ACT I[181]A solid, handsomely-furnished room in a house in Portman Square—solid round table, solid writing-desk, solid chairs and sofa, with no air of comfort, but only of dignity. Over the fireplace is a painting ofOLIVER BLAYDS,also handsome and dignified....OLIVER BLAYDS-CONWAY,his young grandson, comes in withROYCE,the latter a clean-shaven man of forty, whose thick dark hair shows a touch of grey. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon.OLIVER(as he comes in). This way. (He holds the door open forROYCE.)ROYCE(coming in). Thanks.OLIVER. Some of the family will be showing up directly. Make yourself comfortable. (For himself, he does his best in one of the dignified chairs.)ROYCE. Thanks. (He looks round the room with interest, and sees the picture over the fireplace) Hallo, there he is.OLIVER. What? (Bored) Oh, the old ’un, yes.ROYCE(reverently). Oliver Blayds, the last of the Victorians. (OLIVERsighs and looks despairingly to Heaven.) I can’t take my hat off because it’s off already, but I should like to.OLIVER. Good Lord, you don’t really feel like that, do you?[182]ROYCE. Of course. Don’t you?OLIVER. Well, hardly. He’s my grandfather.ROYCE. True. (Smiling) All the same, there’s nothing in the Ten Commandments aboutnothonouring your grandfather.OLIVER. Nothing about honouring ’em either. It’s left optional. Of course, he’s a wonderful old fellow—ninety, and still going strong; but—well, as I say, he’s my grandfather.ROYCE. I’m afraid, Conway, that even the fact of his being your grandfather doesn’t prevent me thinking him a very great poet, a very great philosopher, and a very great man.OLIVER(interested). I say, do you really mean that, or are you just quoting from the Address you’ve come to present?ROYCE. Well, it’s in the Address, but then I wrote the Address, and got it up.OLIVER. Yes, I know—you told me—“To Oliver Blayds on his ninetieth birthday: Homage from some of the younger writers.” Very pretty of them and all that, and the old boy will love it. But do they really feel like that about him—that’s what interests me. I’ve always thought of him as old-fashioned, early Victorian, and that kind of thing.ROYCE. Oh, he is. Like Shakespeare. Early Elizabethan and that kind of thing.OLIVER. Shakespeare’sdifferent. I meant more like Longfellow.... Don’t think I am setting up my opinion against yours. If you say that Blayds’ poetry is as good as the best, I’ll take your word for it. Blayds the poet,you’rethe authority. Blayds the grandfather,Iam.ROYCE. All right, then, you can take my word for it that his best is as good as the best. Simple as[183]Wordsworth, sensuous as Tennyson, passionate as Swinburne.OLIVER. Yes, but what about the modern Johnnies? The Georgians.ROYCE. When they’re ninety I’ll tell you. If I’m alive.OLIVER. Thanks very much.(There is a short silence.ROYCEleaves the picture and comes slowly towards the writing-table.)OLIVER(shaking his head). Oh, no!ROYCE(turning round). What?OLIVER. That’s not the table where the great masterpieces are written, and that’s not the pen they are written with.ROYCE. My dearfellow——OLIVER. Is there a pen there, by the way?ROYCE(looking). Yes. Yours?OLIVER. The family’s. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to keep pens there.ROYCE. Why, where do they go to?OLIVER. The United States, mostly. Everybody who’s let in here makes for the table sooner or later and pinches one of the pens. “Lands’ sake, what a head,” they say, waving at the picture with their right hand and feeling behind their back with the left; it’s wonderful to see ’em. Tim, my sister—Tim and I glued a pen on to the tray once when one of ’em was coming, and watched him clawing at it for about five minutes, and babbling about the picture the whole time. I should think he knew what the poet Blayds looked like by the time he got the pen into his pocket.ROYCE(going back to the picture). Well, it’s a wonderful head.OLIVER. Yes, I will say that for the old boy, he does look like somebody.ROYCE. When was this done?[184]OLIVER. Oh, about eighteen years ago.ROYCE. Yes. That was about when I met him.OLIVER. You never told me you’d met him. Did you meetmeby any chance?ROYCE. No.OLIVER. I was five then, and people who came to see Blayds the poet patted the head of Blayds the poet’s grandson and said: “Are you going to be a poet too, my little man, when you grow up?”ROYCE(smiling). And what did Blayds the poet’s grandson say?OLIVER. Urged on by Blayds the poet’s son-in-law, Blayds the poet’s grandson offered to recite his grandfather’s well-known poem, “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking.” I’m sorry you missed it, Royce, but it’s no good asking for it now.ROYCE(half to himself). It was at Bournemouth. He was there with his daughter. Not your mother, she would have been younger than that.OLIVER. You mean Aunt Isobel.ROYCE. Isobel, yes. (After a little silence) Isobel Blayds. Yes, that was eighteen years ago. I was about your age.OLIVER. A fine handsome young fellow like me?ROYCE. Yes.OLIVER. Any grandfathers living?ROYCE. No.OLIVER. Lucky devil. But I don’t suppose you realised it.ROYCE. No, I don’t think I realised it.OLIVER(thinking it out). I suppose if I had a famous father I shouldn’t mind so much. I should feel that it was partly my doing. I mean that he wouldn’t have begun to be famous until I had been born. But the poet Blayds was a world-wide celebrity long before[185]I came on the scene, and I’ve had it hanging over me ever since.... Why do you suppose I am a member of the club?ROYCE. Well, why not? It’s a decent club. We are all very happy there.OLIVER. Yes, but why did they electme?ROYCE. Oh, well, if we once began to ask ourselvesthat——OLIVER. Not at all. The answer in your case is because A. L. Royce is a well-known critic and a jolly good fellow. The answer in my case is because there’s a B. in both. In other words, because there’s a Blayds in Blayds-Conway. If my father had stuck to his William Conway when he got married, I should never have been elected. Not at the age of twenty-two, anyway.ROYCE. Then I’m very glad he changed his name. Because otherwise, it seems, I might not have had the pleasure of meeting you.OLIVER. Oh, well, there’s always a something. But, compliments aside, it isn’t much fun for a man when things happen to him just because of the Blayds in Blayds-Conway. You know what I am doing now, don’t you? I told you.ROYCE. Secretary to some politician, isn’t it?OLIVER. Yes. And why? Because of the Blaydsin——ROYCE. Oh, nonsense!OLIVER. It’s true. Do you think I want to be a private secretary to a dashed politician? What’s a private secretary at his best but a superior sort of valet? I wanted to be a motor engineer. Not allowed. Why not? Because the Blayds in Blayds-Conway wouldn’t have been any use. But politicians simply live on that sort of thing.[186]ROYCE. What sort of thing?OLIVER. Giving people jobs because they’re the grandsons of somebody.ROYCE. Yes, I wonder if I was as cynical as you eighteen years ago.OLIVER. Probably not; there wasn’t a Grandfather Royce. By the way, talking about being jolly good fellows and all that, have you noticed that I haven’t offered you a cigarette yet?ROYCE. I don’t want to smoke.OLIVER. Well, that’s lucky. Smoking isn’t allowed in here.ROYCE(annoyed by this). Now look here, Conway, do you mind if I speak plainly?OLIVER. Do. But just one moment before you begin. My name, unfortunately, isBlayds-Conway. Call me Conway at the Club and I’ll thank you for it. But if you call me Conway in the hearing of certain members of my family, I’m afraid there will be trouble. Now what were you going to say?ROYCE(his annoyance gone). Doesn’t matter.OLIVER. No, do go on, Mr. Blayds-Royce.ROYCE. Very well, Mr. Blayds-Conway. I am old enough to be—no, not your grandfather—your uncle—and I want to say this. Oliver Blayds is a very great man and also a very old man, and I think that while you live in the house of this very great man, the inconveniences to which his old age puts you, my dearConway——OLIVER. Blayds-Conway.ROYCE(smiling). Blayds-Conway, I’m sorry.OLIVER. Perhaps you’d better call me Oliver.ROYCE. Yes, I think I will. Well, then,Oliver——OLIVER. Yes, but you’ve missed the whole point. The whole point is that I don’twantto live in his house.[187]Do you realise that I’ve never had a house I could call my own? I mean a house where I could ask people. I brought you along this afternoon because you’d got permission to come anyhow with that Address of yours. But I shouldn’t have dared to bring anybody else along from the club. Here we all are, and always have been, living notourlives, buthislife. Because—well, just because he likes it so.ROYCE(almost to himself). Yes ... yes.... I know.OLIVER. Well!(And there is so much conviction behind it thatROYCEhas nothing to say. However, nothing is needed, for at this momentSEPTIMA BLAYDS-CONWAYcomes in, a fair-haired nineteen-year-old modern, with no sentimental nonsense about her.)SEPTIMA. Hallo!OLIVER(half getting out of his chair). Hallo, Tim. Come and be introduced. This is Mr. A. L. Royce. My sister, Septima.ROYCE(surprised). Septima? (Mechanically he quotes):“Septima, seventh dark daughter;I saw her once where the black pines troop to thewater—A rock-set river that broke into bottomlesspools—”SEPTIMA. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce. (Holding out her hand toOLIVER) Noll, I’ll trouble you.OLIVER(feeling in his pockets). Damn! I did think,Royce——(He hands her a shilling) Here you are.SEPTIMA. Thanks. Thank you again, Mr. Royce.ROYCE. I’m afraid I don’t understand.SEPTIMA. It’s quite simple. I get a shilling when visitors quote “Septima” at me, and Noll gets a shilling when they don’t.OLIVER(reproachfully). I did think thatyouwould be able to control yourself, Royce.[188]ROYCE(smiling). Sorry! My only excuse is that I never met any one called Septima before, and that it came quite unconsciously.SEPTIMA. Oh, don’t apologise. I admire you immensely for it. It’s the only fun I get out of the name.OLIVER. Septima Blayds-Conway, when you’re the only daughter, and fair at that—I ask you.ROYCE(defensively). It’s a beautiful poem.SEPTIMA. Have you come to see Blayds the poet?ROYCE. Yes.OLIVER. One of the homage merchants.ROYCE. Miss Blayds-Conway, I appeal to you.SEPTIMA. Anything I can do in return for yourshilling——ROYCE. I have come here on behalf of some of my contemporaries, in order to acquaint that very great man Oliver Blayds with the feelings of admiration which we younger writers entertain for him. It appears now that not only is Blayds a great poet and a great philosopher, but alsoa——OLIVER. Great-grandfather.ROYCE. But also a grandfather. Do you think you can persuade your brother that Blayds’ public reputation as a poet is in no way affected by his private reputation as a grandfather, and beg him to spare me any further revelations?SEPTIMA. Certainly; I could do all that for ninepence, and you’d still be threepence in hand. (Sternly toOLIVER) Blayds-Conway, young fellow, have you been making r-revelations about your ger-rand-father?OLIVER. My dear girl, I’ve made no r-revelations whatever. What’s upset him probably is that I refused to recite to him “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking.”SEPTIMA. Did he pat your head and ask you to?[189]ROYCE. No, he didn’t.SEPTIMA. Well, you needn’t be huffy about it, Mr. Royce. You would have been in very good company. Meredith and Hardy have, and lots of others.OLIVER. Well, anyway, I’ve never been kissed by Maeterlinck.SEPTIMA(looking down coyly). Mr. Royce, you have surprised my secret, which I have kept hidden these seventeen years. Maeterlinck—Maurice andI——ROYCE. Revelations was not quite the word. What I should have said was that I have been plunged suddenly, and a little unexpectedly, into an unromantic, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which hardly suits the occasion of my visit. On any other day—you see what I mean, Miss Septima.SEPTIMA. You’re quite right. This is not the occasion for persiflage. Besides, we’re very proud of him really.ROYCE. I’m sure you are.SEPTIMA(weightily). You know, Noll, there are times when I think that possibly we have misjudged Blayds.OLIVER. Blayds the poet or Blayds the man?SEPTIMA. Blayds the man. After all, Uncle Thomas was devoted to him, andhewas rather particular. Wasn’t he, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. I don’t think I know your Uncle Thomas, do I?SEPTIMA. He wasn’t mine, he was mother’s.OLIVER. The Sage of Chelsea.ROYCE. Oh, Carlyle.Surely——SEPTIMA. Mother called them all “uncle” in her day.ROYCE. Well, now, there you are. That’s one of the most charming things about Oliver Blayds. He has always had a genius for friendship. Read the lives[190]and letters of all the great Victorians, and you find it all the way. They loved him.They——OLIVER(striking up). God save our gracious Queen!ROYCE(with a good-humoured shrug). Oh, well!SEPTIMA. Keep it for father and mother, Mr. Royce. We’re hopeless. Shall I tell you why?ROYCE. Yes?SEPTIMA. When you were a child, did you ever get the giggles in church?ROYCE. Almost always—when the Vicar wasn’t looking.SEPTIMA. There’s something about it, isn’t there—the solemnity of it all—which starts you giggling? When the Vicar isn’t looking.ROYCE. Yes.SEPTIMA. Exactly. And that’s whywegiggle—when the Vicar isn’t looking.MARION(from outside). Septima!OLIVER. And here comes the Vicar’s wife.(MARION BLAYDS-CONWAYis fifty-five now. A dear, foolish woman, who has never got over the fact that she isOLIVER BLAYDS’daughter, but secretly thinks that it is almost more wonderful to beWILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY’Swife.)MARION. Oh, there you are. Why didn’tyou——(She seesROYCE) Oh!OLIVER. This is Mr. A. L. Royce, Mother.MARION(distantly). How do you do?ROYCE. How do you do?(There is an awkward silence.)MARION. You’ll excuse me a moment, Mr.—er—er——OLIVER. Royce, Mother, A. L. Royce.MARION.Septima——This is naturally rather a busy day, Mr.—er——We hardlyexpected——(She[191]frowns atOLIVER,who ought to have known better by this time.) Septima, I want you just a moment—Oliver will look after his friend. I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr.—er——ROYCE. Oh, quite. Of course.SEPTIMA. Mr. Royce has come to see Grandfather, Mother.MARION(appalled). To see Grandfather!ROYCE. I was hoping—Mr. Blayds-Conway was good enough tosay——MARION. I am afraid it is quite impossible. I am very sorry, but really quite impossible. My son shouldn’t have held out hopes.OLIVER. He didn’t. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mother. It’s Father who invited him.ROYCE. I am here on behalf of certain of mycontemporaries——OLIVER. Homage from some of our youngerwriters——ROYCE. Mr. Blayds was gracious enough to indicatethat——SEPTIMA(in a violent whisper). A. L. Royce, Mother!MARION. Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon. Why didn’t you tell me it was A. L. Royce, Oliver? Of course! We wrote to you.ROYCE. Yes.MARION(all hospitality). How silly of me! You must forgive me, Mr. Royce. Oliver ought to have told me. Grandfather—Mr. Blayds—will be ready at three-thirty. The doctor was very anxious that Grandfather shouldn’t see any one this year—outside the family, of course. I couldn’t tell you how many people wrote asking if they could come to-day. Presidents of Societies and that sort of thing. From all over the world. Father did tell us. Do you remember, Septima?[192]SEPTIMA. I’m afraid I don’t, Mother. I know I didn’t believe it.MARION(toROYCE). Septima—after the poem, you know. “Septima, seventh darkdaughter——”(And she would quote the whole of it, but that her children interrupt.)OLIVER(solemnly). Don’t say you’ve never heard of it, Royce.SEPTIMA(distressed). I don’t believe he has.OLIVER(encouragingly). You must read it. I think you’d like it.MARION. It’s one of his best known.The Timesquoted it only last week. We had the cutting. “Septima, seventh darkdaughter——”It was a favourite of my husband’s even before he married me.ROYCE. It has been a favourite of mine for many years.MARION. And many other people’s, I’m sure. We often get letters—Oh, if you could see the letters we get!ROYCE. I wonder you don’t have a secretary.MARION(with dignity). My husband—Mr. Blayds-Conway—isGrandfather’s secretary. He was appointed to the post soon after he married me. Twenty-five years ago. There is almost nothing he mightn’t have done, but he saw where his duty lay, and he has devoted himself to Grandfather—to Mr. Blayds—ever since.ROYCE. I am sure we are all grateful to him.MARION. Grandfather, as you know, has refused a Peerage more than once. But I always say that if devotion to duty counts for anything, William, my husband, ought to have been knighted long ago. Perhaps when Grandfather has passedaway——But there!ROYCE. I was telling Oliver that I did meet Mr. Blayds once—and Miss Blayds. Down at Bournemouth.[193]She was looking after him. He wasn’t very well at the time.MARION. Oh, Isobel, yes. A wonderful nurse. I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her.ROYCE. She isstill——?I thought perhaps she was married,or——MARION. Oh, no! Isobel isn’t the marrying sort. I say that I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her, but I might almost say that I don’t know what she would do without Grandfather. (Looking at her watch) Dear me, I promised Father that I would get those letters off. Septima, dear, you must help me. Have you been round the house at all, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. No, I’ve only just come.MARION. There are certain rooms which are shown to the public. Signed photographs, gifts from Tennyson, Ruskin, Carlyle and many others. Illuminated addresses and so on, all most interesting. Oliver, perhaps you would show Mr. Royce—if it would interestyou——ROYCE. Oh, indeed, yes.MARION. Oliver!OLIVER(throwing down the book he was looking at). Right. (He gets up.) Come on, Royce. (As they go out) There’s one thing that I can show you, anyway.ROYCE. What’s that?OLIVER(violently). My bedroom. We’re allowed to smoke there.[They go out.MARION(sitting down at the writing-table). He seems a nice man. About thirty-five, wouldn’t you say—or more?SEPTIMA. Forty. But you never can tell with men. (She comes to the table.)MARION(getting to work). Now those letters just want putting into their envelopes. Andthosewant[194]envelopes written for them. If you will read out the addresses, dear—I think that will be the quickest way—Iwill——SEPTIMA(thinking her own thoughts). Mother!MARION. Yes, dear? (Writing) Doctor John Treherne.SEPTIMA. I want to speak to you.MARION. Do you mean about anything important?SEPTIMA. For me, yes.MARION. You haven’t annoyed your grandfather, I hope.SEPTIMA. It has nothing to do with Grandfather.MARION. Beechcroft, Bexhill-on-Sea. We’ve been so busy all day. Naturally, being the Birthday. Couldn’t you leave it till to-morrow, dear?SEPTIMA(eagerly). Rita Ferguson wants me to share rooms with her. You know I’ve always wanted to, and now she’s just heard of some; there’s a studio goes with it. On Campden Hill.MARION. Yes, dear. We’ll see what Grandfather says.SEPTIMA(annoyed). I said that this has nothing to do with Grandfather. We’re talking aboutme. It’s no good trying to do anything here,and——MARION. There! I’ve writtenCampdenHill; how stupid of me.HaverstockHill. We’ll see what Grandfather says, dear.SEPTIMA(doggedly). It has nothing to do with Grandfather.MARION(outraged). Septima!SEPTIMA. “We’ll see what Grandfather says”—that has always been the answer to everything in this house.MARION(as sarcastically as she can, but she is not very good at it). You can hardly have forgotten who Grandfather is.SEPTIMA. I haven’t.[195]MARION(awed). What was it theTelegraphcalled him only this morning? “The Supreme Songster of an Earlier Epoch.” (Her own father!)SEPTIMA. I said that I hadn’t forgotten what Grandfatheris. You’re telling me what hewas. Heisan old man of ninety. I’m twenty. Anything that I do will affect him for at most five years. It will affect me for fifty years. That’s why I say this has nothing to do with Grandfather.MARION(distressed). Septima, sometimes you almost seem as if you were irreligious. When you think who Grandfather is—and his birthday too. (Weakly) You must talk to your father.SEPTIMA. That’s better. Father’s only sixty.MARION. You must talk to your father. He will see what Grandfather says.SEPTIMA. And there we are—back again to ninety! It’s always the way.MARION(plaintively). I really don’t understand you children. You ought to be proud of living in the house of such a great man. I don’t know what Grandfather will say when he hears about it. (Tearfully) The Reverend William Styles ... Hockley Vicarage ... Bishop Stortford. (And from every line she extracts some slight religious comfort.)SEPTIMA(thoughtfully). I suppose father would cut off my allowance if I just went.MARION. Went?SEPTIMA. Yes. Would he? It would be beastly unfair, of course, but I suppose he would.MARION(at the end of her resources). Septima, you’renotto talk like that.SEPTIMA. I think I’ll get Aunt Isobel to tackle Grandfather. She’s only forty. Perhapsshecould persuade him.[196]MARION. I won’t hear another word. And you had better tidy yourself up. I will finish these letters myself.SEPTIMA(going to the door). Yes, I must go and tidy up. (At the door) But I warn you, Mother, I mean to have it out this time. And ifGrandfather——(She breaks off as her father comes in) Oh, Lord! (She comes back into the room, making way for him.)(WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAYwas obviously meant for the Civil Service. His prim neatness, his gold pince-nez, his fussiness would be invaluable in almost any Department. However, runningBLAYDSis the next best thing to running the Empire.)WILLIAM. What is this, Septima? Where are you going?SEPTIMA. Tidy myself up.WILLIAM. That’s right. And then you might help your mother to entertain Mr. Royce until we send for him. Perhaps we might—wait amoment——MARION. Oh, have you seen Mr. Royce, William? He seems a nice young man, doesn’t he? I’m sure Grandfather will like him.WILLIAM(pontifically). I still think that it was very unwise of us to attempt to see anybody to-day. Naturally I made it clear to Mr. Royce what a very unexpected departure this is from our usual practice. I fancy that he realises the honour which we have paid to the younger school of writers. Those who are knocking at the door, so to speak.MARION. Oh, I’m sure he does.SEPTIMA(to the ceiling). Does anybody want me?WILLIAM. Wait a moment, please. (He takes a key out of his pocket and considers.) Yes.... Yes.... (He gives the key toSEPTIMA) You may show Mr. Royce[197]the autograph letter from Queen Victoria, on the occasion of your grandmother’s death. Be very careful, please. I think he might be allowed to take it in his hands—don’t you think so, Marion?—but lock it up immediately afterwards, and bring me back the key.SEPTIMA. Yes, Father. (As she goes) What fun he’s going to have!WILLIAM. Are those the letters?MARION. Yes, dear, I’ve nearly finished them.WILLIAM. They will do afterwards. (Handing her a bunch of telegrams) I want you to sort these telegrams. Isobel is seeing about the flowers?MARION. Oh, yes, sure to be, dear. How do you mean, sort them?WILLIAM. In three groups will be best. Those from societies or public bodies, those from distinguished people, including Royalty—you will find one from the Duchess there; her Royal Highness is very faithful to us—and those from unknown or anonymous admirers.MARION. Oh, yes, I see, dear. (She gets to work.)WILLIAM. He will like to know who have remembered him. I fancy that we have done even better than we did on the eightieth birthday, and of course the day is not yet over. (He walks about the room importantly, weighing great matters in his mind. This is his day.)MARION. Yes, dear.WILLIAM(frowning anxiously). What did we do last year about drinking the health? Was it in here, or did we go to his room?MARION. He was down to lunch last year. Don’t you remember, dear?WILLIAM. Ah, yes, of course. Stupid of me. Yes, this last year has made a great difference to him. He is breaking up, I fear. We cannot keep him with us for many more birthdays.[198]MARION. Don’t say that, dear.WILLIAM. Well, we can but do our best.MARION. What would you like to do, dear, about the health?WILLIAM. H’m. Let me think. (He thinks.)MARION(busy with the telegrams). Some of these are a little difficult. Do you think that Sir John and Lady Wilkins would look better among the distinguished people including Royalty, or with the unknown and anonymous ones?WILLIAM. Anybody doubtful is unknown. I only want a rough grouping. We shall have a general acknowledgment in theTimes. And oh, that reminds me. I want an announcement for the late editions of the evening papers. Perhaps you had better just take this down. You can finish those afterwards.MARION. Yes, dear. (She gets ready) Yes, dear?WILLIAM(after tremendous thought). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.MARION(writing). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.WILLIAM. The veteran poet spent his ninetiethbirthday——MARION(to herself). The veteranpoet——WILLIAM. Passed his ninetieth birthday—that’s better—passed his ninetieth birthday quietly, amid hisfamily——MARION. Amid hisfamily——WILLIAM. At his well-known house—residence—in Portman Square. (He stops suddenly. You thought he was just dictating, but his brain has been working all the time, and he has come to a decision. He announces it.) We will drink the health in here. See that there is an extra glass for Mr. Royce. “In Portman Square”—have you got that?MARION. Yes, dear.[199]WILLIAM. Mr. William Blayds-Conway, who courteously gave—granted our representative an interview, informed us that the poet was in goodhealth——It’s a pity you never learnt shorthand, Marion.MARION. I did try, dear.WILLIAM(remembering that historic effort). Yes, I know ... in goodhealth——MARION. Goodhealth——WILLIAM. And keenly appreciative of the many tributes of affection which he had received.MARION. Which he had received.WILLIAM. Among those who called during the daywere——MARION. Yes, dear?WILLIAM. Fill that in from the visitors’ book. (He holds out his hand for the paper) How does that go?MARION(giving it to him). I wasn’t quite sure how many “p’s” there were in appreciative.WILLIAM. Two.MARION. Yes, I thought two was safer.WILLIAM(handing it back to her). Yes, that’s all right. (Bringing out his keys) I shall want to make a few notes while Mr. Royce is being received. It may be that Oliver Blayds will say something worth recording. One would like to get something if it were possible. (He has unlocked a drawer in the table and brought out his manuscript book.) And see that that goes off now. I should think about eight names. Say three Society, three Artistic and Literary, and two Naval, Military and Political. (Again you see his brain working.... He has come to another decision. He announces it.) Perhaps two Society would be enough.MARION. Yes, dear. (Beginning to make for the door) Will there be anything else you’ll want? (Holding out the paper) After I’ve done this?[200]WILLIAM(considering). No ... no.... I’m coming with you. (Taking out his keys) I must get the port. (He opens the door for her, and they go out together.)(The room is empty for a moment, and thenISOBELcomes in. She is nearly forty. You can see how lovely she was at twenty, but she gave up being lovely eighteen years ago, said good-bye toISOBEL,and became just Nurse. IfBLAYDSwants cheerfulness, she is cheerful; if sympathy, sympathetic; if interest, interested. She is off duty now, and we see at once how tired she is. But she has some spiritual comfort, some secret pride to sustain her, and it is only occasionally that the tiredness, the deadness, shows through. She has flowers in her arms, and slowly, thoughtfully, she decks the room for the great man. We see now for a moment that she is much older than we thought; it is for her own ninetieth birthday that she is decorating the room....Now she has finished, and she sits down, her hands in her lap, waiting, waiting patiently....Some thought brings a wistful smile to her mouth. Yes, she must have been very lovely at twenty. ThenROYCEcomes in.)ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (He sees who it is.) Oh!ISOBEL. It’s all right,I——Are you waiting tosee——(She recognises him) Oh!(They stand looking at each other, about six feet apart, not moving, saying nothing. Then very gently he begins to hum the refrain of a waltz. Slowly she remembers.)ISOBEL. How long ago was it?ROYCE. Eighteen years.[201]ISOBEL(who has lived eighty years since then). So little?ROYCE(distressed). Isobel!ISOBEL(remembering his name now). Austin.ROYCE. It comes back to you?ISOBEL. A few faded memories—and the smell of the pine woods. And there was a band, wasn’t there? That was the waltz they played.Howdid it go? (He gives her a bar or two again.... She nods) Yes. (She whispers the tune to herself.) Why does that make me thinkof——Didn’t you cut your wrist? On the rocks?ROYCE. You remember? (He holds out his wrist) Look!ISOBEL(nodding). I knew that came into it. I tied it up for you.ROYCE(sentimentally). I have the handkerchief still. (More honestly) Somewhere.... I know I have it. (He tries to think where it would be.)ISOBEL. There was a dog, wasn’t there?ROYCE. How well you remember. Rags. A fox terrier.ISOBEL(doubtfully). Yes?ROYCE. Or was that later? I had an Aberdeen before that.ISOBEL. Yes, that was it, I think.ROYCE. Thomas.ISOBEL(smiling). Thomas. Yes.... Only eighteen little years ago. But what worlds away. Just give me that tune again. (He gives it to her, and the memories stir again.) You had a pipe you were very proud of—with a cracked bowl—and a silver band to keep it together. What silly things one remembers ... you’d forgotten it.ROYCE. I remember that pink cotton dress.ISOBEL. Eighty years ago. Or is it only eighteen?[202]And now we meet again. You married? I seem to remember hearing.ROYCE(uncomfortably). Yes.ISOBEL. I hope it was happy.ROYCE. No. We separated.ISOBEL. I am sorry.ROYCE. Was it likely it would be?ISOBEL(surprised). Was that all the chance of happiness you gave her?ROYCE. You think I oughtn’t to have married?ISOBEL. Oh, my dear, who am I to order people’s lives?ROYCE. You ordered mine.ISOBEL(ignoring this). But youhavebeen happy? Marriage isn’t everything. You have been happy in your work, in your books, in your friends?ROYCE(after thinking). Yes, Isobel, on the whole, yes.ISOBEL. I’m glad.... (She holds out her hand suddenly with a smile) How do you do, Mr. Royce? (She is inviting him to step off the sentimental footing.)ROYCE(stepping off). How do you do, Miss Blayds? It’s delightful to meet you again.ISOBEL. Let’s sit down; shall we? (They sit down together.) My father will be coming in directly. You are here to see him, of course?ROYCE. Yes. Tell me about him—or rather about yourself. You are still looking after him?ISOBEL. Yes.ROYCE. For eighteen years.ISOBEL. Nearly twenty altogether.ROYCE. And has it been worth it?ISOBEL. He has written wonderful things in those twenty years. Not very much, but very wonderful.ROYCE. Yes, that has always been the miracle about[203]him, the way he has kept his youth. And the fire and spirit of youth. You have helped him there.ISOBEL(proudly). Has it been worth it?ROYCE(puzzled). I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. The world would think so; but I—naturally I am prejudiced.ISOBEL. Yes.ROYCE(smiling). You might have looked aftermefor those eighteen years.ISOBEL. Did you want it as much as he? (As he protests) No, I don’t mean “want” it—need it?ROYCE. Well, that’s always the problem, isn’t it—whether the old or the young have the better right to be selfish. We both needed you, in different ways. You gave yourself to him, and he has wasted your life. I don’t thinkIshould have wasted it.ISOBEL. I am proud to have helped him. No one will know. Everything which he wrote will be his. OnlyIshall know how much of it was mine. Well, that’s something. Not wasted.ROYCE. Sacrificed.ISOBEL. Am I to regret that?ROYCE. Do you regret it?ISOBEL(after considering). When you asked me to marry you I—I couldn’t. He was an old man then; he wanted me; I was everything to him. Oh, he has had his friends, more friends than any man, but he had to be the head of a family too, and without me—I’ve kept him alive, active. He has sharpened his brains on me. (With a shrug) On whom else?ROYCE. Yes, I understand that.ISOBEL. You wouldn’t have married me and come to live with us all, as Marion and William have done?ROYCE. No, no, that’s death.ISOBEL. Yes, I knew you felt like that. But I[204]couldn’t leave him. (ROYCEshrugs his shoulders unconvinced.) Oh, Ididlove you then; Ididwant to marry you! But I couldn’t. He wasn’t just an ordinary man—you must remember that, please. He was Blayds.... Oh, what are we in the world for but to find beauty, and who could find it as he, and who could help him as I?ROYCE. I was ready to wait.ISOBEL. Ah, but how could we? Until he died! Every day you would be thinking, “I wonder how he is to-day,” and I should be knowing that you were thinking that. Oh, horrible! Sitting and waiting for his death.ROYCE(thoughtfully, recognising her point of view). Yes.... Yes.... But if you were back now, knowing what you know, would you do it again?ISOBEL. I think so. I think it has been worth it. It isn’t fair to ask me. I’m glad now that I have given him those eighteen years, but perhaps I should have been afraid of it if I had known it was to be as long as that. It has been trying, of course—such a very old man in body, although so young in mind—but it has not been for an old man that I have done it; not for a selfish father; but for the glorious young poet who has never grown up, and who wanted me.ROYCE(looking into her soul). But you have had your bad moments.ISOBEL(distressed). Oh, don’t! It isn’t fair.(ROYCE,his eyes still on her, begins the refrain again.)ISOBEL(smiling sadly). Oh, no, Mr. Royce! That’s all over. I’m an old woman now.ROYCE(rather ashamed). I’m sorry.... Yes, you’re older now.ISOBEL. Twenty and thirty-eight—there’s a world of difference between them.[205]ROYCE. I’m forty.ISOBEL(smiling). Don’t ask me to pity you. What’s forty to a man?ROYCE. You’re right. In fact I’m masquerading here to-day as one of the younger writers.ISOBEL(glad to be off the subject of herself). Father likes to feel that he is admired by the younger writers. So if you’ve brought all their signatures with you, he’ll be pleased to see you, Mr. Royce. I had better give you just one word of warning. Don’t be too hard on the 1863 volume.ROYCE. I shan’t even mention it.ISOBEL. But ifhedoes——?It has been attacked so much that he has a sort of mother-love for it now, and even I feel protective towards it, and want to say, “Come here, darling, nobody loves you.” Say something kind if you can. Of course I know it isn’t his best, but when you’ve been praised as much as he, the little praise which is withheld is always the praise you want the most.ROYCE. How delightfully human that sounds. That is just what I’ve always felt in my own small way.WILLIAMcomes fussily in.WILLIAM. IsMr. Royce——?Ah, there you are! (Looking round the room) You’ve done the flowers, Isobel? That’s right. Well, Mr. Royce, I hope they’ve been looking after you properly.ROYCE. Oh, yes, thanks.WILLIAM. That’s right. Isobel—(he looks, in a statesmanlike way, at his watch)—in five minutes, shall we say?ISOBEL. Yes.WILLIAM. How is he just now?ISOBEL. He seems better to-day.[206]WILLIAM. That’s right. We shall drink the health in here.ISOBEL. Very well.[She goes out.WILLIAM. A little custom we have, Mr. Royce.ROYCE. Oh, yes.WILLIAM. We shall all wish him many happy returns of the day—you understand that he isn’t dressed now until the afternoon—and then I shall present you. After that, we shall all drink the health—you will join us, of course.ROYCE(smiling). Certainly.WILLIAM. Then, of course, it depends how we are feeling. We may feel in the mood for a little talk, or we may be too tired for anything more than a few words of greeting. You have the Address with you?ROYCE. Yes. (Looking about him) At least I put it down somewhere.WILLIAM(scandalised). You put it down—somewhere! My dear Mr. Royce (he searches anxiously)—at any momentnow——(He looks at his watch.) Perhaps I’dbetter——(A Maid comes in with the port and glasses) Parsons, have you seena——(He makes vague rectangular shapes with his hands.)ROYCE. Here it is.WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. (As the Maid puts the tray down) Yes, there, I think, Parsons. How many glasses have you brought?PARSONS. Seven, sir.WILLIAM. There should be six. One—two—three——PARSONS(firmly). Madam said seven, sir.WILLIAM. Seven, yes, that’s right. When I ring the bell, you’ll tell Miss Isobel that we are ready.PARSONS. Yes, sir.(She goes out, making way forMARION,SEPTIMA,andOLIVERas she does so.)[207]WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. Now then, let me see.... Ithink——Marion, will you sit here? Septima, you there. Oliver—Oliver, that’s a very light suit you’re wearing.OLIVER. It’s a birthday, Father, not a funeral.WILLIAM(with dignity). Yes, but whose birthday? Well, it’s too late now—you sit there. Mr. Royce, you sit next to me, so that I can take you up. Now are we all ready?SEPTIMA(wickedly). Wait a moment. (She blows her nose) Right.WILLIAM. All ready? (He rings the bell with an air.)(There is a solemn silence of expectation. ThenOLIVERshifts a leg and catches his ankle againstSEPTIMA’Schair.)OLIVER. Damn! Oo! (He rubs his ankle.)WILLIAM(in church). S’sh!(There is another solemn silence, and then the Maid opens the door.BLAYDS,in an invalid chair, is wheeled in byISOBEL.They all stand up. With his long white beard, his still plentiful white hair curling over his ears,OLIVER BLAYDSdoes indeed “look like somebody.” Only his eyes, under their shaggy brows, are still young. Indomitable spirit and humour gleam in them. With all the dignity, majesty even, which he brings to the part, you feel that he realises what great fun it is beingOLIVER BLAYDS.)BLAYDS. Good-day to you all.MARION(going forward and kissing his forehead). Many happy returns of the day, Father.BLAYDS. Thank you, Marion. Happy, I hope; many, I neither expect nor want.(WILLIAM,who is just going forward, stops for[208]a moment to jot this down on his shirt cuff. Then, beckoning toROYCEto follow him, he approaches.)WILLIAM. My heartiest congratulations, sir.BLAYDS. Thank you, William. When you are ninety, I’ll do as much for you.WILLIAM(laughing heartily). Ha, ha! Very good, sir. May I present Mr. A. L. Royce, the well-known critic?BLAYDS(looking thoughtfully atROYCE). We have met before, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. At Bournemouth, sir. Eighteen years ago.BLAYDS(nodding). Yes. I remember.WILLIAM. Wonderful, wonderful!BLAYDS(holding out his hand). Thank you for wasting your time now on an old man. You must stay and talk to me afterwards.ROYCE. It’s very kind of you, sir.I——WILLIAM. Just a moment, Mr. Royce. (He indicatesSEPTIMAandOLIVER.)ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (He steps on one side.)WILLIAM(in a whisper). Septima.SEPTIMA(coming forward). Congratulations, Grandfather. (She bends her head, and he kisses her.)BLAYDS. Thank you, my dear. I don’t know what I’ve done, but thank you.OLIVER(coming forward). Congratulations, Grandfather. (He bends down andBLAYDSputs a hand on his head.)BLAYDS. Thank you, my boy, thank you. (Wistfully) I was your age once.(WILLIAM,who has been very busy pouring out port, now gets busy distributing it. When they are all ready he holds up his glass.)WILLIAM. Are we all ready? (They are.) Blayds![209]ALL. Blayds! (They drink.)BLAYDS(moved as always by this). Thank you, thank you. (Recovering himself) Is that the Jubilee port, William?WILLIAM. Yes, sir.BLAYDS(looking wistfully atISOBEL). May I?ISOBEL. Yes, dear, if you like.William——WILLIAM(anxiously). Do youthink——?(She nods, and he pours out a glass.) Here you are, sir.BLAYDS(taking it in rather a shaky hand). Mr. Royce, I will drink to you; and, through you, to all that eager youth which is seeking, each in his own way, for beauty. (He raises his glass.) May they find it at the last! (He drinks.)ROYCE. Thank you very much, sir. I shall remember.WILLIAM. Allow me, sir. (He recoversBLAYDS’glass.) Marion, you have business to attend to?Oliver——?Septima——?MARION. Yes, dear. (Cheerfully toBLAYDS) We’re going now, Grandfather.BLAYDS(nodding). I shall talk a little to Mr. Royce.MARION. That’s right, dear; don’t tire yourself. Come along, children.(OLIVERcomes along.SEPTIMAhesitates.She “means to have it out this time.”)SEPTIMA(irresolutely).Grandfather——BLAYDS. Well?MARION. Come along, dear.SEPTIMA(overawed by the majesty ofBLAYDS). Oh—all right. (They go. But she will certainly have it out next time.)WILLIAM(in a whisper toROYCE). The Address? (ToBLAYDS) Mr. Royce has a message of congratulation from some of the younger writers, which he wishes to present to you, sir.Mr. Royce——(ROYCEcomes forward with it.)[210]BLAYDS. It is very good of them.ROYCE(doubtfully). Shall I read it, sir?BLAYDS(smiling). The usual thing?ROYCE(smiling too). Pretty much. A little better than usual, I hope, because I wrote it.(WILLIAMis now at the writing-table, waiting hopefully for crumbs.)BLAYDS(holding out his hand). Give it to me. And sit down, please. Near me. I don’t hear too well. (He takes the book and glances at it.) Pretty. (He glances at some of the names and says, with a pleased smile) I didn’t think they took any interest in an old man. Isobel, you will read it to me afterwards, and tell me who they all are?ISOBEL. Yes, dear.BLAYDS. Will that do, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. Of course, sir.... I should just like you to know, to have the privilege of telling you here, and on this day, that every one of us there has a very real admiration for your work and a very real reverence for yourself. And we feel that, in signing, we have done honour to ourselves, rather than honour to Blayds, whom no words of ours can honour as his own have done.BLAYDS. Thank you.... You must read it to me, Isobel. (He gives her the book.) A very real admiration forallmy work, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. Yes, sir.BLAYDS. Except the 1863 volume?ROYCE. I have never regretted that, sir.BLAYDS(pleased). Ah! You hear, Isobel?ROYCE. I don’t say that it is my own favourite, but I could quite understand if it were the author’s. There are things aboutit——BLAYDS. Isobel, are you listening?ISOBEL(smiling). Yes, Father.[211]ROYCE. Things outside your usual range, if I may sayso——BLAYDS(nodding and chuckling). You hear, Isobel? Didn’t I always tell you? Well, well, we mustn’t talk any more about that.... William!WILLIAM(jumping up). Sir?BLAYDS. What are you doing?WILLIAM. Just finishing off a few letters, sir.BLAYDS. Would you be good enough to bring me my Sordello?WILLIAM. The one which Browning gave you, sir?BLAYDS. Of course. I wish to show Mr. Royce the inscription—(toROYCE)—an absurd one, all rhymes to Blayds. It will be in the library somewhere; it may have got moved.WILLIAM. Certainly, sir.ISOBEL.Father——BLAYDS(holding up a hand to stop her). Thank you, William. (William goes out.) You were saying, Isobel?ISOBEL. Nothing. I thought it was in your bedroom. I was reading to you last night.BLAYDS(sharply). Of course it’s in my bedroom. But can’t I get my own son-in-law out of the room if I want to?ISOBEL(soothingly). Of course, dear. It was silly of me.BLAYDS. My son-in-law, Mr. Royce, meditates after my death a little book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in the Cotswolds,” but I am not certain of this yet. (He chuckles to himself.)ISOBEL(reproachfully). Father![212]BLAYDS(apologetically). All right, Isobel. Mr. Royce won’t mind.ISOBEL(smiling reluctantly). It’s very unkind.BLAYDS. You never knew Whistler, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. No, sir; he was a bit before my time.BLAYDS. Ah, he was the one to say unkind things. But you forgave him because he had a way with him. And there was always the hope that when he had finished withyou, he would say something still worse about one of your friends. (He chuckles to himself again.) I sent him a book of mine once—which one was it, Isobel?ISOBEL.Helen.BLAYDS.Helen, yes. I got a postcard from him a few days later: “Dear Oliver, rub it out and do it again.” Well, I happened to meet him the next day, and I said that I was sorry I couldn’t take his advice, as it was too late now to do anything about it. “Yes,”said Jimmie, “as God said when he’d made Swinburne.”ISOBEL. You’ve heard that, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. No. Ought I to have?ISOBEL. It has been published.BLAYDS(wickedly). I told my son-in-law. Anything which I tell my son-in-law is published.ISOBEL. I always say that father made it up.BLAYDS. You didn’t know Jimmie, my dear. There was nothing he couldn’t have said. But a most stimulating companion.ROYCE. Yes, he must have been.BLAYDS. So was Alfred. He had a great sense of humour. All of us who knew him well knew that.ROYCE. It is curious how many people nowadays regard Tennyson as something of a prig, with no sense of humour. I always feel that his association with[213]Queen Victoria had something to do with it. A Court poet is so very un-stimulating.BLAYDS. I think you’re right. It was a pity. (He chuckles to himself.ROYCEwaits expectantly.) I went to Court once.ROYCE(surprised). You?BLAYDS(nodding). Yes, I went to Osborne to see the Queen. Alfred’s doing I always suspected, but he wouldn’t own to it. (He chuckles.)ISOBEL. Tell him about it, dear.BLAYDS. I had a new pair of boots. They squeaked. They squeaked all the way from London to the Isle of Wight. The Queen was waiting for me at the end of a long room. I squeaked in. I bowed. I squeaked my way up to her. We talked. I was not allowed to sit down, of course; I just stood shifting from one foot to the other—and squeaking. She said: “Don’t you think Lord Tennyson’s poetry is very beautiful?” and I squeaked and said, “Damn these boots!” A gentleman-in-waiting told me afterwards that it was contrary to etiquette to start a new topic of conversation with Royalty—so I suppose that that is why I have never been asked to Court again.ISOBEL. It was your joke, Father, not the gentleman-in-waiting’s. (BLAYDSchuckles.)ROYCE. Yes, I’m sure of that.BLAYDS. Isobel knows all my stories.... When you’re ninety, they know all your stories.ISOBEL. I like hearing them again, dear, and Mr. Royce hasn’t heard them.BLAYDS. I’ll tell you one youdon’tknow, Isobel.ISOBEL. Not you.BLAYDS. Will you bet?ISOBEL. It’s taking your money.BLAYDS. Mr. Royce will hold the stakes. A shilling.[214]ISOBEL. You will be ruined. (She takes out her purse.)BLAYDS(childishly). Have you got one for me too?ISOBEL(taking out two). One for you and one for me. Here you are, Mr. Royce.ROYCE. Thank you. Both good ones? Right.BLAYDS. George Meredith told me this. Are you fond of cricket, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. Yes, very.BLAYDS. So was Meredith, so was I.... A young boy playing for his school. The important match of the year; he gets his colours only if he plays—you understand? Just before the game began, he was sitting in one of those—what do they call them?—deck chairs, when it collapsed, his hand between the hinges. Three crushed fingers; no chance of playing; no colours. At that age a tragedy; it seems that one’s whole life is over. You understand?ROYCE. Yes. Oh, very well.BLAYDS. But if once the match begins with him, he has his colours, whatever happens afterwards. So he decides to say nothing about the fingers. He keeps his hand in his pocket; nobody has seen the accident, nobody guesses. His side is in first. He watches—his hand is in his pocket. When his turn comes to bat, he forces a glove over the crushed fingers and goes to the wickets. He makes nothing—well, that doesn’t matter; he is the wicket-keeper and has gone in last. But he knows now that he can never take his place in the field; and he knows, too, what an unfair thing he has done to his school to let them start their game with a cripple. It is impossible now to confess.... So, in between the innings, he arranges another accident with his chair, and falls back on it, with his fingers—his already crushed fingers this time—in the hinges.[215]So nobody ever knew. Not until he was a man, and it all seemed very little and far away.ISOBEL. What a horrible story! Give him the money, Mr. Royce.BLAYDS. Keep it for me, Isobel. (ISOBELtakes it.)ROYCE. Is it true, sir?BLAYDS. So Meredith said. He told me.ROYCE. Lord, what pluck! I think I should have forgiven him for that.BLAYDS. Yes, an unfair thing to do; but having done it, he carried it off in the grand manner.ISOBEL. To save himself.BLAYDS. Well, well. But he had qualities. Don’t you think so, Mr. Royce?ROYCE. I do indeed.(There is a silence. The excitement of the occasion has died away, and you can almost seeBLAYDSgetting older.)BLAYDS(after a pause). I could tell you another story, Isobel, which you don’t know.... Of another boy who carried it off.ISOBEL. Not now, dear. You mustn’t tire yourself.BLAYDS(a very old man suddenly). No, not now. But I shall tell you one day. Yes, I shall have to tell you.... I shall have to tell you.ISOBEL(quietly, toROYCE). I thinkperhaps——ROYCE(getting up). It is very kind of you to have seen me, sir. I mustn’t let you get tired of me.BLAYDS(very tired). Good-bye, Mr. Royce. He liked the 1863 volume, Isobel.ISOBEL. Yes, Father.ROYCE. Good-bye, sir, and thank you; I shall always remember.ISOBEL(in a whisper toROYCE). You can find your way out, can’t you? I don’t like to leave him.[216]ROYCE. Of course. I may see you again?ISOBEL(her tragedy). I am always here.ROYCE. Good-bye.[He goes.BLAYDS. Isobel, where are you?ISOBEL(at his side again). Here I am, dear.BLAYDS. How old did you say I was?ISOBEL. Ninety.BLAYDS. Ninety.... I’m tired.ISOBEL. It has been too much for you, dear. I oughtn’t to have let him stay so long. You’d like to go to bed now, wouldn’t you? (She walks away to ring the bell.)BLAYDS(a frightened child). Where are you going? Don’t leave me.ISOBEL(stopping). Only to ring the bell, dear.BLAYDS. Don’t leave me. I want you to hold my hand.ISOBEL. Yes, dear. (She holds it.)BLAYDS. Did you say I was ninety? There’s no going back at ninety. Only forward—into the grave that’s waiting for you. So cold and lonely there, Isobel.ISOBEL. I am always with you, dear.BLAYDS. Hold me tight. I’m frightened.... Did I tell you about the boy—who carried it off?ISOBEL. Yes, dear, you told us.BLAYDS. No, not that boy—the other one. Are we alone, Isobel?ISOBEL. Yes, dear.BLAYDS. Listen, Isobel. I want to tellyou——ISOBEL. Tell me to-morrow, dear.BLAYDS(in weak anger, because he is frightened). There are no to-morrows when you are ninety ... when you are ninety ... and they have all left you ... alone.[217]ISOBEL. Very well, dear. Tell me now.BLAYDS(eagerly). Yes, yes, come closer.... Listen, Isobel. (He draws her still closer and begins.) Isobel....(But we do not hear it until afterwards.)
A solid, handsomely-furnished room in a house in Portman Square—solid round table, solid writing-desk, solid chairs and sofa, with no air of comfort, but only of dignity. Over the fireplace is a painting ofOLIVER BLAYDS,also handsome and dignified....OLIVER BLAYDS-CONWAY,his young grandson, comes in withROYCE,the latter a clean-shaven man of forty, whose thick dark hair shows a touch of grey. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon.
A solid, handsomely-furnished room in a house in Portman Square—solid round table, solid writing-desk, solid chairs and sofa, with no air of comfort, but only of dignity. Over the fireplace is a painting ofOLIVER BLAYDS,also handsome and dignified....OLIVER BLAYDS-CONWAY,his young grandson, comes in withROYCE,the latter a clean-shaven man of forty, whose thick dark hair shows a touch of grey. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon.
OLIVER(as he comes in). This way. (He holds the door open forROYCE.)
ROYCE(coming in). Thanks.
OLIVER. Some of the family will be showing up directly. Make yourself comfortable. (For himself, he does his best in one of the dignified chairs.)
ROYCE. Thanks. (He looks round the room with interest, and sees the picture over the fireplace) Hallo, there he is.
OLIVER. What? (Bored) Oh, the old ’un, yes.
ROYCE(reverently). Oliver Blayds, the last of the Victorians. (OLIVERsighs and looks despairingly to Heaven.) I can’t take my hat off because it’s off already, but I should like to.
OLIVER. Good Lord, you don’t really feel like that, do you?
[182]ROYCE. Of course. Don’t you?
OLIVER. Well, hardly. He’s my grandfather.
ROYCE. True. (Smiling) All the same, there’s nothing in the Ten Commandments aboutnothonouring your grandfather.
OLIVER. Nothing about honouring ’em either. It’s left optional. Of course, he’s a wonderful old fellow—ninety, and still going strong; but—well, as I say, he’s my grandfather.
ROYCE. I’m afraid, Conway, that even the fact of his being your grandfather doesn’t prevent me thinking him a very great poet, a very great philosopher, and a very great man.
OLIVER(interested). I say, do you really mean that, or are you just quoting from the Address you’ve come to present?
ROYCE. Well, it’s in the Address, but then I wrote the Address, and got it up.
OLIVER. Yes, I know—you told me—“To Oliver Blayds on his ninetieth birthday: Homage from some of the younger writers.” Very pretty of them and all that, and the old boy will love it. But do they really feel like that about him—that’s what interests me. I’ve always thought of him as old-fashioned, early Victorian, and that kind of thing.
ROYCE. Oh, he is. Like Shakespeare. Early Elizabethan and that kind of thing.
OLIVER. Shakespeare’sdifferent. I meant more like Longfellow.... Don’t think I am setting up my opinion against yours. If you say that Blayds’ poetry is as good as the best, I’ll take your word for it. Blayds the poet,you’rethe authority. Blayds the grandfather,Iam.
ROYCE. All right, then, you can take my word for it that his best is as good as the best. Simple as[183]Wordsworth, sensuous as Tennyson, passionate as Swinburne.
OLIVER. Yes, but what about the modern Johnnies? The Georgians.
ROYCE. When they’re ninety I’ll tell you. If I’m alive.
OLIVER. Thanks very much.
(There is a short silence.ROYCEleaves the picture and comes slowly towards the writing-table.)
OLIVER(shaking his head). Oh, no!
ROYCE(turning round). What?
OLIVER. That’s not the table where the great masterpieces are written, and that’s not the pen they are written with.
ROYCE. My dearfellow——
OLIVER. Is there a pen there, by the way?
ROYCE(looking). Yes. Yours?
OLIVER. The family’s. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to keep pens there.
ROYCE. Why, where do they go to?
OLIVER. The United States, mostly. Everybody who’s let in here makes for the table sooner or later and pinches one of the pens. “Lands’ sake, what a head,” they say, waving at the picture with their right hand and feeling behind their back with the left; it’s wonderful to see ’em. Tim, my sister—Tim and I glued a pen on to the tray once when one of ’em was coming, and watched him clawing at it for about five minutes, and babbling about the picture the whole time. I should think he knew what the poet Blayds looked like by the time he got the pen into his pocket.
ROYCE(going back to the picture). Well, it’s a wonderful head.
OLIVER. Yes, I will say that for the old boy, he does look like somebody.
ROYCE. When was this done?
[184]OLIVER. Oh, about eighteen years ago.
ROYCE. Yes. That was about when I met him.
OLIVER. You never told me you’d met him. Did you meetmeby any chance?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. I was five then, and people who came to see Blayds the poet patted the head of Blayds the poet’s grandson and said: “Are you going to be a poet too, my little man, when you grow up?”
ROYCE(smiling). And what did Blayds the poet’s grandson say?
OLIVER. Urged on by Blayds the poet’s son-in-law, Blayds the poet’s grandson offered to recite his grandfather’s well-known poem, “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking.” I’m sorry you missed it, Royce, but it’s no good asking for it now.
ROYCE(half to himself). It was at Bournemouth. He was there with his daughter. Not your mother, she would have been younger than that.
OLIVER. You mean Aunt Isobel.
ROYCE. Isobel, yes. (After a little silence) Isobel Blayds. Yes, that was eighteen years ago. I was about your age.
OLIVER. A fine handsome young fellow like me?
ROYCE. Yes.
OLIVER. Any grandfathers living?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. Lucky devil. But I don’t suppose you realised it.
ROYCE. No, I don’t think I realised it.
OLIVER(thinking it out). I suppose if I had a famous father I shouldn’t mind so much. I should feel that it was partly my doing. I mean that he wouldn’t have begun to be famous until I had been born. But the poet Blayds was a world-wide celebrity long before[185]I came on the scene, and I’ve had it hanging over me ever since.... Why do you suppose I am a member of the club?
ROYCE. Well, why not? It’s a decent club. We are all very happy there.
OLIVER. Yes, but why did they electme?
ROYCE. Oh, well, if we once began to ask ourselvesthat——
OLIVER. Not at all. The answer in your case is because A. L. Royce is a well-known critic and a jolly good fellow. The answer in my case is because there’s a B. in both. In other words, because there’s a Blayds in Blayds-Conway. If my father had stuck to his William Conway when he got married, I should never have been elected. Not at the age of twenty-two, anyway.
ROYCE. Then I’m very glad he changed his name. Because otherwise, it seems, I might not have had the pleasure of meeting you.
OLIVER. Oh, well, there’s always a something. But, compliments aside, it isn’t much fun for a man when things happen to him just because of the Blayds in Blayds-Conway. You know what I am doing now, don’t you? I told you.
ROYCE. Secretary to some politician, isn’t it?
OLIVER. Yes. And why? Because of the Blaydsin——
ROYCE. Oh, nonsense!
OLIVER. It’s true. Do you think I want to be a private secretary to a dashed politician? What’s a private secretary at his best but a superior sort of valet? I wanted to be a motor engineer. Not allowed. Why not? Because the Blayds in Blayds-Conway wouldn’t have been any use. But politicians simply live on that sort of thing.
[186]ROYCE. What sort of thing?
OLIVER. Giving people jobs because they’re the grandsons of somebody.
ROYCE. Yes, I wonder if I was as cynical as you eighteen years ago.
OLIVER. Probably not; there wasn’t a Grandfather Royce. By the way, talking about being jolly good fellows and all that, have you noticed that I haven’t offered you a cigarette yet?
ROYCE. I don’t want to smoke.
OLIVER. Well, that’s lucky. Smoking isn’t allowed in here.
ROYCE(annoyed by this). Now look here, Conway, do you mind if I speak plainly?
OLIVER. Do. But just one moment before you begin. My name, unfortunately, isBlayds-Conway. Call me Conway at the Club and I’ll thank you for it. But if you call me Conway in the hearing of certain members of my family, I’m afraid there will be trouble. Now what were you going to say?
ROYCE(his annoyance gone). Doesn’t matter.
OLIVER. No, do go on, Mr. Blayds-Royce.
ROYCE. Very well, Mr. Blayds-Conway. I am old enough to be—no, not your grandfather—your uncle—and I want to say this. Oliver Blayds is a very great man and also a very old man, and I think that while you live in the house of this very great man, the inconveniences to which his old age puts you, my dearConway——
OLIVER. Blayds-Conway.
ROYCE(smiling). Blayds-Conway, I’m sorry.
OLIVER. Perhaps you’d better call me Oliver.
ROYCE. Yes, I think I will. Well, then,Oliver——
OLIVER. Yes, but you’ve missed the whole point. The whole point is that I don’twantto live in his house.[187]Do you realise that I’ve never had a house I could call my own? I mean a house where I could ask people. I brought you along this afternoon because you’d got permission to come anyhow with that Address of yours. But I shouldn’t have dared to bring anybody else along from the club. Here we all are, and always have been, living notourlives, buthislife. Because—well, just because he likes it so.
ROYCE(almost to himself). Yes ... yes.... I know.
OLIVER. Well!
(And there is so much conviction behind it thatROYCEhas nothing to say. However, nothing is needed, for at this momentSEPTIMA BLAYDS-CONWAYcomes in, a fair-haired nineteen-year-old modern, with no sentimental nonsense about her.)
SEPTIMA. Hallo!
OLIVER(half getting out of his chair). Hallo, Tim. Come and be introduced. This is Mr. A. L. Royce. My sister, Septima.
ROYCE(surprised). Septima? (Mechanically he quotes):
“Septima, seventh dark daughter;I saw her once where the black pines troop to thewater—A rock-set river that broke into bottomlesspools—”
“Septima, seventh dark daughter;I saw her once where the black pines troop to thewater—A rock-set river that broke into bottomlesspools—”
“Septima, seventh dark daughter;I saw her once where the black pines troop to thewater—A rock-set river that broke into bottomlesspools—”
“Septima, seventh dark daughter;
I saw her once where the black pines troop to thewater—
A rock-set river that broke into bottomlesspools—”
SEPTIMA. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce. (Holding out her hand toOLIVER) Noll, I’ll trouble you.
OLIVER(feeling in his pockets). Damn! I did think,Royce——(He hands her a shilling) Here you are.
SEPTIMA. Thanks. Thank you again, Mr. Royce.
ROYCE. I’m afraid I don’t understand.
SEPTIMA. It’s quite simple. I get a shilling when visitors quote “Septima” at me, and Noll gets a shilling when they don’t.
OLIVER(reproachfully). I did think thatyouwould be able to control yourself, Royce.
[188]ROYCE(smiling). Sorry! My only excuse is that I never met any one called Septima before, and that it came quite unconsciously.
SEPTIMA. Oh, don’t apologise. I admire you immensely for it. It’s the only fun I get out of the name.
OLIVER. Septima Blayds-Conway, when you’re the only daughter, and fair at that—I ask you.
ROYCE(defensively). It’s a beautiful poem.
SEPTIMA. Have you come to see Blayds the poet?
ROYCE. Yes.
OLIVER. One of the homage merchants.
ROYCE. Miss Blayds-Conway, I appeal to you.
SEPTIMA. Anything I can do in return for yourshilling——
ROYCE. I have come here on behalf of some of my contemporaries, in order to acquaint that very great man Oliver Blayds with the feelings of admiration which we younger writers entertain for him. It appears now that not only is Blayds a great poet and a great philosopher, but alsoa——
OLIVER. Great-grandfather.
ROYCE. But also a grandfather. Do you think you can persuade your brother that Blayds’ public reputation as a poet is in no way affected by his private reputation as a grandfather, and beg him to spare me any further revelations?
SEPTIMA. Certainly; I could do all that for ninepence, and you’d still be threepence in hand. (Sternly toOLIVER) Blayds-Conway, young fellow, have you been making r-revelations about your ger-rand-father?
OLIVER. My dear girl, I’ve made no r-revelations whatever. What’s upset him probably is that I refused to recite to him “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking.”
SEPTIMA. Did he pat your head and ask you to?
[189]ROYCE. No, he didn’t.
SEPTIMA. Well, you needn’t be huffy about it, Mr. Royce. You would have been in very good company. Meredith and Hardy have, and lots of others.
OLIVER. Well, anyway, I’ve never been kissed by Maeterlinck.
SEPTIMA(looking down coyly). Mr. Royce, you have surprised my secret, which I have kept hidden these seventeen years. Maeterlinck—Maurice andI——
ROYCE. Revelations was not quite the word. What I should have said was that I have been plunged suddenly, and a little unexpectedly, into an unromantic, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which hardly suits the occasion of my visit. On any other day—you see what I mean, Miss Septima.
SEPTIMA. You’re quite right. This is not the occasion for persiflage. Besides, we’re very proud of him really.
ROYCE. I’m sure you are.
SEPTIMA(weightily). You know, Noll, there are times when I think that possibly we have misjudged Blayds.
OLIVER. Blayds the poet or Blayds the man?
SEPTIMA. Blayds the man. After all, Uncle Thomas was devoted to him, andhewas rather particular. Wasn’t he, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. I don’t think I know your Uncle Thomas, do I?
SEPTIMA. He wasn’t mine, he was mother’s.
OLIVER. The Sage of Chelsea.
ROYCE. Oh, Carlyle.Surely——
SEPTIMA. Mother called them all “uncle” in her day.
ROYCE. Well, now, there you are. That’s one of the most charming things about Oliver Blayds. He has always had a genius for friendship. Read the lives[190]and letters of all the great Victorians, and you find it all the way. They loved him.They——
OLIVER(striking up). God save our gracious Queen!
ROYCE(with a good-humoured shrug). Oh, well!
SEPTIMA. Keep it for father and mother, Mr. Royce. We’re hopeless. Shall I tell you why?
ROYCE. Yes?
SEPTIMA. When you were a child, did you ever get the giggles in church?
ROYCE. Almost always—when the Vicar wasn’t looking.
SEPTIMA. There’s something about it, isn’t there—the solemnity of it all—which starts you giggling? When the Vicar isn’t looking.
ROYCE. Yes.
SEPTIMA. Exactly. And that’s whywegiggle—when the Vicar isn’t looking.
MARION(from outside). Septima!
OLIVER. And here comes the Vicar’s wife.
(MARION BLAYDS-CONWAYis fifty-five now. A dear, foolish woman, who has never got over the fact that she isOLIVER BLAYDS’daughter, but secretly thinks that it is almost more wonderful to beWILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY’Swife.)
MARION. Oh, there you are. Why didn’tyou——(She seesROYCE) Oh!
OLIVER. This is Mr. A. L. Royce, Mother.
MARION(distantly). How do you do?
ROYCE. How do you do?
(There is an awkward silence.)
MARION. You’ll excuse me a moment, Mr.—er—er——
OLIVER. Royce, Mother, A. L. Royce.
MARION.Septima——This is naturally rather a busy day, Mr.—er——We hardlyexpected——(She[191]frowns atOLIVER,who ought to have known better by this time.) Septima, I want you just a moment—Oliver will look after his friend. I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr.—er——
ROYCE. Oh, quite. Of course.
SEPTIMA. Mr. Royce has come to see Grandfather, Mother.
MARION(appalled). To see Grandfather!
ROYCE. I was hoping—Mr. Blayds-Conway was good enough tosay——
MARION. I am afraid it is quite impossible. I am very sorry, but really quite impossible. My son shouldn’t have held out hopes.
OLIVER. He didn’t. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mother. It’s Father who invited him.
ROYCE. I am here on behalf of certain of mycontemporaries——
OLIVER. Homage from some of our youngerwriters——
ROYCE. Mr. Blayds was gracious enough to indicatethat——
SEPTIMA(in a violent whisper). A. L. Royce, Mother!
MARION. Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon. Why didn’t you tell me it was A. L. Royce, Oliver? Of course! We wrote to you.
ROYCE. Yes.
MARION(all hospitality). How silly of me! You must forgive me, Mr. Royce. Oliver ought to have told me. Grandfather—Mr. Blayds—will be ready at three-thirty. The doctor was very anxious that Grandfather shouldn’t see any one this year—outside the family, of course. I couldn’t tell you how many people wrote asking if they could come to-day. Presidents of Societies and that sort of thing. From all over the world. Father did tell us. Do you remember, Septima?
[192]SEPTIMA. I’m afraid I don’t, Mother. I know I didn’t believe it.
MARION(toROYCE). Septima—after the poem, you know. “Septima, seventh darkdaughter——”(And she would quote the whole of it, but that her children interrupt.)
OLIVER(solemnly). Don’t say you’ve never heard of it, Royce.
SEPTIMA(distressed). I don’t believe he has.
OLIVER(encouragingly). You must read it. I think you’d like it.
MARION. It’s one of his best known.The Timesquoted it only last week. We had the cutting. “Septima, seventh darkdaughter——”It was a favourite of my husband’s even before he married me.
ROYCE. It has been a favourite of mine for many years.
MARION. And many other people’s, I’m sure. We often get letters—Oh, if you could see the letters we get!
ROYCE. I wonder you don’t have a secretary.
MARION(with dignity). My husband—Mr. Blayds-Conway—isGrandfather’s secretary. He was appointed to the post soon after he married me. Twenty-five years ago. There is almost nothing he mightn’t have done, but he saw where his duty lay, and he has devoted himself to Grandfather—to Mr. Blayds—ever since.
ROYCE. I am sure we are all grateful to him.
MARION. Grandfather, as you know, has refused a Peerage more than once. But I always say that if devotion to duty counts for anything, William, my husband, ought to have been knighted long ago. Perhaps when Grandfather has passedaway——But there!
ROYCE. I was telling Oliver that I did meet Mr. Blayds once—and Miss Blayds. Down at Bournemouth.[193]She was looking after him. He wasn’t very well at the time.
MARION. Oh, Isobel, yes. A wonderful nurse. I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her.
ROYCE. She isstill——?I thought perhaps she was married,or——
MARION. Oh, no! Isobel isn’t the marrying sort. I say that I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her, but I might almost say that I don’t know what she would do without Grandfather. (Looking at her watch) Dear me, I promised Father that I would get those letters off. Septima, dear, you must help me. Have you been round the house at all, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. No, I’ve only just come.
MARION. There are certain rooms which are shown to the public. Signed photographs, gifts from Tennyson, Ruskin, Carlyle and many others. Illuminated addresses and so on, all most interesting. Oliver, perhaps you would show Mr. Royce—if it would interestyou——
ROYCE. Oh, indeed, yes.
MARION. Oliver!
OLIVER(throwing down the book he was looking at). Right. (He gets up.) Come on, Royce. (As they go out) There’s one thing that I can show you, anyway.
ROYCE. What’s that?
OLIVER(violently). My bedroom. We’re allowed to smoke there.
[They go out.
MARION(sitting down at the writing-table). He seems a nice man. About thirty-five, wouldn’t you say—or more?
SEPTIMA. Forty. But you never can tell with men. (She comes to the table.)
MARION(getting to work). Now those letters just want putting into their envelopes. Andthosewant[194]envelopes written for them. If you will read out the addresses, dear—I think that will be the quickest way—Iwill——
SEPTIMA(thinking her own thoughts). Mother!
MARION. Yes, dear? (Writing) Doctor John Treherne.
SEPTIMA. I want to speak to you.
MARION. Do you mean about anything important?
SEPTIMA. For me, yes.
MARION. You haven’t annoyed your grandfather, I hope.
SEPTIMA. It has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION. Beechcroft, Bexhill-on-Sea. We’ve been so busy all day. Naturally, being the Birthday. Couldn’t you leave it till to-morrow, dear?
SEPTIMA(eagerly). Rita Ferguson wants me to share rooms with her. You know I’ve always wanted to, and now she’s just heard of some; there’s a studio goes with it. On Campden Hill.
MARION. Yes, dear. We’ll see what Grandfather says.
SEPTIMA(annoyed). I said that this has nothing to do with Grandfather. We’re talking aboutme. It’s no good trying to do anything here,and——
MARION. There! I’ve writtenCampdenHill; how stupid of me.HaverstockHill. We’ll see what Grandfather says, dear.
SEPTIMA(doggedly). It has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION(outraged). Septima!
SEPTIMA. “We’ll see what Grandfather says”—that has always been the answer to everything in this house.
MARION(as sarcastically as she can, but she is not very good at it). You can hardly have forgotten who Grandfather is.
SEPTIMA. I haven’t.
[195]MARION(awed). What was it theTelegraphcalled him only this morning? “The Supreme Songster of an Earlier Epoch.” (Her own father!)
SEPTIMA. I said that I hadn’t forgotten what Grandfatheris. You’re telling me what hewas. Heisan old man of ninety. I’m twenty. Anything that I do will affect him for at most five years. It will affect me for fifty years. That’s why I say this has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION(distressed). Septima, sometimes you almost seem as if you were irreligious. When you think who Grandfather is—and his birthday too. (Weakly) You must talk to your father.
SEPTIMA. That’s better. Father’s only sixty.
MARION. You must talk to your father. He will see what Grandfather says.
SEPTIMA. And there we are—back again to ninety! It’s always the way.
MARION(plaintively). I really don’t understand you children. You ought to be proud of living in the house of such a great man. I don’t know what Grandfather will say when he hears about it. (Tearfully) The Reverend William Styles ... Hockley Vicarage ... Bishop Stortford. (And from every line she extracts some slight religious comfort.)
SEPTIMA(thoughtfully). I suppose father would cut off my allowance if I just went.
MARION. Went?
SEPTIMA. Yes. Would he? It would be beastly unfair, of course, but I suppose he would.
MARION(at the end of her resources). Septima, you’renotto talk like that.
SEPTIMA. I think I’ll get Aunt Isobel to tackle Grandfather. She’s only forty. Perhapsshecould persuade him.
[196]MARION. I won’t hear another word. And you had better tidy yourself up. I will finish these letters myself.
SEPTIMA(going to the door). Yes, I must go and tidy up. (At the door) But I warn you, Mother, I mean to have it out this time. And ifGrandfather——(She breaks off as her father comes in) Oh, Lord! (She comes back into the room, making way for him.)
(WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAYwas obviously meant for the Civil Service. His prim neatness, his gold pince-nez, his fussiness would be invaluable in almost any Department. However, runningBLAYDSis the next best thing to running the Empire.)
WILLIAM. What is this, Septima? Where are you going?
SEPTIMA. Tidy myself up.
WILLIAM. That’s right. And then you might help your mother to entertain Mr. Royce until we send for him. Perhaps we might—wait amoment——
MARION. Oh, have you seen Mr. Royce, William? He seems a nice young man, doesn’t he? I’m sure Grandfather will like him.
WILLIAM(pontifically). I still think that it was very unwise of us to attempt to see anybody to-day. Naturally I made it clear to Mr. Royce what a very unexpected departure this is from our usual practice. I fancy that he realises the honour which we have paid to the younger school of writers. Those who are knocking at the door, so to speak.
MARION. Oh, I’m sure he does.
SEPTIMA(to the ceiling). Does anybody want me?
WILLIAM. Wait a moment, please. (He takes a key out of his pocket and considers.) Yes.... Yes.... (He gives the key toSEPTIMA) You may show Mr. Royce[197]the autograph letter from Queen Victoria, on the occasion of your grandmother’s death. Be very careful, please. I think he might be allowed to take it in his hands—don’t you think so, Marion?—but lock it up immediately afterwards, and bring me back the key.
SEPTIMA. Yes, Father. (As she goes) What fun he’s going to have!
WILLIAM. Are those the letters?
MARION. Yes, dear, I’ve nearly finished them.
WILLIAM. They will do afterwards. (Handing her a bunch of telegrams) I want you to sort these telegrams. Isobel is seeing about the flowers?
MARION. Oh, yes, sure to be, dear. How do you mean, sort them?
WILLIAM. In three groups will be best. Those from societies or public bodies, those from distinguished people, including Royalty—you will find one from the Duchess there; her Royal Highness is very faithful to us—and those from unknown or anonymous admirers.
MARION. Oh, yes, I see, dear. (She gets to work.)
WILLIAM. He will like to know who have remembered him. I fancy that we have done even better than we did on the eightieth birthday, and of course the day is not yet over. (He walks about the room importantly, weighing great matters in his mind. This is his day.)
MARION. Yes, dear.
WILLIAM(frowning anxiously). What did we do last year about drinking the health? Was it in here, or did we go to his room?
MARION. He was down to lunch last year. Don’t you remember, dear?
WILLIAM. Ah, yes, of course. Stupid of me. Yes, this last year has made a great difference to him. He is breaking up, I fear. We cannot keep him with us for many more birthdays.
[198]MARION. Don’t say that, dear.
WILLIAM. Well, we can but do our best.
MARION. What would you like to do, dear, about the health?
WILLIAM. H’m. Let me think. (He thinks.)
MARION(busy with the telegrams). Some of these are a little difficult. Do you think that Sir John and Lady Wilkins would look better among the distinguished people including Royalty, or with the unknown and anonymous ones?
WILLIAM. Anybody doubtful is unknown. I only want a rough grouping. We shall have a general acknowledgment in theTimes. And oh, that reminds me. I want an announcement for the late editions of the evening papers. Perhaps you had better just take this down. You can finish those afterwards.
MARION. Yes, dear. (She gets ready) Yes, dear?
WILLIAM(after tremendous thought). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
MARION(writing). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
WILLIAM. The veteran poet spent his ninetiethbirthday——
MARION(to herself). The veteranpoet——
WILLIAM. Passed his ninetieth birthday—that’s better—passed his ninetieth birthday quietly, amid hisfamily——
MARION. Amid hisfamily——
WILLIAM. At his well-known house—residence—in Portman Square. (He stops suddenly. You thought he was just dictating, but his brain has been working all the time, and he has come to a decision. He announces it.) We will drink the health in here. See that there is an extra glass for Mr. Royce. “In Portman Square”—have you got that?
MARION. Yes, dear.
[199]WILLIAM. Mr. William Blayds-Conway, who courteously gave—granted our representative an interview, informed us that the poet was in goodhealth——It’s a pity you never learnt shorthand, Marion.
MARION. I did try, dear.
WILLIAM(remembering that historic effort). Yes, I know ... in goodhealth——
MARION. Goodhealth——
WILLIAM. And keenly appreciative of the many tributes of affection which he had received.
MARION. Which he had received.
WILLIAM. Among those who called during the daywere——
MARION. Yes, dear?
WILLIAM. Fill that in from the visitors’ book. (He holds out his hand for the paper) How does that go?
MARION(giving it to him). I wasn’t quite sure how many “p’s” there were in appreciative.
WILLIAM. Two.
MARION. Yes, I thought two was safer.
WILLIAM(handing it back to her). Yes, that’s all right. (Bringing out his keys) I shall want to make a few notes while Mr. Royce is being received. It may be that Oliver Blayds will say something worth recording. One would like to get something if it were possible. (He has unlocked a drawer in the table and brought out his manuscript book.) And see that that goes off now. I should think about eight names. Say three Society, three Artistic and Literary, and two Naval, Military and Political. (Again you see his brain working.... He has come to another decision. He announces it.) Perhaps two Society would be enough.
MARION. Yes, dear. (Beginning to make for the door) Will there be anything else you’ll want? (Holding out the paper) After I’ve done this?
[200]WILLIAM(considering). No ... no.... I’m coming with you. (Taking out his keys) I must get the port. (He opens the door for her, and they go out together.)
(The room is empty for a moment, and thenISOBELcomes in. She is nearly forty. You can see how lovely she was at twenty, but she gave up being lovely eighteen years ago, said good-bye toISOBEL,and became just Nurse. IfBLAYDSwants cheerfulness, she is cheerful; if sympathy, sympathetic; if interest, interested. She is off duty now, and we see at once how tired she is. But she has some spiritual comfort, some secret pride to sustain her, and it is only occasionally that the tiredness, the deadness, shows through. She has flowers in her arms, and slowly, thoughtfully, she decks the room for the great man. We see now for a moment that she is much older than we thought; it is for her own ninetieth birthday that she is decorating the room....Now she has finished, and she sits down, her hands in her lap, waiting, waiting patiently....Some thought brings a wistful smile to her mouth. Yes, she must have been very lovely at twenty. ThenROYCEcomes in.)
ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (He sees who it is.) Oh!
ISOBEL. It’s all right,I——Are you waiting tosee——(She recognises him) Oh!
(They stand looking at each other, about six feet apart, not moving, saying nothing. Then very gently he begins to hum the refrain of a waltz. Slowly she remembers.)
ISOBEL. How long ago was it?
ROYCE. Eighteen years.
[201]ISOBEL(who has lived eighty years since then). So little?
ROYCE(distressed). Isobel!
ISOBEL(remembering his name now). Austin.
ROYCE. It comes back to you?
ISOBEL. A few faded memories—and the smell of the pine woods. And there was a band, wasn’t there? That was the waltz they played.Howdid it go? (He gives her a bar or two again.... She nods) Yes. (She whispers the tune to herself.) Why does that make me thinkof——Didn’t you cut your wrist? On the rocks?
ROYCE. You remember? (He holds out his wrist) Look!
ISOBEL(nodding). I knew that came into it. I tied it up for you.
ROYCE(sentimentally). I have the handkerchief still. (More honestly) Somewhere.... I know I have it. (He tries to think where it would be.)
ISOBEL. There was a dog, wasn’t there?
ROYCE. How well you remember. Rags. A fox terrier.
ISOBEL(doubtfully). Yes?
ROYCE. Or was that later? I had an Aberdeen before that.
ISOBEL. Yes, that was it, I think.
ROYCE. Thomas.
ISOBEL(smiling). Thomas. Yes.... Only eighteen little years ago. But what worlds away. Just give me that tune again. (He gives it to her, and the memories stir again.) You had a pipe you were very proud of—with a cracked bowl—and a silver band to keep it together. What silly things one remembers ... you’d forgotten it.
ROYCE. I remember that pink cotton dress.
ISOBEL. Eighty years ago. Or is it only eighteen?[202]And now we meet again. You married? I seem to remember hearing.
ROYCE(uncomfortably). Yes.
ISOBEL. I hope it was happy.
ROYCE. No. We separated.
ISOBEL. I am sorry.
ROYCE. Was it likely it would be?
ISOBEL(surprised). Was that all the chance of happiness you gave her?
ROYCE. You think I oughtn’t to have married?
ISOBEL. Oh, my dear, who am I to order people’s lives?
ROYCE. You ordered mine.
ISOBEL(ignoring this). But youhavebeen happy? Marriage isn’t everything. You have been happy in your work, in your books, in your friends?
ROYCE(after thinking). Yes, Isobel, on the whole, yes.
ISOBEL. I’m glad.... (She holds out her hand suddenly with a smile) How do you do, Mr. Royce? (She is inviting him to step off the sentimental footing.)
ROYCE(stepping off). How do you do, Miss Blayds? It’s delightful to meet you again.
ISOBEL. Let’s sit down; shall we? (They sit down together.) My father will be coming in directly. You are here to see him, of course?
ROYCE. Yes. Tell me about him—or rather about yourself. You are still looking after him?
ISOBEL. Yes.
ROYCE. For eighteen years.
ISOBEL. Nearly twenty altogether.
ROYCE. And has it been worth it?
ISOBEL. He has written wonderful things in those twenty years. Not very much, but very wonderful.
ROYCE. Yes, that has always been the miracle about[203]him, the way he has kept his youth. And the fire and spirit of youth. You have helped him there.
ISOBEL(proudly). Has it been worth it?
ROYCE(puzzled). I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. The world would think so; but I—naturally I am prejudiced.
ISOBEL. Yes.
ROYCE(smiling). You might have looked aftermefor those eighteen years.
ISOBEL. Did you want it as much as he? (As he protests) No, I don’t mean “want” it—need it?
ROYCE. Well, that’s always the problem, isn’t it—whether the old or the young have the better right to be selfish. We both needed you, in different ways. You gave yourself to him, and he has wasted your life. I don’t thinkIshould have wasted it.
ISOBEL. I am proud to have helped him. No one will know. Everything which he wrote will be his. OnlyIshall know how much of it was mine. Well, that’s something. Not wasted.
ROYCE. Sacrificed.
ISOBEL. Am I to regret that?
ROYCE. Do you regret it?
ISOBEL(after considering). When you asked me to marry you I—I couldn’t. He was an old man then; he wanted me; I was everything to him. Oh, he has had his friends, more friends than any man, but he had to be the head of a family too, and without me—I’ve kept him alive, active. He has sharpened his brains on me. (With a shrug) On whom else?
ROYCE. Yes, I understand that.
ISOBEL. You wouldn’t have married me and come to live with us all, as Marion and William have done?
ROYCE. No, no, that’s death.
ISOBEL. Yes, I knew you felt like that. But I[204]couldn’t leave him. (ROYCEshrugs his shoulders unconvinced.) Oh, Ididlove you then; Ididwant to marry you! But I couldn’t. He wasn’t just an ordinary man—you must remember that, please. He was Blayds.... Oh, what are we in the world for but to find beauty, and who could find it as he, and who could help him as I?
ROYCE. I was ready to wait.
ISOBEL. Ah, but how could we? Until he died! Every day you would be thinking, “I wonder how he is to-day,” and I should be knowing that you were thinking that. Oh, horrible! Sitting and waiting for his death.
ROYCE(thoughtfully, recognising her point of view). Yes.... Yes.... But if you were back now, knowing what you know, would you do it again?
ISOBEL. I think so. I think it has been worth it. It isn’t fair to ask me. I’m glad now that I have given him those eighteen years, but perhaps I should have been afraid of it if I had known it was to be as long as that. It has been trying, of course—such a very old man in body, although so young in mind—but it has not been for an old man that I have done it; not for a selfish father; but for the glorious young poet who has never grown up, and who wanted me.
ROYCE(looking into her soul). But you have had your bad moments.
ISOBEL(distressed). Oh, don’t! It isn’t fair.
(ROYCE,his eyes still on her, begins the refrain again.)
ISOBEL(smiling sadly). Oh, no, Mr. Royce! That’s all over. I’m an old woman now.
ROYCE(rather ashamed). I’m sorry.... Yes, you’re older now.
ISOBEL. Twenty and thirty-eight—there’s a world of difference between them.
[205]ROYCE. I’m forty.
ISOBEL(smiling). Don’t ask me to pity you. What’s forty to a man?
ROYCE. You’re right. In fact I’m masquerading here to-day as one of the younger writers.
ISOBEL(glad to be off the subject of herself). Father likes to feel that he is admired by the younger writers. So if you’ve brought all their signatures with you, he’ll be pleased to see you, Mr. Royce. I had better give you just one word of warning. Don’t be too hard on the 1863 volume.
ROYCE. I shan’t even mention it.
ISOBEL. But ifhedoes——?It has been attacked so much that he has a sort of mother-love for it now, and even I feel protective towards it, and want to say, “Come here, darling, nobody loves you.” Say something kind if you can. Of course I know it isn’t his best, but when you’ve been praised as much as he, the little praise which is withheld is always the praise you want the most.
ROYCE. How delightfully human that sounds. That is just what I’ve always felt in my own small way.
WILLIAMcomes fussily in.
WILLIAM. IsMr. Royce——?Ah, there you are! (Looking round the room) You’ve done the flowers, Isobel? That’s right. Well, Mr. Royce, I hope they’ve been looking after you properly.
ROYCE. Oh, yes, thanks.
WILLIAM. That’s right. Isobel—(he looks, in a statesmanlike way, at his watch)—in five minutes, shall we say?
ISOBEL. Yes.
WILLIAM. How is he just now?
ISOBEL. He seems better to-day.
[206]WILLIAM. That’s right. We shall drink the health in here.
ISOBEL. Very well.
[She goes out.
WILLIAM. A little custom we have, Mr. Royce.
ROYCE. Oh, yes.
WILLIAM. We shall all wish him many happy returns of the day—you understand that he isn’t dressed now until the afternoon—and then I shall present you. After that, we shall all drink the health—you will join us, of course.
ROYCE(smiling). Certainly.
WILLIAM. Then, of course, it depends how we are feeling. We may feel in the mood for a little talk, or we may be too tired for anything more than a few words of greeting. You have the Address with you?
ROYCE. Yes. (Looking about him) At least I put it down somewhere.
WILLIAM(scandalised). You put it down—somewhere! My dear Mr. Royce (he searches anxiously)—at any momentnow——(He looks at his watch.) Perhaps I’dbetter——(A Maid comes in with the port and glasses) Parsons, have you seena——(He makes vague rectangular shapes with his hands.)
ROYCE. Here it is.
WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. (As the Maid puts the tray down) Yes, there, I think, Parsons. How many glasses have you brought?
PARSONS. Seven, sir.
WILLIAM. There should be six. One—two—three——
PARSONS(firmly). Madam said seven, sir.
WILLIAM. Seven, yes, that’s right. When I ring the bell, you’ll tell Miss Isobel that we are ready.
PARSONS. Yes, sir.
(She goes out, making way forMARION,SEPTIMA,andOLIVERas she does so.)
[207]WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. Now then, let me see.... Ithink——Marion, will you sit here? Septima, you there. Oliver—Oliver, that’s a very light suit you’re wearing.
OLIVER. It’s a birthday, Father, not a funeral.
WILLIAM(with dignity). Yes, but whose birthday? Well, it’s too late now—you sit there. Mr. Royce, you sit next to me, so that I can take you up. Now are we all ready?
SEPTIMA(wickedly). Wait a moment. (She blows her nose) Right.
WILLIAM. All ready? (He rings the bell with an air.)
(There is a solemn silence of expectation. ThenOLIVERshifts a leg and catches his ankle againstSEPTIMA’Schair.)
OLIVER. Damn! Oo! (He rubs his ankle.)
WILLIAM(in church). S’sh!
(There is another solemn silence, and then the Maid opens the door.BLAYDS,in an invalid chair, is wheeled in byISOBEL.They all stand up. With his long white beard, his still plentiful white hair curling over his ears,OLIVER BLAYDSdoes indeed “look like somebody.” Only his eyes, under their shaggy brows, are still young. Indomitable spirit and humour gleam in them. With all the dignity, majesty even, which he brings to the part, you feel that he realises what great fun it is beingOLIVER BLAYDS.)
BLAYDS. Good-day to you all.
MARION(going forward and kissing his forehead). Many happy returns of the day, Father.
BLAYDS. Thank you, Marion. Happy, I hope; many, I neither expect nor want.
(WILLIAM,who is just going forward, stops for[208]a moment to jot this down on his shirt cuff. Then, beckoning toROYCEto follow him, he approaches.)
WILLIAM. My heartiest congratulations, sir.
BLAYDS. Thank you, William. When you are ninety, I’ll do as much for you.
WILLIAM(laughing heartily). Ha, ha! Very good, sir. May I present Mr. A. L. Royce, the well-known critic?
BLAYDS(looking thoughtfully atROYCE). We have met before, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. At Bournemouth, sir. Eighteen years ago.
BLAYDS(nodding). Yes. I remember.
WILLIAM. Wonderful, wonderful!
BLAYDS(holding out his hand). Thank you for wasting your time now on an old man. You must stay and talk to me afterwards.
ROYCE. It’s very kind of you, sir.I——
WILLIAM. Just a moment, Mr. Royce. (He indicatesSEPTIMAandOLIVER.)
ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (He steps on one side.)
WILLIAM(in a whisper). Septima.
SEPTIMA(coming forward). Congratulations, Grandfather. (She bends her head, and he kisses her.)
BLAYDS. Thank you, my dear. I don’t know what I’ve done, but thank you.
OLIVER(coming forward). Congratulations, Grandfather. (He bends down andBLAYDSputs a hand on his head.)
BLAYDS. Thank you, my boy, thank you. (Wistfully) I was your age once.
(WILLIAM,who has been very busy pouring out port, now gets busy distributing it. When they are all ready he holds up his glass.)
WILLIAM. Are we all ready? (They are.) Blayds!
[209]ALL. Blayds! (They drink.)
BLAYDS(moved as always by this). Thank you, thank you. (Recovering himself) Is that the Jubilee port, William?
WILLIAM. Yes, sir.
BLAYDS(looking wistfully atISOBEL). May I?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear, if you like.William——
WILLIAM(anxiously). Do youthink——?(She nods, and he pours out a glass.) Here you are, sir.
BLAYDS(taking it in rather a shaky hand). Mr. Royce, I will drink to you; and, through you, to all that eager youth which is seeking, each in his own way, for beauty. (He raises his glass.) May they find it at the last! (He drinks.)
ROYCE. Thank you very much, sir. I shall remember.
WILLIAM. Allow me, sir. (He recoversBLAYDS’glass.) Marion, you have business to attend to?Oliver——?Septima——?
MARION. Yes, dear. (Cheerfully toBLAYDS) We’re going now, Grandfather.
BLAYDS(nodding). I shall talk a little to Mr. Royce.
MARION. That’s right, dear; don’t tire yourself. Come along, children.
(OLIVERcomes along.SEPTIMAhesitates.She “means to have it out this time.”)
SEPTIMA(irresolutely).Grandfather——
BLAYDS. Well?
MARION. Come along, dear.
SEPTIMA(overawed by the majesty ofBLAYDS). Oh—all right. (They go. But she will certainly have it out next time.)
WILLIAM(in a whisper toROYCE). The Address? (ToBLAYDS) Mr. Royce has a message of congratulation from some of the younger writers, which he wishes to present to you, sir.Mr. Royce——
(ROYCEcomes forward with it.)
[210]BLAYDS. It is very good of them.
ROYCE(doubtfully). Shall I read it, sir?
BLAYDS(smiling). The usual thing?
ROYCE(smiling too). Pretty much. A little better than usual, I hope, because I wrote it.
(WILLIAMis now at the writing-table, waiting hopefully for crumbs.)
BLAYDS(holding out his hand). Give it to me. And sit down, please. Near me. I don’t hear too well. (He takes the book and glances at it.) Pretty. (He glances at some of the names and says, with a pleased smile) I didn’t think they took any interest in an old man. Isobel, you will read it to me afterwards, and tell me who they all are?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear.
BLAYDS. Will that do, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. Of course, sir.... I should just like you to know, to have the privilege of telling you here, and on this day, that every one of us there has a very real admiration for your work and a very real reverence for yourself. And we feel that, in signing, we have done honour to ourselves, rather than honour to Blayds, whom no words of ours can honour as his own have done.
BLAYDS. Thank you.... You must read it to me, Isobel. (He gives her the book.) A very real admiration forallmy work, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. Yes, sir.
BLAYDS. Except the 1863 volume?
ROYCE. I have never regretted that, sir.
BLAYDS(pleased). Ah! You hear, Isobel?
ROYCE. I don’t say that it is my own favourite, but I could quite understand if it were the author’s. There are things aboutit——
BLAYDS. Isobel, are you listening?
ISOBEL(smiling). Yes, Father.
[211]ROYCE. Things outside your usual range, if I may sayso——
BLAYDS(nodding and chuckling). You hear, Isobel? Didn’t I always tell you? Well, well, we mustn’t talk any more about that.... William!
WILLIAM(jumping up). Sir?
BLAYDS. What are you doing?
WILLIAM. Just finishing off a few letters, sir.
BLAYDS. Would you be good enough to bring me my Sordello?
WILLIAM. The one which Browning gave you, sir?
BLAYDS. Of course. I wish to show Mr. Royce the inscription—(toROYCE)—an absurd one, all rhymes to Blayds. It will be in the library somewhere; it may have got moved.
WILLIAM. Certainly, sir.
ISOBEL.Father——
BLAYDS(holding up a hand to stop her). Thank you, William. (William goes out.) You were saying, Isobel?
ISOBEL. Nothing. I thought it was in your bedroom. I was reading to you last night.
BLAYDS(sharply). Of course it’s in my bedroom. But can’t I get my own son-in-law out of the room if I want to?
ISOBEL(soothingly). Of course, dear. It was silly of me.
BLAYDS. My son-in-law, Mr. Royce, meditates after my death a little book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in the Cotswolds,” but I am not certain of this yet. (He chuckles to himself.)
ISOBEL(reproachfully). Father!
[212]BLAYDS(apologetically). All right, Isobel. Mr. Royce won’t mind.
ISOBEL(smiling reluctantly). It’s very unkind.
BLAYDS. You never knew Whistler, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. No, sir; he was a bit before my time.
BLAYDS. Ah, he was the one to say unkind things. But you forgave him because he had a way with him. And there was always the hope that when he had finished withyou, he would say something still worse about one of your friends. (He chuckles to himself again.) I sent him a book of mine once—which one was it, Isobel?
ISOBEL.Helen.
BLAYDS.Helen, yes. I got a postcard from him a few days later: “Dear Oliver, rub it out and do it again.” Well, I happened to meet him the next day, and I said that I was sorry I couldn’t take his advice, as it was too late now to do anything about it. “Yes,”said Jimmie, “as God said when he’d made Swinburne.”
ISOBEL. You’ve heard that, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. No. Ought I to have?
ISOBEL. It has been published.
BLAYDS(wickedly). I told my son-in-law. Anything which I tell my son-in-law is published.
ISOBEL. I always say that father made it up.
BLAYDS. You didn’t know Jimmie, my dear. There was nothing he couldn’t have said. But a most stimulating companion.
ROYCE. Yes, he must have been.
BLAYDS. So was Alfred. He had a great sense of humour. All of us who knew him well knew that.
ROYCE. It is curious how many people nowadays regard Tennyson as something of a prig, with no sense of humour. I always feel that his association with[213]Queen Victoria had something to do with it. A Court poet is so very un-stimulating.
BLAYDS. I think you’re right. It was a pity. (He chuckles to himself.ROYCEwaits expectantly.) I went to Court once.
ROYCE(surprised). You?
BLAYDS(nodding). Yes, I went to Osborne to see the Queen. Alfred’s doing I always suspected, but he wouldn’t own to it. (He chuckles.)
ISOBEL. Tell him about it, dear.
BLAYDS. I had a new pair of boots. They squeaked. They squeaked all the way from London to the Isle of Wight. The Queen was waiting for me at the end of a long room. I squeaked in. I bowed. I squeaked my way up to her. We talked. I was not allowed to sit down, of course; I just stood shifting from one foot to the other—and squeaking. She said: “Don’t you think Lord Tennyson’s poetry is very beautiful?” and I squeaked and said, “Damn these boots!” A gentleman-in-waiting told me afterwards that it was contrary to etiquette to start a new topic of conversation with Royalty—so I suppose that that is why I have never been asked to Court again.
ISOBEL. It was your joke, Father, not the gentleman-in-waiting’s. (BLAYDSchuckles.)
ROYCE. Yes, I’m sure of that.
BLAYDS. Isobel knows all my stories.... When you’re ninety, they know all your stories.
ISOBEL. I like hearing them again, dear, and Mr. Royce hasn’t heard them.
BLAYDS. I’ll tell you one youdon’tknow, Isobel.
ISOBEL. Not you.
BLAYDS. Will you bet?
ISOBEL. It’s taking your money.
BLAYDS. Mr. Royce will hold the stakes. A shilling.
[214]ISOBEL. You will be ruined. (She takes out her purse.)
BLAYDS(childishly). Have you got one for me too?
ISOBEL(taking out two). One for you and one for me. Here you are, Mr. Royce.
ROYCE. Thank you. Both good ones? Right.
BLAYDS. George Meredith told me this. Are you fond of cricket, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. Yes, very.
BLAYDS. So was Meredith, so was I.... A young boy playing for his school. The important match of the year; he gets his colours only if he plays—you understand? Just before the game began, he was sitting in one of those—what do they call them?—deck chairs, when it collapsed, his hand between the hinges. Three crushed fingers; no chance of playing; no colours. At that age a tragedy; it seems that one’s whole life is over. You understand?
ROYCE. Yes. Oh, very well.
BLAYDS. But if once the match begins with him, he has his colours, whatever happens afterwards. So he decides to say nothing about the fingers. He keeps his hand in his pocket; nobody has seen the accident, nobody guesses. His side is in first. He watches—his hand is in his pocket. When his turn comes to bat, he forces a glove over the crushed fingers and goes to the wickets. He makes nothing—well, that doesn’t matter; he is the wicket-keeper and has gone in last. But he knows now that he can never take his place in the field; and he knows, too, what an unfair thing he has done to his school to let them start their game with a cripple. It is impossible now to confess.... So, in between the innings, he arranges another accident with his chair, and falls back on it, with his fingers—his already crushed fingers this time—in the hinges.[215]So nobody ever knew. Not until he was a man, and it all seemed very little and far away.
ISOBEL. What a horrible story! Give him the money, Mr. Royce.
BLAYDS. Keep it for me, Isobel. (ISOBELtakes it.)
ROYCE. Is it true, sir?
BLAYDS. So Meredith said. He told me.
ROYCE. Lord, what pluck! I think I should have forgiven him for that.
BLAYDS. Yes, an unfair thing to do; but having done it, he carried it off in the grand manner.
ISOBEL. To save himself.
BLAYDS. Well, well. But he had qualities. Don’t you think so, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. I do indeed.
(There is a silence. The excitement of the occasion has died away, and you can almost seeBLAYDSgetting older.)
BLAYDS(after a pause). I could tell you another story, Isobel, which you don’t know.... Of another boy who carried it off.
ISOBEL. Not now, dear. You mustn’t tire yourself.
BLAYDS(a very old man suddenly). No, not now. But I shall tell you one day. Yes, I shall have to tell you.... I shall have to tell you.
ISOBEL(quietly, toROYCE). I thinkperhaps——
ROYCE(getting up). It is very kind of you to have seen me, sir. I mustn’t let you get tired of me.
BLAYDS(very tired). Good-bye, Mr. Royce. He liked the 1863 volume, Isobel.
ISOBEL. Yes, Father.
ROYCE. Good-bye, sir, and thank you; I shall always remember.
ISOBEL(in a whisper toROYCE). You can find your way out, can’t you? I don’t like to leave him.
[216]ROYCE. Of course. I may see you again?
ISOBEL(her tragedy). I am always here.
ROYCE. Good-bye.
[He goes.
BLAYDS. Isobel, where are you?
ISOBEL(at his side again). Here I am, dear.
BLAYDS. How old did you say I was?
ISOBEL. Ninety.
BLAYDS. Ninety.... I’m tired.
ISOBEL. It has been too much for you, dear. I oughtn’t to have let him stay so long. You’d like to go to bed now, wouldn’t you? (She walks away to ring the bell.)
BLAYDS(a frightened child). Where are you going? Don’t leave me.
ISOBEL(stopping). Only to ring the bell, dear.
BLAYDS. Don’t leave me. I want you to hold my hand.
ISOBEL. Yes, dear. (She holds it.)
BLAYDS. Did you say I was ninety? There’s no going back at ninety. Only forward—into the grave that’s waiting for you. So cold and lonely there, Isobel.
ISOBEL. I am always with you, dear.
BLAYDS. Hold me tight. I’m frightened.... Did I tell you about the boy—who carried it off?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear, you told us.
BLAYDS. No, not that boy—the other one. Are we alone, Isobel?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear.
BLAYDS. Listen, Isobel. I want to tellyou——
ISOBEL. Tell me to-morrow, dear.
BLAYDS(in weak anger, because he is frightened). There are no to-morrows when you are ninety ... when you are ninety ... and they have all left you ... alone.
[217]ISOBEL. Very well, dear. Tell me now.
BLAYDS(eagerly). Yes, yes, come closer.... Listen, Isobel. (He draws her still closer and begins.) Isobel....
(But we do not hear it until afterwards.)