.
Penelope.
It seems to me that a lifetime spent in the study of mathematics has resulted in some very various knowledge.
Golightly.
Be a good girl, Pen, and let them go.
[There is a pause whilePenelope,resting her face on her hands, looks straight at her father. She thinks the matter out.
[There is a pause whilePenelope,resting her face on her hands, looks straight at her father. She thinks the matter out.
Penelope.
You were right when you said I should want a great deal of tact, and a great deal of patience, and a great deal of self-control. My word!
Golightly.
[Smiling.] Well?
Penelope.
I’ll do nothing. I’ll hold my tongue, I’ll smile, I’ll make jokes, but....
Golightly.
Yes?
Penelope.
I want some hats badly. I’ll just go and ring up Françoise and tell her to send me all she’s got in the shop.
[Dickiecomes in.
[Dickiecomes in.
Golightly.
I was just going.
Dickie.
I’m sorry. Why so soon?
Golightly.
I promised to fetch my wife.
Penelope.
You must come back. This is the first time I’ve been separated from Dickie since our marriage, and I shall want to hide my head in the maternal bosom while my noble father pats my hand.
Dickie.
I wish you wouldn’t take it so calmly, Pen. You might be a bit cut up.
Penelope.
But, darling, I’m making every preparation to have fit after fit of violent hysterics. I can’t do more.
Dickie.
Rot me, that’s right.
Penelope.
[With meaning.] After all, Dickie, I know you wouldn’t go if you could help it. It’s only because you feel it’s your duty, isn’t it?
[Dickieis rather uncomfortable, but says nothing.Golightlybreaks the momentary silence.
[Dickieis rather uncomfortable, but says nothing.Golightlybreaks the momentary silence.
Golightly.
Why are you going by night?
Dickie.
[Relieved.] Oh, you see, there’s so much less of a crowd. It’s more convenient when you’re carting an invalid about.
Penelope.
[Gaily.] It’ll be great fun, because you’ll see all the gay young men who are making a little excursion to Paris with the object of their affections. I’m told they always go by night so that no one should see them on the journey.
Golightly.
Well, I must be getting on or I shall be late.Au revoir.
Penelope.
Don’t be too long, father, in case my emotions get the better of me before you come back.
Golightly.
[Nodding.] I may see you later, Dickie.
[He goes out.Penelopemakes as if to follow him.
[He goes out.Penelopemakes as if to follow him.
Penelope.
I’m going upstairs to have tea.
Dickie.
[Rather stiffly.] I’d like to have a little talk with you, Pen.
Penelope.
Then come up into the drawing-room.
Dickie.
I’d rather talk to you down here.
Penelope.
[Sitting down.] Very well. Talk.
Dickie.
You can send for the tea if you like.
Penelope.
No; I’ll let it stand and ruin my digestion.
Dickie.
[Taking papers out of his pocket and giving them toPenelope.] D’you know what these are?
Penelope.
[With a charming smile.] Bills, darling?
Dickie.
I can see they’re bills, thank you!
Penelope.
[Flourishing one of them.] This is for the frock I’ve got on. You wouldn’t think it cost so much, would you? [Looking down at it.] You see, you have to pay for the cut.
Dickie.
[Trying to keep his temper.] And what do you expect me to do with them?
Penelope.
[Indifferently.] You can put them in the waste-paper basket if you like, but it would be shorter to pay them.
Dickie.
[Flying into a passion.] Now, look here, Pen. It’s perfectly preposterous. You know I’m not going to stand this sort of thing.
Penelope.
[Apparently much astonished, quite good-humouredly.] Darling, you’re not going to make a scene for a fewlittle things I’ve bought myself. I was positively in rags, and I thought you liked me to dress neatly.
Dickie.
Hang it all, I’m a poor man, and you’ve spent more than a hundred and fifty pounds in this one month.
Penelope.
[Calmly.] Does it come to as much as that? It’s lucky you’ve got such a good patient in Mrs. Mack, isn’t it?