(Knock at door.)Janet. (Charmingly tart.) I suppose it's what you call "cheapest in the end."[60]Carve. Come in.(EnterPagewith a pile of papers.)Carve. Thanks! Give them to me.(ExitPage.)Janet. Well, I never! It's like magic.Carve. Now let's just glance at these chaps. (Unfolding a paper.)Janet. Shall I help you?Carve. Why? Here's black borders and a heading across two columns! "Death of England's greatest painter," "Irreparable loss to the world's art," "Our readers will be shocked——" Are they all like that? (More and more astonished; takes another paper.) "Sad death of a great genius."Janet. (Handing him still another paper.) And this.Carve. "London's grief." "The news will come as a personal blow to every lover of great painting." But—but—I'd no notion of this. (Half to himself.) It's terrible.Janet. Well, perhaps always living with him you wouldn't realize how important he was, would you? (Distant music begins again, a waltz tune.)Carve. (Reading.) "Although possibly something of a poseur in his choice of subjects...."[61]The fellow's a fool. Poseur indeed!Janet. Look at this. "Europe in mourning."Carve. Well—well.Janet. Whatisthat music?Carve. London's grief. It's the luncheon orchestra downstairs.(Telephone bell rings.)Carve. Never mind it. Let 'em ring. I understand now why journalists and so on have been trying all day to see me. Honestly I'm—I'm staggered.(Telephone bell continues to ring.)Janet. It's a funny notion of comfort having a telephone in every room. How long will it keep on like that?Carve. I'll stop it. (Rising.)Janet. No, no. (Going to telephone and taking receiver.) Yes? What's the matter? (Listens. ToCarve.) Oh, what do you think? Father Looe and his sister, Miss Honoria Looe, want to see you.Carve. Father Looe? Never heard of him.Janet. Oh, but you must have heard of him. He's the celebrated Roman Catholic preacher. He's a beautiful man. I heard him preach once on the Sins of Society.[62]Carve. Would you mind saying I'm not at home?Janet. (Obviously disappointed.) Then won't you see him?Carve. Didyouwant to see him?Janet. I should like just to have had a look at him close to, as it were.Carve. (Gallantly.) Then you shall. Tell them to send him up, will you?Janet. And am I to stay here?Carve. Of course.Janet. Well, if anybody had told me this time last week——(Into telephone.) Please ask them to come up.Carve. Perhaps with your being here I shan't be quite so shy.Janet. Shy! Are you shy? It said in theTelegraphthat Mr. Carve was painfully shy.Carve. (Protesting.) Painfully! Who told them that, I should like to know?Janet. Now shyness is a thing I simply can't understand. I'm never shy. And you don't strike me as shy—far from it.Carve. It's very curious. I haven't felt a bit shy with you.Janet. Nobody ever is shy with me.... (Ironically.) I must say I'd give something to seeyoushy.(EnterFATHERLooeandHonoriaLooe,announced byPage.)Looe. (Stopping near door, at a loss.) Pardon me—Mr. Shawn—Mr.[63]Albert Shawn?Carve. (Rising, perturbed.) Yes.Looe. This is your room?Carve. Yes.Looe. I'm afraid there's some mistake. I was given to understand that you were the—er—valet of the late Mr. Ilam Carve.Honoria. Yes. Mr. Cyrus Carve told us——Janet. (Coming toCarve'srescue as he remains speechless, very calmly.) Now there's another trick of Mr. Cyrus Carve's! Valet indeed! Mr. Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary—and almost companion.Looe. Ten thousand apologies. Ten thousand apologies. I felt sure——Carve. Please sit down. (With special gallantry towardsHonoria.)Janet. And will you sit down too, Mr. Shawn? (To theLooes.) He's not at all well. That's why he's wearing his dressing-gown.Carve. (Introducing.) My friend, Mrs. Janet Cannot.Looe. Now, Mr. Shawn, if you knew anything about me, if you have heard me preach, if you have read any of my books, you are probably aware that I am a man who goes straight to the point, hating subtleties. In connection with your late employer's death[64]a great responsibility is laid upon me, and I have come to you for information—information which I have failed to obtain either from Mr. Cyrus Carve, or the doctor, or the nurse.... Was Mr. Carve a Catholic?Carve. A Catholic?Looe. He came of a Catholic family did he not?Carve. Yes—I believe so.Looe. The cousin, Mr. Cyrus Carve, I regret to say, denies the faith of his childhood—denies it, I also regret to say, with a vivacity that amounts almost to bad manners. In fact, he was extremely rude to me when I tried to give him some idea of the tremendous revival of Catholicism which is the outstanding feature of intellectual life in England to-day.Carve. Ilam Carve was not a Catholic.Looe. Mind, I do not ask if he died in the consolations of the faith. I know that he did not. I have learnt that it occurred to neither you nor the doctor nor the nurse to send for a priest. Strange omission. But not the fault of the dying man.Carve. Ilam Carve was not a Catholic.Looe. Then what was he?Carve. Nothing in particular.Looe. Then I claim him. Then I claim him.... Honoria![65]Carve. (In a new tone..) Look here—what's all this about?Looe. (Rising.) I will tell you at once what it is about, Mr. Shawn. There is a question of Ilam Carve being buried in Westminster Abbey.Carve. (Thunderstruck.) Buried in Westminster Abbey?Looe. Lady Leonard Alcar has consulted me about the matter. I may say that I have the honour to be her spiritual director. Probably you know that Lord Leonard Alcar owns the finest collection of Ilam Carve's pictures in Europe.Janet. I've often wondered who it is that settles whether people shall be buried in the Abbey or not. So it's Lady Leonard Alcar!Looe. Not exactly! Not exactly! But Lady Leonard Alcar is a great lady. She has vast influence. The most influential convert to Catholicism of the last thirty years. She is aunt to no less than four dukes, and Lord Leonard is uncle to two others.Carve. (Ironically.) I quite see.Looe. (Eagerly.) You see—don't you? Her advice on these matters carries enormous weight. A suggestion from her amounts to—to—Carve. A decree absolute.[66]Janet. (Simply.) Is she what they call the ruling classes?Looe. (Bows.) Lady Leonard and I have talked the matter over, and I pointed out to her that if this great genius was a member of the Church of England and if the sorrowing nation at large deems him worthy of the supreme honour of a national funeral, then by all means let him be buried in the Abbey. But if he was a Catholic, then I claim him for Westminster Cathedral, that magnificent fane which we have raised as a symbol of our renewed vitality. Now, was he a member of the Church of England?Carve. (Loudly.) Decidedly not.Looe. Good! Then I claim him. I detest casuistry and I claim him. I have only one other question. You knew him well—intimately—for many years. On your conscience, Mr. Shawn, what interment in your opinion would he himself have preferred?Janet. (After a pause.) It wouldn't make much difference to him either way, would it?Carve. (With an outburst.) The whole thing is preposterous.Looe. (Ignoring the outburst.) My course seems quite clear. I shall advise Lady Leonard—Carve. Don't you think you're rather young to be in sole charge of this country?Looe. (Smoothly.) My dear sir, I am nothing[67]but a humble priest who gives counsel when counsel is sought. And I may say that in this affair of the interment of our great national painter, there are other influences than mine. For instance, my sister, Honoria, who happens also to be president of the Ladies' Water Colour Society—(gesture of alarm fromCarve)—my sister has a great responsibility. She is the favourite niece of—(Whispers inCarve'sear.) Consequently—(Makes an impressive pause.)Honoria. You see my uncle is a bachelor and I keep house for him. Anselm used to live with us too, until he left the Church.Looe. Until Ijoinedthe Church, Honoria. Now Honoria wishes to be perfectly fair; she entirely realizes her responsibility; and that is why she has come with me to see you.Janet. (Benignantly.) So that's how these things are decided! I see I'd got quite a wrong notion of politics and so on.Honoria. Oh, Mr. Shawn— }and } (Together.)Janet. My idea was— }Janet. I beg your pardon.Honoria. I beg yours.Janet. Granted.Honoria. There's one question I should so like to ask you, Mr. Shawn. In watercolours did Mr. Carve use Chinese white[68]freely or did he stick to transparent colour, like the old English school? I wonder if you understand me?Carve. (Interested.) He used Chinese white like anything.Honoria. Oh! I'm so glad. You remember that charming water-colour of the Venetian gondolier in the Luxembourg. We had a great argument after we got home last Easter as to whether the oar was put in with Chinese white—or just 'left out,' you know!Carve. Chinese white, of course. My notion is that it doesn't matter a fig how you get effects so long as you do get them.Honoria. And that was his notion too? (Telephone bell rings,Janetanswers it.)Carve. His? Rather. You bet it was.Honoria. I'm so glad. I'm so glad. I knew I was right about Chinese white. Oh, Anselm, do let him be buried in the Abbey! Do let me suggest to uncle——Looe. My dear girl, ask your conscience. Enthusiasm for art I can comprehend; I can even sympathize with it. But if this grave national question is to be decided by considerations of Chinese white——(Carveturns toJanetas if for succour.)Janet. (Calmly.) The doctor is just coming up.Carve. The doctor? What doctor?[69]Janet. A Dr. Horning. He says he's Dr. Pascoe's assistant and he attended Mr. Carve, and he wants to see you.Carve. But I don't want to see him.Janet. You'll have to see a doctor.Carve. Why?Janet. Because you're ill. So you may just as well see this one as another. They're all pretty much of a muchness.(EnterPeterHorningboisterously. APage Boyopens the door but does not announce him.)Peter. (PerceivingLooefirst.) Ah, Father! You here? How d'ye do? What did you think of my special on last Sunday's sermon? (Shakes hands withLooeand bows toMiss Looeas to an acquaintance.)Looe. Very good. Very good.Peter. (Advancing toCarve.) Mr. Shawn, I presume?Carve. (Glancing helplessly atJanet.) But this isn't the doctor?Peter. (Volubly.) Admitted! Admitted! I'm only his brother—a journalist. I'm on theCourierand theMercuryand several other Worgan papers. One of our chaps failed to get into this room this morning, so I came along to try whatIcould do. You see what I've done.[70]Janet. Well, I never came across such a set of people in my life.Peter. (Aside toLooe.) Is he in service here, or what?Looe. Mr. Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary and companion, not his valet.Peter. (Puzzled, but accepting the situation.) Ah! So much the better. Now, Mr. Shawn, can you tell me authoritatively whether shortly before his death Mr. Carve was engaged to be married under romantic circumstances to a lady of high rank?Honoria. Indeed!Carve. Who told you that?Peter. Then he was!Carve. I've nothing to say.Peter. You won't tell me her name?Carve. I've nothing to say.Peter. Secondly, I'm instructed to offer something considerable for your signature to an account of Ilam Carve's eccentric life on the Continent.Carve. Eccentric life on the Continent!Peter. I shouldn't keep you half an hour—three quarters at most. A hundred pounds. Cash down, you know. Bank notes. All you have to do is to sign.Carve. (To Janet, exhausted, but disdainful.) I wouldn't mind signing an order for the fellow's execution.[71]Peter. A hundred and fifty!Carve. Or burning at the stake.Peter. (ToLooe.) What does he say?Looe. Mr. Shawn is indisposed. We've just been discussing the question of the burial in the Abbey. I think I may say, if it interests you as an item of news, that Ilam Carve will not be buried in the Abbey.Peter. (Lightly.) Oh yes he will, Father. There was a little doubt about it until we got particulars of his will this morning. But his will settled it.Looe. His will?Peter. Yes. Didn't you know? No, you wouldn't. Well, his estate will come out at about a couple of hundred thousand, and he's left it practically all for an International Gallery of Modern Art in London. Very ingenious plan. None of your Chantrey Bequest business. Three pictures and one piece of sculpture are to be bought each year in London. Fixed price £400 each, large or small. Trustees are to be business men—bank directors. But they can't choose the works. The works are to be chosen by the students at South Kensington and the Academy Schools. Works by R.A.'s and A.R.A.'s are absolutely barred. Works by students themselves absolutely barred, too. Cute that, eh? That's the arrangement for[72]England. Similar arrangement for France, Italy, and Germany. He gives the thing a start by making it a present of his own collection—stored somewhere in Paris. I don't mean his own paintings—he bars those. Unusually modest, eh?Honoria. How perfectly splendid! We shall have a real live gallery at last. Surely Anselm, after that—Looe. Quite beside the point. I shall certainly oppose.Peter. Oppose what?Looe. The burial in the Abbey. I shall advise Lady Leonard Alcar—Peter. No use, Father. Take my word. The governor's made up his mind. He's been fearfully keen on art lately. I don't know why. We were in front of everybody else with the news of Ilam Carve's death, and the governor's making a regular pet of him. He says it's quite time we buried an artist in Westminster Abbey, and he's given instructions to the whole team. Didn't you see theMercurythis morning? Anybody who opposes a national funeral for Ilam Carve will be up against the governor. Of course, I tell you that as a friend—confidentially.Looe. (Shaken.) Well, I shall see what Lady Leonard says.[73]Carve. (Rising in an angry, scornful outburst.) You'd bury him in Westminster Abbey because he's a philanthropist, not because he's an artist. That's England all over.... Well, I'm hanged if I'll have it.Looe. But, my dear sir——Carve. And I tell you another thing—he's not dead.Peter. Not dead—what next?Carve.Iam Ilam Carve.Honoria. (Soothingly.) Poor dear! He's not himself.Carve. That's just what I am. (Sinks back exhausted.)Peter. (Aside toLooe.) Is he mad, Father? Nothing but a clerk after all. And yet he takes a private room at the Grand Babylon, and then he refuses a hundred and fifty of the best and goes on like this. And now, blessed if he isn't Ilam Carve! (Laughs.)Looe. I really think we ought to leave.Honoria. (ToJanet.) He's a little unhinged! But how charming he is.Janet. (Prudently resentingHonoria'sinterest inCarve.) Yes, he's a little unhinged. And who wouldn't be?Peter. Got 'em—if you ask me! (Moving to leave.)Looe. (Moving to leave.) Honoria.[74]Janet. (Very soothingly and humouringly toCarve.) So this is what you call being shy!Carve. (ToJanet,who is now bending over him.) It must be stopped.Janet. (As the others go out; humouring him.) Yes, yes! (Absently in reply to bows and adieux ofLooe,Honoria,andPeterHorning.) Good morning! (When they are gone, with a sigh of relief.) Well, it is a mighty queer place! My word, how cold your hands are! (Going quickly to telephone and speaking into telephone.) Please send up two hot-water bottles at once. Yes, hot-water bottles. Never heard of a hot-water bottle before?The Stage is darkened for a few moments to indicate the passage of time.SCENE 2Time.—Afternoon, four days later.Janetis dozing in an easy-chair.EnterCarvein his dressing-gown.Janet. (Starting up.) Mr. Shawn, what are you doing out of bed? After such a dose of flu as you've had!Carve. I'm doing nothing out of bed. (Twiddles his thumbs.)Janet. But you've no right to be out of bed at all.Carve. I was afraid I hadn't. But I called[75]and called, and there was no answer. So then I began to argue the point. Why not get up? I'd had a tremendous long sleep. I felt singularly powerful. And I thought you'd gone home.Janet. Nay—that you never did!Carve. I did, honestly.Janet. Do you mean to say you thought for a single moment I should go home and leave you like that?Carve. Yes. But of course I thought you might be coming back sooner or later.Janet. Well I never!Carve. You've scarcely left me for three days and three nights, Mrs. Cannot, so far as I remember. Surely it was natural for me to suppose that you'd gone home to your own affairs.Janet. (Sarcastically.) It didn't occur to you I might have dropped off to sleep?Carve. Now, don't be angry. I'm only convalescent.Janet. Will you kindly march right back to bed this instant?Carve. No, I'm dashed if I do!Janet. I beg pardon.Carve. I say, I'm dashed if I do! I won't stir until I've thanked you. I've been ill I don't know how many times; but this is the first time in my life I've ever enjoyed being[76]ill. D'you know (with an ingenuous smile.) I'd really no idea what nursing was.Janet. (Drily.) Hadn't you? Well, if you callthatnursing, I don't. But it was the best I could do in this barracks, with the kitchen a mile and a half off, and a pack of men that can't understand English gaping at you all day in evening-dress. I dare say this is a very good hotel for reading newspapers in. But if you want anything that isn't on the menu, it's as bad as drawing money out of the post office savings bank. You should see me nurse in my own house.Carve. I should like to. Even in this barracks (imitating her.) you've quite altered my views of life.Janet. Yes, and they wanted altering. When I think of you and that other poor fellow wandering about all alone on that Continent—without the slightest notion of what comfort is.... Well, I'll say this—it's a pleasure to nurse you. Now, will you go back to bed?Carve. I suppose coffee's on the menu?Janet. Coffee?Carve. I think I should like somecafé au lait, and a roll.Janet. (Rising.) You can have hot milk if you like.Carve. All right. And then when I've had it I'll go to bed.[77]Janet. (At telephone.) Are you there?Carve. (Picking up a sheet of paper from table.) Hello! What's this? Hotel bill-receipted?Janet. I should think so indeed! They sent it up the second day. (Into telephone.) Hot milk, please, and let itbehot! (Hanging up telephone. ToCarve.) I expect they were afraid for their money.Carve. And you paid it?Janet. I took the money out of your pockets and I just paid it. I never said a word. But if you hadn't been ill I should have said something. Of all the swindles, of all the barefaced swindles!... Do you see what it's costing you to live here—a day?Carve. Oh, not much above four pounds, I hope.Janet. (Speechless at first.) Any woman that knew her business could keep you for a month—a month—for less than you spend here in a day—and better.Andbetter! Look here: "Biscuits, 1s. 6d.!"Carve. Well?Janet. Well (confidentially earnest.), will you believe me when I tell you there wasn't a pennyworth of biscuits on that plate? Do you think I don't know what biscuits are a pound?[78]Carve. Really!Janet. (Ironically.) "Cheapest in the end"—but I should say the end's a long way off.Carve. (Who has picked up another paper, on mantelpiece.) What? "Admit Mr. Albert Shawn to Westminster Abbey, cloisters entrance.... Funeral.... Tuesday."... That's to-day, isn't it?Janet. Yes.Carve. (Moved.) But you told me he wasn't going to be buried in Westminster Abbey.Janet. I know.Carve. You told me Cyrus Carve had insisted on cremation.Janet. (With vivacity.) And what did you expect me to tell you? I had to soothe you somehow; you were just about delirious. I was afraid if I told you the truth you'd be doing something silly—seeing the state you were in. Then it struck me a nice plain cremation at Woking was the very thing to keep you quiet.Carve. (Still more moved.) Then he's.... Westminster Abbey!Janet. Yes, I should say all is over by this time. There were thousands of people for the lying-in-state, it seems.Carve. But it's awful. Absolutely awful.Janet. Why is it awful?[79]Carve. I told you—I explained the whole thing to you.Janet. (Humouring, remonstrating.) Mr. Shawn, surely you've got rid of that idea! You aren't delirious now. You said you were convalescent, you know.Carve. There'll be a perfect Hades of a row. I must write to the Dean at once. I must——Janet. (Soothingly.) I shouldn't if I were you. Why not let things be? No one would believe that tale——Carve. Do you believe it?Janet. (Perfunctorily.) Oh yes.Carve. No, you don't. Honestly, do you now?Janet. Well——(Knock at door.) Come in. (EnterWaiterwith hot milk.) Here's your hot milk.Waiter. Miss Looe has called.Carve. I must see her.Janet. But——Carve. Imustsee her.Janet. Oh, very well. (ExitWaiter.) She's telephoned each day to inquire how you were. She asked if you wanted a seat for the funeral. I told her you couldn't possibly go, but I was sure you'd like to be invited—whether it was the Abbey or not. Please don't forget your milk.[80](EnterHonoriaLooein mourning, introduced byWaiter.)Honoria. (Coming in quickly, bowing toJanetand shaking hands withCarve.) Good afternoon. Please don't rise. I've heard how ill you've been. I've only called because I simply had to.Carve. It's very kind of you.Honoria. Oh, Mr. Shawn, I know you didn't want him to be buried in the Abbey. I'm all for quiet funerals, too; but really this was an exceptional case, and I think if you'd seen it you'd have been glad they did decide on the Abbey. Oh, you've no idea how impressive it was! The Abbey is always so fine, isn't it? And it was crammed. You never saw such a multitude of distinguished people. I mean really distinguished—all in black, except, of course, the uniforms. Royalties, ambassadors, representatives from all the academies all over Europe. Rodin was there!! The whole of artistic London came. I don't mean only painters, but poets, novelists, sculptors, and musicians. The art students had a corner to themselves. And you should have seen the crowds outside. All traffic was stopped up as far as Trafalgar Square. I've had some difficulty in getting here. The sun was shining through the stained glass. And[81]the music was magnificent. And then when the coffin was carried down the nave—well, there was only one wreath on the pall—just one—a white crown. All the other wreaths were piled near the screen—scores and scores of them—the effect was tremendous. I nearly cried. A lot of people did cry. (Genuinely moved.) There was that great genius lying there. He'd never done anything except put paint on canvas, and yet—and yet.... Well, it made you feel somehow that England does care for art after all.Carve. (After a pause.) And whom have we to thank for this beautiful national manifestation of sympathy with art?Honoria. How do you mean?Carve. (With an attempt at cold irony, but yet in a voice imperfectly controlled.) Did your brother relent and graciously permit Lady Leonard Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or was it due solely to the influence of the newspapers written by people of refined culture like the man who gave his opinion the other day that I had got 'em? Or perhaps you yourself settled it with your esteemed uncle over a cup of tea?Honoria. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can see that you're artistic yourself, and artists are generally very sarcastic about the British[82]public. I know I am.... Now, don't you paint?Carve. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I used to—a little.Honoria. I was sure of it. Well, you can be as sarcastic as you like, but do you know what I was thinking during the service? I was thinking if only he could have seen it—if only Ilam Carve could have seen it—instead of lying cold in that coffin under that wreath, he'd—(Hesitating.)Carve. (Interrupting her, in a different, resolved tone.) Miss Looe, I suppose you're on very confidential terms with your uncle.Honoria. Naturally. Why?Carve. Will you give him a message from me. He'll do perhaps better than anybody.Honoria. With pleasure.Carve. (Moved.) It is something important—very important indeed. In fact—(Janetgoes into bedroom, but keeping near the doorway does not actually disappear.)Honoria. (Soothingly, and a little frightened.) Now, please, Mr. Shawn! Please don't frighten us as you did the other day. Please do try and keep calm!Carve. I—(He suddenly stands up and then falls back again into chair.)[83](Janetreturns quickly to the room)Honoria. (Alarmed, toJanet.) I'm afraid he isn't quite well yet.Carve. No, I can't tell you. At least, not now. Thanks very much for calling. (Rises brusquely and walks towards the bedroom door.)Janet. (ToHonoria.) He's not really strong enough to see visitors.Honoria. (Going to door and trying to be confidential.) Whatisit?Janet. (With tranquillity.) Oh, influenza. Sometimes it takes 'em in the head and sometimes in the stomach. It's taken him in the head.Honoria. Charming man! I don't suppose there's the least likelihood of it—he's evidently very well off—but if heshouldbe wanting a situation similar to his last, I'm sure my uncle——Janet. (Positively and curtly.) I don't think so.Honoria. Of course you know him very well?Janet. Well, it's like this. I'm his cousin. We aren't exactly engaged to be married——Honoria. (In a changed tone.) Oh, I see! Good afternoon.Janet. Good afternoon.[84](ExitHonoria.)Carve. (Who has hesitatingly wandered back towards centre; in a quite different tone now that he is alone again withJanet.) What's this about being engaged to be married?Janet. (Smiling.) I was telling her we weren't engaged to be married. That's true, I suppose?Carve. But are we cousins?Janet. Yes. I've got my reputation to think about. I don't want to coddle it, but there's no harm in just keeping an eye on it.Carve. I see. (Sits down.)Janet. If nothing comes of all this—Carve. All what?Janet. All this illness and nursing and sitting up at nights,—then I'm just your cousin, and no harm done.Carve. But do you mean to say you'd—Janet. (Stopping him.) Not so fast! (Pause. She continues reflectively.) Do you know what struck me while her ladyship was telling you about all the grand doings at the funeral—What good has it ever donehimto be celebrated and make a big splash in the world? Was he any happier for it? From all I can hear he was always trying to hide just as if the police were after him. He never had the slightest notion of comfort, and so you needn't tell me! And there's another thing—you[85]needn't tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl or other, because I know he was. A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything else—morning, noon, and night. It stands to reason—and they can say what they like—I know. And now he's dead—probably because he'd no notion of looking after himself, and it's been in all the papers how wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very likely sat up half the night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with fashionable folk—and do you know what all those fashionable folk are thinking about just now—tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whisky and soda.Carve. But you mustn't forget that he was really very successful indeed.... Just look at the money he made, for instance.Janet. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him he'd never have left two hundred thousand of them behind him—him with no family. No, he was no better than a fool with money. Couldn't even spend it.Carve. He had the supreme satisfaction of doing what he enjoyed doing better than anybody else could do it.Janet. And what was that?Carve. Painting.Janet. (Casually.) Oh! and couldn't he have had that without running about all over[86]Europe? He might just as well have been a commercial traveller. Take my word for it, Mr. Shawn, there's nothing like a comfortable home and a quiet life—and the less you're in the newspapers the better.Carve. (Thoughtfully.) Do you know—a good deal of what you say applies to me.Janet. Andyounow! As we're on the subject—before we go any further—you're a bachelor of forty-five, same as him. What have you been doing with yourself lately?Carve. Doing with myself?Janet. Well, I think I ought to ask because when I was stealing (with a little nervous laugh) the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel bill, I came across a lady's photograph. I couldn't help coming across it. Seeing how things are, I think I ought to ask.Carve. Oh,that! It must be a photograph of the ladyhewas engaged to. He broke it off, you know. That was why we came to London in such a hurry.Janet. Then it is true—what the newspaper reporter said? (Carvenods.) One of the aristocracy—(Carvenods.) Who was she?Carve. Lady Alice Rowfant.Janet. What was it doing in your pocket?Carve. I don't know. Everything got mixed up. Clothes, papers, everything.[87]Janet. Sure?Carve. Of course! Look here, do you suppose Lady Alice Rowfant is anything tome?Janet. She isn't?Carve. No.Janet. Honestly? (Looking at him closely.)Carve. Honestly.Janet. (With obvious relief.) Well, that's all right then! Now will you drink this milk, please.Carve. I just wanted to tell you——Janet. Will you drink this milk? (Pours out a glassful for him.)
(Knock at door.)
(Knock at door.)
Janet. (Charmingly tart.) I suppose it's what you call "cheapest in the end."
Carve. Come in.
(EnterPagewith a pile of papers.)
(EnterPagewith a pile of papers.)
Carve. Thanks! Give them to me.
(ExitPage.)
(ExitPage.)
Janet. Well, I never! It's like magic.
Carve. Now let's just glance at these chaps. (Unfolding a paper.)
Janet. Shall I help you?
Carve. Why? Here's black borders and a heading across two columns! "Death of England's greatest painter," "Irreparable loss to the world's art," "Our readers will be shocked——" Are they all like that? (More and more astonished; takes another paper.) "Sad death of a great genius."
Janet. (Handing him still another paper.) And this.
Carve. "London's grief." "The news will come as a personal blow to every lover of great painting." But—but—I'd no notion of this. (Half to himself.) It's terrible.
Janet. Well, perhaps always living with him you wouldn't realize how important he was, would you? (Distant music begins again, a waltz tune.)
Carve. (Reading.) "Although possibly something of a poseur in his choice of subjects...."[61]The fellow's a fool. Poseur indeed!
Janet. Look at this. "Europe in mourning."
Carve. Well—well.
Janet. Whatisthat music?
Carve. London's grief. It's the luncheon orchestra downstairs.
(Telephone bell rings.)
(Telephone bell rings.)
Carve. Never mind it. Let 'em ring. I understand now why journalists and so on have been trying all day to see me. Honestly I'm—I'm staggered.
(Telephone bell continues to ring.)
(Telephone bell continues to ring.)
Janet. It's a funny notion of comfort having a telephone in every room. How long will it keep on like that?
Carve. I'll stop it. (Rising.)
Janet. No, no. (Going to telephone and taking receiver.) Yes? What's the matter? (Listens. ToCarve.) Oh, what do you think? Father Looe and his sister, Miss Honoria Looe, want to see you.
Carve. Father Looe? Never heard of him.
Janet. Oh, but you must have heard of him. He's the celebrated Roman Catholic preacher. He's a beautiful man. I heard him preach once on the Sins of Society.
[62]Carve. Would you mind saying I'm not at home?
Janet. (Obviously disappointed.) Then won't you see him?
Carve. Didyouwant to see him?
Janet. I should like just to have had a look at him close to, as it were.
Carve. (Gallantly.) Then you shall. Tell them to send him up, will you?
Janet. And am I to stay here?
Carve. Of course.
Janet. Well, if anybody had told me this time last week——(Into telephone.) Please ask them to come up.
Carve. Perhaps with your being here I shan't be quite so shy.
Janet. Shy! Are you shy? It said in theTelegraphthat Mr. Carve was painfully shy.
Carve. (Protesting.) Painfully! Who told them that, I should like to know?
Janet. Now shyness is a thing I simply can't understand. I'm never shy. And you don't strike me as shy—far from it.
Carve. It's very curious. I haven't felt a bit shy with you.
Janet. Nobody ever is shy with me.... (Ironically.) I must say I'd give something to seeyoushy.
(EnterFATHERLooeandHonoriaLooe,announced byPage.)
(EnterFATHERLooeandHonoriaLooe,announced byPage.)
Looe. (Stopping near door, at a loss.) Pardon me—Mr. Shawn—Mr.[63]Albert Shawn?
Carve. (Rising, perturbed.) Yes.
Looe. This is your room?
Carve. Yes.
Looe. I'm afraid there's some mistake. I was given to understand that you were the—er—valet of the late Mr. Ilam Carve.
Honoria. Yes. Mr. Cyrus Carve told us——
Janet. (Coming toCarve'srescue as he remains speechless, very calmly.) Now there's another trick of Mr. Cyrus Carve's! Valet indeed! Mr. Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary—and almost companion.
Looe. Ten thousand apologies. Ten thousand apologies. I felt sure——
Carve. Please sit down. (With special gallantry towardsHonoria.)
Janet. And will you sit down too, Mr. Shawn? (To theLooes.) He's not at all well. That's why he's wearing his dressing-gown.
Carve. (Introducing.) My friend, Mrs. Janet Cannot.
Looe. Now, Mr. Shawn, if you knew anything about me, if you have heard me preach, if you have read any of my books, you are probably aware that I am a man who goes straight to the point, hating subtleties. In connection with your late employer's death[64]a great responsibility is laid upon me, and I have come to you for information—information which I have failed to obtain either from Mr. Cyrus Carve, or the doctor, or the nurse.... Was Mr. Carve a Catholic?
Carve. A Catholic?
Looe. He came of a Catholic family did he not?
Carve. Yes—I believe so.
Looe. The cousin, Mr. Cyrus Carve, I regret to say, denies the faith of his childhood—denies it, I also regret to say, with a vivacity that amounts almost to bad manners. In fact, he was extremely rude to me when I tried to give him some idea of the tremendous revival of Catholicism which is the outstanding feature of intellectual life in England to-day.
Carve. Ilam Carve was not a Catholic.
Looe. Mind, I do not ask if he died in the consolations of the faith. I know that he did not. I have learnt that it occurred to neither you nor the doctor nor the nurse to send for a priest. Strange omission. But not the fault of the dying man.
Carve. Ilam Carve was not a Catholic.
Looe. Then what was he?
Carve. Nothing in particular.
Looe. Then I claim him. Then I claim him.... Honoria!
[65]Carve. (In a new tone..) Look here—what's all this about?
Looe. (Rising.) I will tell you at once what it is about, Mr. Shawn. There is a question of Ilam Carve being buried in Westminster Abbey.
Carve. (Thunderstruck.) Buried in Westminster Abbey?
Looe. Lady Leonard Alcar has consulted me about the matter. I may say that I have the honour to be her spiritual director. Probably you know that Lord Leonard Alcar owns the finest collection of Ilam Carve's pictures in Europe.
Janet. I've often wondered who it is that settles whether people shall be buried in the Abbey or not. So it's Lady Leonard Alcar!
Looe. Not exactly! Not exactly! But Lady Leonard Alcar is a great lady. She has vast influence. The most influential convert to Catholicism of the last thirty years. She is aunt to no less than four dukes, and Lord Leonard is uncle to two others.
Carve. (Ironically.) I quite see.
Looe. (Eagerly.) You see—don't you? Her advice on these matters carries enormous weight. A suggestion from her amounts to—to—
Carve. A decree absolute.
[66]Janet. (Simply.) Is she what they call the ruling classes?
Looe. (Bows.) Lady Leonard and I have talked the matter over, and I pointed out to her that if this great genius was a member of the Church of England and if the sorrowing nation at large deems him worthy of the supreme honour of a national funeral, then by all means let him be buried in the Abbey. But if he was a Catholic, then I claim him for Westminster Cathedral, that magnificent fane which we have raised as a symbol of our renewed vitality. Now, was he a member of the Church of England?
Carve. (Loudly.) Decidedly not.
Looe. Good! Then I claim him. I detest casuistry and I claim him. I have only one other question. You knew him well—intimately—for many years. On your conscience, Mr. Shawn, what interment in your opinion would he himself have preferred?
Janet. (After a pause.) It wouldn't make much difference to him either way, would it?
Carve. (With an outburst.) The whole thing is preposterous.
Looe. (Ignoring the outburst.) My course seems quite clear. I shall advise Lady Leonard—
Carve. Don't you think you're rather young to be in sole charge of this country?
Looe. (Smoothly.) My dear sir, I am nothing[67]but a humble priest who gives counsel when counsel is sought. And I may say that in this affair of the interment of our great national painter, there are other influences than mine. For instance, my sister, Honoria, who happens also to be president of the Ladies' Water Colour Society—(gesture of alarm fromCarve)—my sister has a great responsibility. She is the favourite niece of—(Whispers inCarve'sear.) Consequently—(Makes an impressive pause.)
Honoria. You see my uncle is a bachelor and I keep house for him. Anselm used to live with us too, until he left the Church.
Looe. Until Ijoinedthe Church, Honoria. Now Honoria wishes to be perfectly fair; she entirely realizes her responsibility; and that is why she has come with me to see you.
Janet. (Benignantly.) So that's how these things are decided! I see I'd got quite a wrong notion of politics and so on.
Honoria. Oh, Mr. Shawn— }
and } (Together.)
Janet. My idea was— }
Janet. I beg your pardon.
Honoria. I beg yours.
Janet. Granted.
Honoria. There's one question I should so like to ask you, Mr. Shawn. In watercolours did Mr. Carve use Chinese white[68]freely or did he stick to transparent colour, like the old English school? I wonder if you understand me?
Carve. (Interested.) He used Chinese white like anything.
Honoria. Oh! I'm so glad. You remember that charming water-colour of the Venetian gondolier in the Luxembourg. We had a great argument after we got home last Easter as to whether the oar was put in with Chinese white—or just 'left out,' you know!
Carve. Chinese white, of course. My notion is that it doesn't matter a fig how you get effects so long as you do get them.
Honoria. And that was his notion too? (Telephone bell rings,Janetanswers it.)
Carve. His? Rather. You bet it was.
Honoria. I'm so glad. I'm so glad. I knew I was right about Chinese white. Oh, Anselm, do let him be buried in the Abbey! Do let me suggest to uncle——
Looe. My dear girl, ask your conscience. Enthusiasm for art I can comprehend; I can even sympathize with it. But if this grave national question is to be decided by considerations of Chinese white——
(Carveturns toJanetas if for succour.)
(Carveturns toJanetas if for succour.)
Janet. (Calmly.) The doctor is just coming up.
Carve. The doctor? What doctor?
[69]Janet. A Dr. Horning. He says he's Dr. Pascoe's assistant and he attended Mr. Carve, and he wants to see you.
Carve. But I don't want to see him.
Janet. You'll have to see a doctor.
Carve. Why?
Janet. Because you're ill. So you may just as well see this one as another. They're all pretty much of a muchness.
(EnterPeterHorningboisterously. APage Boyopens the door but does not announce him.)
(EnterPeterHorningboisterously. APage Boyopens the door but does not announce him.)
Peter. (PerceivingLooefirst.) Ah, Father! You here? How d'ye do? What did you think of my special on last Sunday's sermon? (Shakes hands withLooeand bows toMiss Looeas to an acquaintance.)
Looe. Very good. Very good.
Peter. (Advancing toCarve.) Mr. Shawn, I presume?
Carve. (Glancing helplessly atJanet.) But this isn't the doctor?
Peter. (Volubly.) Admitted! Admitted! I'm only his brother—a journalist. I'm on theCourierand theMercuryand several other Worgan papers. One of our chaps failed to get into this room this morning, so I came along to try whatIcould do. You see what I've done.
[70]Janet. Well, I never came across such a set of people in my life.
Peter. (Aside toLooe.) Is he in service here, or what?
Looe. Mr. Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary and companion, not his valet.
Peter. (Puzzled, but accepting the situation.) Ah! So much the better. Now, Mr. Shawn, can you tell me authoritatively whether shortly before his death Mr. Carve was engaged to be married under romantic circumstances to a lady of high rank?
Honoria. Indeed!
Carve. Who told you that?
Peter. Then he was!
Carve. I've nothing to say.
Peter. You won't tell me her name?
Carve. I've nothing to say.
Peter. Secondly, I'm instructed to offer something considerable for your signature to an account of Ilam Carve's eccentric life on the Continent.
Carve. Eccentric life on the Continent!
Peter. I shouldn't keep you half an hour—three quarters at most. A hundred pounds. Cash down, you know. Bank notes. All you have to do is to sign.
Carve. (To Janet, exhausted, but disdainful.) I wouldn't mind signing an order for the fellow's execution.
Peter. A hundred and fifty!
Carve. Or burning at the stake.
Peter. (ToLooe.) What does he say?
Looe. Mr. Shawn is indisposed. We've just been discussing the question of the burial in the Abbey. I think I may say, if it interests you as an item of news, that Ilam Carve will not be buried in the Abbey.
Peter. (Lightly.) Oh yes he will, Father. There was a little doubt about it until we got particulars of his will this morning. But his will settled it.
Looe. His will?
Peter. Yes. Didn't you know? No, you wouldn't. Well, his estate will come out at about a couple of hundred thousand, and he's left it practically all for an International Gallery of Modern Art in London. Very ingenious plan. None of your Chantrey Bequest business. Three pictures and one piece of sculpture are to be bought each year in London. Fixed price £400 each, large or small. Trustees are to be business men—bank directors. But they can't choose the works. The works are to be chosen by the students at South Kensington and the Academy Schools. Works by R.A.'s and A.R.A.'s are absolutely barred. Works by students themselves absolutely barred, too. Cute that, eh? That's the arrangement for[72]England. Similar arrangement for France, Italy, and Germany. He gives the thing a start by making it a present of his own collection—stored somewhere in Paris. I don't mean his own paintings—he bars those. Unusually modest, eh?
Honoria. How perfectly splendid! We shall have a real live gallery at last. Surely Anselm, after that—
Looe. Quite beside the point. I shall certainly oppose.
Peter. Oppose what?
Looe. The burial in the Abbey. I shall advise Lady Leonard Alcar—
Peter. No use, Father. Take my word. The governor's made up his mind. He's been fearfully keen on art lately. I don't know why. We were in front of everybody else with the news of Ilam Carve's death, and the governor's making a regular pet of him. He says it's quite time we buried an artist in Westminster Abbey, and he's given instructions to the whole team. Didn't you see theMercurythis morning? Anybody who opposes a national funeral for Ilam Carve will be up against the governor. Of course, I tell you that as a friend—confidentially.
Looe. (Shaken.) Well, I shall see what Lady Leonard says.
Carve. (Rising in an angry, scornful outburst.) You'd bury him in Westminster Abbey because he's a philanthropist, not because he's an artist. That's England all over.... Well, I'm hanged if I'll have it.
Looe. But, my dear sir——
Carve. And I tell you another thing—he's not dead.
Peter. Not dead—what next?
Carve.Iam Ilam Carve.
Honoria. (Soothingly.) Poor dear! He's not himself.
Carve. That's just what I am. (Sinks back exhausted.)
Peter. (Aside toLooe.) Is he mad, Father? Nothing but a clerk after all. And yet he takes a private room at the Grand Babylon, and then he refuses a hundred and fifty of the best and goes on like this. And now, blessed if he isn't Ilam Carve! (Laughs.)
Looe. I really think we ought to leave.
Honoria. (ToJanet.) He's a little unhinged! But how charming he is.
Janet. (Prudently resentingHonoria'sinterest inCarve.) Yes, he's a little unhinged. And who wouldn't be?
Peter. Got 'em—if you ask me! (Moving to leave.)
Looe. (Moving to leave.) Honoria.
Janet. (Very soothingly and humouringly toCarve.) So this is what you call being shy!
Carve. (ToJanet,who is now bending over him.) It must be stopped.
Janet. (As the others go out; humouring him.) Yes, yes! (Absently in reply to bows and adieux ofLooe,Honoria,andPeterHorning.) Good morning! (When they are gone, with a sigh of relief.) Well, it is a mighty queer place! My word, how cold your hands are! (Going quickly to telephone and speaking into telephone.) Please send up two hot-water bottles at once. Yes, hot-water bottles. Never heard of a hot-water bottle before?
The Stage is darkened for a few moments to indicate the passage of time.
The Stage is darkened for a few moments to indicate the passage of time.
Time.—Afternoon, four days later.
Janetis dozing in an easy-chair.EnterCarvein his dressing-gown.
Janetis dozing in an easy-chair.
EnterCarvein his dressing-gown.
Janet. (Starting up.) Mr. Shawn, what are you doing out of bed? After such a dose of flu as you've had!
Carve. I'm doing nothing out of bed. (Twiddles his thumbs.)
Janet. But you've no right to be out of bed at all.
Carve. I was afraid I hadn't. But I called[75]and called, and there was no answer. So then I began to argue the point. Why not get up? I'd had a tremendous long sleep. I felt singularly powerful. And I thought you'd gone home.
Janet. Nay—that you never did!
Carve. I did, honestly.
Janet. Do you mean to say you thought for a single moment I should go home and leave you like that?
Carve. Yes. But of course I thought you might be coming back sooner or later.
Janet. Well I never!
Carve. You've scarcely left me for three days and three nights, Mrs. Cannot, so far as I remember. Surely it was natural for me to suppose that you'd gone home to your own affairs.
Janet. (Sarcastically.) It didn't occur to you I might have dropped off to sleep?
Carve. Now, don't be angry. I'm only convalescent.
Janet. Will you kindly march right back to bed this instant?
Carve. No, I'm dashed if I do!
Janet. I beg pardon.
Carve. I say, I'm dashed if I do! I won't stir until I've thanked you. I've been ill I don't know how many times; but this is the first time in my life I've ever enjoyed being[76]ill. D'you know (with an ingenuous smile.) I'd really no idea what nursing was.
Janet. (Drily.) Hadn't you? Well, if you callthatnursing, I don't. But it was the best I could do in this barracks, with the kitchen a mile and a half off, and a pack of men that can't understand English gaping at you all day in evening-dress. I dare say this is a very good hotel for reading newspapers in. But if you want anything that isn't on the menu, it's as bad as drawing money out of the post office savings bank. You should see me nurse in my own house.
Carve. I should like to. Even in this barracks (imitating her.) you've quite altered my views of life.
Janet. Yes, and they wanted altering. When I think of you and that other poor fellow wandering about all alone on that Continent—without the slightest notion of what comfort is.... Well, I'll say this—it's a pleasure to nurse you. Now, will you go back to bed?
Carve. I suppose coffee's on the menu?
Janet. Coffee?
Carve. I think I should like somecafé au lait, and a roll.
Janet. (Rising.) You can have hot milk if you like.
Carve. All right. And then when I've had it I'll go to bed.
Janet. (At telephone.) Are you there?
Carve. (Picking up a sheet of paper from table.) Hello! What's this? Hotel bill-receipted?
Janet. I should think so indeed! They sent it up the second day. (Into telephone.) Hot milk, please, and let itbehot! (Hanging up telephone. ToCarve.) I expect they were afraid for their money.
Carve. And you paid it?
Janet. I took the money out of your pockets and I just paid it. I never said a word. But if you hadn't been ill I should have said something. Of all the swindles, of all the barefaced swindles!... Do you see what it's costing you to live here—a day?
Carve. Oh, not much above four pounds, I hope.
Janet. (Speechless at first.) Any woman that knew her business could keep you for a month—a month—for less than you spend here in a day—and better.Andbetter! Look here: "Biscuits, 1s. 6d.!"
Carve. Well?
Janet. Well (confidentially earnest.), will you believe me when I tell you there wasn't a pennyworth of biscuits on that plate? Do you think I don't know what biscuits are a pound?
[78]Carve. Really!
Janet. (Ironically.) "Cheapest in the end"—but I should say the end's a long way off.
Carve. (Who has picked up another paper, on mantelpiece.) What? "Admit Mr. Albert Shawn to Westminster Abbey, cloisters entrance.... Funeral.... Tuesday."... That's to-day, isn't it?
Janet. Yes.
Carve. (Moved.) But you told me he wasn't going to be buried in Westminster Abbey.
Janet. I know.
Carve. You told me Cyrus Carve had insisted on cremation.
Janet. (With vivacity.) And what did you expect me to tell you? I had to soothe you somehow; you were just about delirious. I was afraid if I told you the truth you'd be doing something silly—seeing the state you were in. Then it struck me a nice plain cremation at Woking was the very thing to keep you quiet.
Carve. (Still more moved.) Then he's.... Westminster Abbey!
Janet. Yes, I should say all is over by this time. There were thousands of people for the lying-in-state, it seems.
Carve. But it's awful. Absolutely awful.
Janet. Why is it awful?
Carve. I told you—I explained the whole thing to you.
Janet. (Humouring, remonstrating.) Mr. Shawn, surely you've got rid of that idea! You aren't delirious now. You said you were convalescent, you know.
Carve. There'll be a perfect Hades of a row. I must write to the Dean at once. I must——
Janet. (Soothingly.) I shouldn't if I were you. Why not let things be? No one would believe that tale——
Carve. Do you believe it?
Janet. (Perfunctorily.) Oh yes.
Carve. No, you don't. Honestly, do you now?
Janet. Well——(Knock at door.) Come in. (EnterWaiterwith hot milk.) Here's your hot milk.
Waiter. Miss Looe has called.
Carve. I must see her.
Janet. But——
Carve. Imustsee her.
Janet. Oh, very well. (ExitWaiter.) She's telephoned each day to inquire how you were. She asked if you wanted a seat for the funeral. I told her you couldn't possibly go, but I was sure you'd like to be invited—whether it was the Abbey or not. Please don't forget your milk.
(EnterHonoriaLooein mourning, introduced byWaiter.)
(EnterHonoriaLooein mourning, introduced byWaiter.)
Honoria. (Coming in quickly, bowing toJanetand shaking hands withCarve.) Good afternoon. Please don't rise. I've heard how ill you've been. I've only called because I simply had to.
Carve. It's very kind of you.
Honoria. Oh, Mr. Shawn, I know you didn't want him to be buried in the Abbey. I'm all for quiet funerals, too; but really this was an exceptional case, and I think if you'd seen it you'd have been glad they did decide on the Abbey. Oh, you've no idea how impressive it was! The Abbey is always so fine, isn't it? And it was crammed. You never saw such a multitude of distinguished people. I mean really distinguished—all in black, except, of course, the uniforms. Royalties, ambassadors, representatives from all the academies all over Europe. Rodin was there!! The whole of artistic London came. I don't mean only painters, but poets, novelists, sculptors, and musicians. The art students had a corner to themselves. And you should have seen the crowds outside. All traffic was stopped up as far as Trafalgar Square. I've had some difficulty in getting here. The sun was shining through the stained glass. And[81]the music was magnificent. And then when the coffin was carried down the nave—well, there was only one wreath on the pall—just one—a white crown. All the other wreaths were piled near the screen—scores and scores of them—the effect was tremendous. I nearly cried. A lot of people did cry. (Genuinely moved.) There was that great genius lying there. He'd never done anything except put paint on canvas, and yet—and yet.... Well, it made you feel somehow that England does care for art after all.
Carve. (After a pause.) And whom have we to thank for this beautiful national manifestation of sympathy with art?
Honoria. How do you mean?
Carve. (With an attempt at cold irony, but yet in a voice imperfectly controlled.) Did your brother relent and graciously permit Lady Leonard Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or was it due solely to the influence of the newspapers written by people of refined culture like the man who gave his opinion the other day that I had got 'em? Or perhaps you yourself settled it with your esteemed uncle over a cup of tea?
Honoria. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can see that you're artistic yourself, and artists are generally very sarcastic about the British[82]public. I know I am.... Now, don't you paint?
Carve. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I used to—a little.
Honoria. I was sure of it. Well, you can be as sarcastic as you like, but do you know what I was thinking during the service? I was thinking if only he could have seen it—if only Ilam Carve could have seen it—instead of lying cold in that coffin under that wreath, he'd—(Hesitating.)
Carve. (Interrupting her, in a different, resolved tone.) Miss Looe, I suppose you're on very confidential terms with your uncle.
Honoria. Naturally. Why?
Carve. Will you give him a message from me. He'll do perhaps better than anybody.
Honoria. With pleasure.
Carve. (Moved.) It is something important—very important indeed. In fact—
(Janetgoes into bedroom, but keeping near the doorway does not actually disappear.)
(Janetgoes into bedroom, but keeping near the doorway does not actually disappear.)
Honoria. (Soothingly, and a little frightened.) Now, please, Mr. Shawn! Please don't frighten us as you did the other day. Please do try and keep calm!
Carve. I—(He suddenly stands up and then falls back again into chair.)
(Janetreturns quickly to the room)
(Janetreturns quickly to the room)
Honoria. (Alarmed, toJanet.) I'm afraid he isn't quite well yet.
Carve. No, I can't tell you. At least, not now. Thanks very much for calling. (Rises brusquely and walks towards the bedroom door.)
Janet. (ToHonoria.) He's not really strong enough to see visitors.
Honoria. (Going to door and trying to be confidential.) Whatisit?
Janet. (With tranquillity.) Oh, influenza. Sometimes it takes 'em in the head and sometimes in the stomach. It's taken him in the head.
Honoria. Charming man! I don't suppose there's the least likelihood of it—he's evidently very well off—but if heshouldbe wanting a situation similar to his last, I'm sure my uncle——
Janet. (Positively and curtly.) I don't think so.
Honoria. Of course you know him very well?
Janet. Well, it's like this. I'm his cousin. We aren't exactly engaged to be married——
Honoria. (In a changed tone.) Oh, I see! Good afternoon.
Janet. Good afternoon.
(ExitHonoria.)
(ExitHonoria.)
Carve. (Who has hesitatingly wandered back towards centre; in a quite different tone now that he is alone again withJanet.) What's this about being engaged to be married?
Janet. (Smiling.) I was telling her we weren't engaged to be married. That's true, I suppose?
Carve. But are we cousins?
Janet. Yes. I've got my reputation to think about. I don't want to coddle it, but there's no harm in just keeping an eye on it.
Carve. I see. (Sits down.)
Janet. If nothing comes of all this—
Carve. All what?
Janet. All this illness and nursing and sitting up at nights,—then I'm just your cousin, and no harm done.
Carve. But do you mean to say you'd—
Janet. (Stopping him.) Not so fast! (Pause. She continues reflectively.) Do you know what struck me while her ladyship was telling you about all the grand doings at the funeral—What good has it ever donehimto be celebrated and make a big splash in the world? Was he any happier for it? From all I can hear he was always trying to hide just as if the police were after him. He never had the slightest notion of comfort, and so you needn't tell me! And there's another thing—you[85]needn't tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl or other, because I know he was. A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything else—morning, noon, and night. It stands to reason—and they can say what they like—I know. And now he's dead—probably because he'd no notion of looking after himself, and it's been in all the papers how wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very likely sat up half the night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with fashionable folk—and do you know what all those fashionable folk are thinking about just now—tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whisky and soda.
Carve. But you mustn't forget that he was really very successful indeed.... Just look at the money he made, for instance.
Janet. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him he'd never have left two hundred thousand of them behind him—him with no family. No, he was no better than a fool with money. Couldn't even spend it.
Carve. He had the supreme satisfaction of doing what he enjoyed doing better than anybody else could do it.
Janet. And what was that?
Carve. Painting.
Janet. (Casually.) Oh! and couldn't he have had that without running about all over[86]Europe? He might just as well have been a commercial traveller. Take my word for it, Mr. Shawn, there's nothing like a comfortable home and a quiet life—and the less you're in the newspapers the better.
Carve. (Thoughtfully.) Do you know—a good deal of what you say applies to me.
Janet. Andyounow! As we're on the subject—before we go any further—you're a bachelor of forty-five, same as him. What have you been doing with yourself lately?
Carve. Doing with myself?
Janet. Well, I think I ought to ask because when I was stealing (with a little nervous laugh) the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel bill, I came across a lady's photograph. I couldn't help coming across it. Seeing how things are, I think I ought to ask.
Carve. Oh,that! It must be a photograph of the ladyhewas engaged to. He broke it off, you know. That was why we came to London in such a hurry.
Janet. Then it is true—what the newspaper reporter said? (Carvenods.) One of the aristocracy—(Carvenods.) Who was she?
Carve. Lady Alice Rowfant.
Janet. What was it doing in your pocket?
Carve. I don't know. Everything got mixed up. Clothes, papers, everything.
Janet. Sure?
Carve. Of course! Look here, do you suppose Lady Alice Rowfant is anything tome?
Janet. She isn't?
Carve. No.
Janet. Honestly? (Looking at him closely.)
Carve. Honestly.
Janet. (With obvious relief.) Well, that's all right then! Now will you drink this milk, please.
Carve. I just wanted to tell you——
Janet. Will you drink this milk? (Pours out a glassful for him.)