The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThree Plays

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThree PlaysThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Three PlaysAuthor: A. A. MilneRelease date: August 24, 2019 [eBook #60167]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS, David Wilson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Three PlaysAuthor: A. A. MilneRelease date: August 24, 2019 [eBook #60167]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS, David Wilson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

Title: Three Plays

Author: A. A. Milne

Release date: August 24, 2019 [eBook #60167]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by MWS, David Wilson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS ***

THREE PLAYS[i]

BY THE SAME AUTHOR[ii]THE DAY’S PLAYTHE HOLIDAY ROUNDONCE A WEEKONCE ON A TIMENOT THAT IT MATTERSIF I MAYFIRST PLAYSSECOND PLAYSTHE SUNNY SIDEMR. PIMTHE RED HOUSE MYSTERY

BY THE SAME AUTHOR[ii]

THREE PLAYS[iii]BY A. A. MILNELONDONCHATTO & WINDUS1923

LONDONCHATTO & WINDUS1923

[iv]PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BYR. & R. CLARK, LTD., EDINBURGHALL RIGHTSRESERVED

[iv]PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BYR. & R. CLARK, LTD., EDINBURGH

ALL RIGHTSRESERVED

[v]To DAFFFOR MAKING THE FAIRY-BOOKS COME TRUE

[vi]Applications regarding Amateur Performances of the Plays in this Volume should be addressed to Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2.

CONTENTS[vii]PAGETHE GREAT BROXOPP1THE DOVER ROAD93THE TRUTH ABOUT BLAYDS179These plays are printed here in the order inwhich they were written.

These plays are printed here in the order inwhich they were written.

INTRODUCTION[ix]I wantednot to write an introduction to these three plays, but circumstances are too strong for me. Yet, after all, what is to be said but, to the public, “Here they are; like them,” and, to the critics, “Here they are; fall on them”? But apparently this is not enough. I must think of something else.There was a happy time when I was a critic myself. I, too, have lived in that Arcady. What nights were then! Red-letter nights when the play was bad, and in one short hour, standing on the body of the dramatist, I had delivered my funeral oration; black-letter nights when the play was good, and it took six hours of solid pushing, myself concealed by the fellow’s person, to place him fairly in the sun. The years slip away. Yet even now I have something of my old style. Here, lest you should think I am boasting, is myHamlet. Yes, by the enterprise ofThe Saturday Review, I was present on that historic first night. For, lately, this paper stimulated its readers, with promise of reward, to imagine themselves there as critics, and I brushed up my old black doublet and went with the others. Interested, you know, in this young provincial dramatist; hoping against hope that here at last was the....[x]However, luckily the play was a bad one, and (proud am I to say it) I won the prize.HAMLETMr. William Shakespeare, whose well-meaning little costume playHamletwas given in London for the first time last week, bears a name that is new to us, although we understand, or at least are so assured by the management, that he has a considerable local reputation in Warwickshire as a sonneteer. Why a writer of graceful little sonnets should have the ambition, still less conceive himself to have the ability, to create a tragic play capable of holding the attention of a London audience for three hours, we are unable to imagine. Merely to kill off seven (or was it eight?) of the leading characters in a play is not to write a tragedy. It is not thus that the great master-dramatists have purged our souls with pity and with terror. Mr. Shakespeare, like so many other young writers, mistakes violence for power, and, in his unfortunate lighter moments, buffoonery for humour. The real tragedy of last night was that a writer should so misunderstand and misuse the talent given to him.For Mr. Shakespeare, one cannot deny, has talent. He has a certain pleasing gift of words. Every now and then a neat line catches the ear, as when Polonius (well played by Mr. Macready Jones) warns his son that “borrowing often loses a man his friends,” or when Hamlet himself refers to death as “a shuffling off of this mortal toil.” But a succession of neat lines does not make a play. We require something more.[xi]Our interest must be held throughout: not by such well-worn stage devices as the appearance of a ghostly apparition, who strikes terror into the hearts only of his fellow-actors; not by comic clowning business at a grave-side; but by the spiritual development of the characters. Mr. Shakespeare’s characters are no more than mouthpieces for his rhythmic musings. We can forgive a Prince of Denmark for soliloquising in blank verse to the extent of fifty lines, recognising this as a legitimate method of giving dignity to a royal pronouncement; but what are we to say of a Captain of Infantry who patly finishes off a broken line with the exact number of syllables necessary to complete theiambus? Have such people any semblance to life at all? Indeed, the whole play gives us the impression of having been written to the order of a manager as a means of displaying this or that “line” which, in the language of the day, he can “do just now.” Soliloquies (unhampered by the presence of rivals) for the popular star, a mad scene for the leading lady (in white), a ghost for the electrician, a duel for the Academy-trained fencers, a scene in dumb-show for the cinema-trained rank-and-file—our author has provided for them all. No doubt there is money in it, and a man must live. But frankly we prefer Mr. Shakespeare as a writer of sonnets.So much for Mr. Shakespeare. I differ from him (as you were about to say) in that I prefer to see my plays printed, and he obviously preferred to see his acted. People sometimes say to me: “How beautifully[xii]Mary Brown played that part, and wasn’t John Smith’s creation wonderful, and how tremendously grateful you must be.” She did; it was; I am. The more I see of actors and actresses at rehearsals (and it is only at rehearsals of your own plays that you can see them at all, or learn anything of their art), by so much the more do I admire, am I amazed by, their skill. There are heights and depths and breadths and subtleties in acting, still more in producing, of which the casual playgoer, even the regular playgoer if he only sees the stage from the front, knows nothing. But the fact remains that, to the author, the part must always seem better than the player. That great actor John Smith may “create” the part of Yorick, but the author created it first, and created it, to his own vision, every bit as much in flesh and blood as did, later, the actor. You may read the plays here, and say that this or the other character does not “live,” meaning by this that you are unable to visualise him, unable to imagine for yourself, granted the circumstance, a person so acting, so reacting. Well—“If it be so, so it is, you know”; it is very easy not to be a great artist; I have failed. But do not believe that, because a character does not live for you, therefore it does not live for the author. While we are writing, how can we help seeing the fellow? We shut our eyes, and he is there; we open them, and he is there; we dip our pen into the ink-pot, and he is waiting on the edge for us. We shake him out on to the paper.... Ah, but now he is dead, you say. Well, well, he lived a moment before.[xiii]So when John Smith “creates” the character of Yorick, he creates him in his own image—John Smith-Yorick; a great character, it may be, to those who see him thus for the first time, but lacking something to us who have lived with the other for months. For the other was plain Yorick—and only himself could play him. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well, a fellow of most excellent fancy. Would that you could know him too! Well, you may find him in the printed page ... or you may not ... but here only, if anywhere, is he to be found.A. A. M.

I wantednot to write an introduction to these three plays, but circumstances are too strong for me. Yet, after all, what is to be said but, to the public, “Here they are; like them,” and, to the critics, “Here they are; fall on them”? But apparently this is not enough. I must think of something else.

There was a happy time when I was a critic myself. I, too, have lived in that Arcady. What nights were then! Red-letter nights when the play was bad, and in one short hour, standing on the body of the dramatist, I had delivered my funeral oration; black-letter nights when the play was good, and it took six hours of solid pushing, myself concealed by the fellow’s person, to place him fairly in the sun. The years slip away. Yet even now I have something of my old style. Here, lest you should think I am boasting, is myHamlet. Yes, by the enterprise ofThe Saturday Review, I was present on that historic first night. For, lately, this paper stimulated its readers, with promise of reward, to imagine themselves there as critics, and I brushed up my old black doublet and went with the others. Interested, you know, in this young provincial dramatist; hoping against hope that here at last was the....[x]However, luckily the play was a bad one, and (proud am I to say it) I won the prize.

HAMLETMr. William Shakespeare, whose well-meaning little costume playHamletwas given in London for the first time last week, bears a name that is new to us, although we understand, or at least are so assured by the management, that he has a considerable local reputation in Warwickshire as a sonneteer. Why a writer of graceful little sonnets should have the ambition, still less conceive himself to have the ability, to create a tragic play capable of holding the attention of a London audience for three hours, we are unable to imagine. Merely to kill off seven (or was it eight?) of the leading characters in a play is not to write a tragedy. It is not thus that the great master-dramatists have purged our souls with pity and with terror. Mr. Shakespeare, like so many other young writers, mistakes violence for power, and, in his unfortunate lighter moments, buffoonery for humour. The real tragedy of last night was that a writer should so misunderstand and misuse the talent given to him.For Mr. Shakespeare, one cannot deny, has talent. He has a certain pleasing gift of words. Every now and then a neat line catches the ear, as when Polonius (well played by Mr. Macready Jones) warns his son that “borrowing often loses a man his friends,” or when Hamlet himself refers to death as “a shuffling off of this mortal toil.” But a succession of neat lines does not make a play. We require something more.[xi]Our interest must be held throughout: not by such well-worn stage devices as the appearance of a ghostly apparition, who strikes terror into the hearts only of his fellow-actors; not by comic clowning business at a grave-side; but by the spiritual development of the characters. Mr. Shakespeare’s characters are no more than mouthpieces for his rhythmic musings. We can forgive a Prince of Denmark for soliloquising in blank verse to the extent of fifty lines, recognising this as a legitimate method of giving dignity to a royal pronouncement; but what are we to say of a Captain of Infantry who patly finishes off a broken line with the exact number of syllables necessary to complete theiambus? Have such people any semblance to life at all? Indeed, the whole play gives us the impression of having been written to the order of a manager as a means of displaying this or that “line” which, in the language of the day, he can “do just now.” Soliloquies (unhampered by the presence of rivals) for the popular star, a mad scene for the leading lady (in white), a ghost for the electrician, a duel for the Academy-trained fencers, a scene in dumb-show for the cinema-trained rank-and-file—our author has provided for them all. No doubt there is money in it, and a man must live. But frankly we prefer Mr. Shakespeare as a writer of sonnets.

Mr. William Shakespeare, whose well-meaning little costume playHamletwas given in London for the first time last week, bears a name that is new to us, although we understand, or at least are so assured by the management, that he has a considerable local reputation in Warwickshire as a sonneteer. Why a writer of graceful little sonnets should have the ambition, still less conceive himself to have the ability, to create a tragic play capable of holding the attention of a London audience for three hours, we are unable to imagine. Merely to kill off seven (or was it eight?) of the leading characters in a play is not to write a tragedy. It is not thus that the great master-dramatists have purged our souls with pity and with terror. Mr. Shakespeare, like so many other young writers, mistakes violence for power, and, in his unfortunate lighter moments, buffoonery for humour. The real tragedy of last night was that a writer should so misunderstand and misuse the talent given to him.

For Mr. Shakespeare, one cannot deny, has talent. He has a certain pleasing gift of words. Every now and then a neat line catches the ear, as when Polonius (well played by Mr. Macready Jones) warns his son that “borrowing often loses a man his friends,” or when Hamlet himself refers to death as “a shuffling off of this mortal toil.” But a succession of neat lines does not make a play. We require something more.[xi]Our interest must be held throughout: not by such well-worn stage devices as the appearance of a ghostly apparition, who strikes terror into the hearts only of his fellow-actors; not by comic clowning business at a grave-side; but by the spiritual development of the characters. Mr. Shakespeare’s characters are no more than mouthpieces for his rhythmic musings. We can forgive a Prince of Denmark for soliloquising in blank verse to the extent of fifty lines, recognising this as a legitimate method of giving dignity to a royal pronouncement; but what are we to say of a Captain of Infantry who patly finishes off a broken line with the exact number of syllables necessary to complete theiambus? Have such people any semblance to life at all? Indeed, the whole play gives us the impression of having been written to the order of a manager as a means of displaying this or that “line” which, in the language of the day, he can “do just now.” Soliloquies (unhampered by the presence of rivals) for the popular star, a mad scene for the leading lady (in white), a ghost for the electrician, a duel for the Academy-trained fencers, a scene in dumb-show for the cinema-trained rank-and-file—our author has provided for them all. No doubt there is money in it, and a man must live. But frankly we prefer Mr. Shakespeare as a writer of sonnets.

So much for Mr. Shakespeare. I differ from him (as you were about to say) in that I prefer to see my plays printed, and he obviously preferred to see his acted. People sometimes say to me: “How beautifully[xii]Mary Brown played that part, and wasn’t John Smith’s creation wonderful, and how tremendously grateful you must be.” She did; it was; I am. The more I see of actors and actresses at rehearsals (and it is only at rehearsals of your own plays that you can see them at all, or learn anything of their art), by so much the more do I admire, am I amazed by, their skill. There are heights and depths and breadths and subtleties in acting, still more in producing, of which the casual playgoer, even the regular playgoer if he only sees the stage from the front, knows nothing. But the fact remains that, to the author, the part must always seem better than the player. That great actor John Smith may “create” the part of Yorick, but the author created it first, and created it, to his own vision, every bit as much in flesh and blood as did, later, the actor. You may read the plays here, and say that this or the other character does not “live,” meaning by this that you are unable to visualise him, unable to imagine for yourself, granted the circumstance, a person so acting, so reacting. Well—“If it be so, so it is, you know”; it is very easy not to be a great artist; I have failed. But do not believe that, because a character does not live for you, therefore it does not live for the author. While we are writing, how can we help seeing the fellow? We shut our eyes, and he is there; we open them, and he is there; we dip our pen into the ink-pot, and he is waiting on the edge for us. We shake him out on to the paper.... Ah, but now he is dead, you say. Well, well, he lived a moment before.

[xiii]So when John Smith “creates” the character of Yorick, he creates him in his own image—John Smith-Yorick; a great character, it may be, to those who see him thus for the first time, but lacking something to us who have lived with the other for months. For the other was plain Yorick—and only himself could play him. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well, a fellow of most excellent fancy. Would that you could know him too! Well, you may find him in the printed page ... or you may not ... but here only, if anywhere, is he to be found.

A. A. M.

THE GREAT BROXOPP[1]FOUR CHAPTERS IN HIS LIFECHARACTERS[2]Broxopp.Nancy(his wife).Jack(his son).Sir Roger Tenterden.Iris Tenterden.Honoria Johns.Ronald Derwent.Norah Field.Benham.Mary.Alice.The Scene is laid in the Broxopp home of the period.Twenty-four years pass between Act I. and Act II., eighteen months between Act II. and Act III., and a year between Act III. and Act IV.Thefirst performance of this play in London took place at the St. Martin’s Theatre on March 6, 1923, with the following cast:Nancy BroxoppMary Jerrold.MaryMargaret Carter.BroxoppEdmund Gwenn.BenhamJ. H. Roberts.AliceGwen Hubbard.Honoria JohnsMarjorie Gabain.Jack BroxoppIan Hunter.Iris TenterdenFaith Celli.Sir Roger TenterdenDawson Milward.Norah FieldBeatrix Thomson.Ronald DerwentRichard Bird.

The Scene is laid in the Broxopp home of the period.

Twenty-four years pass between Act I. and Act II., eighteen months between Act II. and Act III., and a year between Act III. and Act IV.

Thefirst performance of this play in London took place at the St. Martin’s Theatre on March 6, 1923, with the following cast:

THE GREAT BROXOPP[3]ACT IScene:TheGREAT BROXOPP’Slodgings in Bloomsbury; a humble room in late Victorian days, forBROXOPPhas only just begun. He has been married for six months, and we seeNANCY(the dear)at work, while her husband is looking for it. He is an advertising agent, in the days when advertising agents did not lunch with peers and newspaper proprietors. Probably he would prefer to call himself an “adviser to men of business.” As we see from a large advertisement over the sideboard—drawn and lettered by hand(NANCY’S)—he has been hoping to adviseSPENLOWon the best way to sell his suspenders.SPENLOW, we are assured, “gives that natty appearance.” The comfort, saysTHE GREAT ONE, in an inspired moment:“The comfort is immenseWith Spenlow’s great invention!Other makes mean Suspense,But Spenlow means Suspension!!”Many such inspirations decorate the walls—some accepted, some even paid for—andNANCYis now making a fair copy of one of them.MARY, the Broxopps’ servant—NANCYthought they could do without one, but theGREAT BROXOPPwanted to be[4]called “Yes, sir,” and insisted on it—well then,MARYcomes in.NANCY(without looking up). Yes, Mary?MARY. It’s about the dinner, ma’am.NANCY(with a sigh). Yes, I was afraid it was. It isn’t a very nice subject to talk about, is it, Mary?MARY. Well, ma’am, it has its awkwardness like.NANCY(after a pause, but not very hopefully). How is the joint looking?MARY. Well, it’s past looking like anything very much.NANCY. Well, there’s the bone.MARY. Yes, there’s the bone.NANCY(gaily). Well, there we are, Mary. Soup.MARY. If you remember, ma’am, we had soup yesterday.NANCY(wistfully). Couldn’t you—couldn’t you squeeze it again, Mary?MARY. It’s past squeezing, ma’am—in this world.NANCY. I was reading in a book the other day about two people who went out to dinner one night—they always dine late in books, Mary—and ordered a grilled bone. It seemed such a funny thing to have, when they had everything else to choose from. I supposeourbone——?MARY. Grilling wouldn’t do it no good, ma’am.NANCY. Well, I suppose we mustn’t blame it. It has been a good joint tous.MARY. A good stayer, as you might say.NANCY. Yes. Well, I suppose we shall have to get another.MARY. Yes, ma’am.NANCY. Would you look in my purse? (MARYgoes to the sideboard and opens the purse.) How much is there?[5]MARY. Three coppers and two stamps, ma’am.NANCY. Oh! (Determined to be brave) Well, that’s fivepence.MARY. They are halfpenny stamps, ma’am.NANCY(utterly undone). Oh, Mary! What a very unfortunate morning we’re having. (Coaxingly) Well, anyhow it’s fourpence, isn’t it?MARY. Yes, ma’am.NANCY. Well, now what can we get for fourpence?MARY(stolidly). A turkey.NANCY(laughing with complete happiness). Oh, Mary, don’t be so gloomy about it. (Collapsing into laughter again) Let’s have two turkeys—two tuppenny ones.MARY. It’s enough to make any one gloomy to see a nice gentleman like Mr. Broxopp and a nice lady like yourself starving in a garret.NANCY. I don’t know what a garret is, but if this is one, I love garrets. And we’re not starving; we’ve got fourpence. (Becoming practical again) What about a nice chop?MARY. It isn’t much for two of you.NANCY. Three of us, Mary.MARY. Oh, I can do all right on bread and cheese, ma’am.NANCY. Well then, so can I. And Jim can have the chop. There! Now let me get on with my work. (Contemptuously to herself as she goes on with her drawing) Starving! And in a housefullof bread and cheese!MARY. Mr. Broxopp is not the sort of gentleman to eat a chop while his wife is only eating a bit of cheese.NANCY(with love in her voice and eyes). No, he isn’t! (Proudly) Isn’t he afineman, Mary?MARY. Yes, he’s a real gentleman is Mr. Broxopp. It’s queer he doesn’t make more money.NANCY. Well, you see, he’s an artist.[6]MARY(surprised). An artist? Now that’s funny, I’ve never seen him painting any of his pictures.NANCY. I don’t mean that sort of an artist. I meanhe’s——(Wrinkling her forehead) Now, how did he put it yesterday? He likes ideas for their own sake. He wants to educate the public up to them. He doesn’t believe in pandering to the public for money. He’s in advance of his generation—like all great artists.MARY(hopefully). Yes, ma’am.NANCY(pointing to the advertisement of Spenlow’s suspenders). Now, there you see what I mean. Now that’s what the artist in Mr. Broxopp feels that a suspender-advertisementoughtto be like. But Mr. Spenlow doesn’t agree with him. Mr. Spenlow says it’s above the public’s head. And so he’s rejected Jim’s work. That’s the worst of trying to work for a man like Mr. Spenlow. He doesn’t understand artists. Jim says that ifhesaw an advertisement like that, he’d buy ten pairs at once, even if he never wore anything but kilts. And Jim says you can’t work for men like that, and one day he’ll write advertisements for something of his own.MARY. Lor, ma’am! Well, I’ve often wondered myself if it was quite decent for a gentleman like Mr. Broxopp to write about things that aren’t spoken of in ordinary give-and-take conversation. Butthen——NANCY(with pretty dignity). That is not the point, Mary. An artist has no limitations of that sort. And—and you’re interrupting me at my work.MARY(going over to her and just touching her lightly on the shoulder). Bless you, dearie, youarefond of him, aren’t you?NANCY. Oh, I just love him. (Eagerly) And he must have that chop to himself, Mary, and I’ll tell you[7]what I’ll do. I’ll write him a little note to say I’ve been invited out to dinner—and who do you think is going to invite me? Why, you! And we’ll have our bread and cheese together in the kitchen. Won’t that be fun? (Suddenly looking tragic) Oh!MARY. What’s the matter, ma’am?NANCY. Why, perhaps he’ll go out again directly after dinner and then I shan’t have seen him all day! (After thinking it over) No, Mary, I shall have dinner with him. (Firmly) But I shall say I’mnothungry. (There is a sound of whistling on the stairs.) Listen, there’s Jim! Oh, Mary, go quickly! He hasn’t seen me for such a long time and he’ll like to find me alone.MARY(sympathetically).Iknow, ma’am.[She goes out.(TheGREAT BROXOPPcomes in. He wears a tail-coat of the period, a wide-awake hat, and a spreading blue tie—“The Broxopp tie” as it is called in later years. He is twenty-five at this time, but might be any age, an impetuous, enthusiastic, flamboyant, simple creature; candid, generous; a gentleman, yet with no manners; an artist, yet not without vulgarity. His beliefs are simple. He believes in himself andNANCY;but mostly in himself.)BROXOPP. Nancy!NANCY. Jim! (She flies into his arms.)BROXOPP(releasing himself and looking at his watch). Two hours and twenty minutes since I kissed you, Nancy.NANCY. Is that all? It seems so much longer.BROXOPP(comparing his watch with the clock). You’re right; I’m a little slow. It’s two hours and twenty-three minutes. I must have another one. (Has one.)NANCY. Oh, Jim, darling, it’s lovely having you[8]back. But you’re early, aren’t you? Tell me what’s been happening.BROXOPP(trying to speak indifferently). How do you know anything has been happening?NANCY(excitedly). Then ithas! I knew it had! I felt it. Tell me quickly! (With a sudden change) No, don’t tell me quickly, tell me very, very slowly.Begin from the very beginning when you left here after breakfast. (Pleadingly) Only just tell me first that itisgood news.BROXOPP(with an air). Madam, you see in front of you the Great Broxopp.NANCY. Yes, but you’ve told me that every day since we’ve been married.BROXOPP(momentarily shaken, but quickly recovering). But you believed it! Say you believed it!NANCY. Of course I did.BROXOPP(strutting about the room). Aha,sheknew! She recognised the Great Broxopp. (Striking an attitude) And now the whole world will know.NANCY. Is it as wonderful as that?BROXOPP. It is, Nancy, it is! I have been singing all the way home. (Seriously) Nancy, when we have lots of money I think I shall learn to sing. An artist like myself requires to give expression to his feelings in his great moments. Several people on the bus objected to my singing. I’m afraid they were right.NANCY(awed). Are we going to have lots of money one day? Oh, quick, tell me—but slowly right from the beginning. (She arranges his chair for him.) Or would you rather walk about, dear?BROXOPP(sitting down). Well, I shall probably have to walk about directly, but—Where areyougoing to sit?NANCY(on the floor at his knees). Here.[9]BROXOPP(earnestly). Nancy, you must get me out of my habit of sitting down before you are seated. It isn’t what a gentleman would do.NANCY(patting his hand). It’s what a husband would do. That’s what wives are for—to make their husbands comfy.BROXOPP. Well, dear, never hesitate to tell me any little thing you notice about me. I never drop my aitches now, do I?NANCY(smiling lovingly at him). Never, darling.BROXOPP(complacently). Very few people could have got out of that in a year. But then (raising his hand with a gesture of pride) Broxopp is notlike——Dear me, have I been wearing my hat all the time?NANCY. Yes, darling, I love you in your hat.(A little upset,BROXOPPtakes it off and throws it on the floor.)BROXOPP(pained). Darling, you should have told me.NANCY. I love you so—just as you are. The Great Broxopp. Now then, begin from the beginning.BROXOPP(his confidence recovered). Well, after breakfast—a breakfast so enormous that, as I said to you at the time, I probably shouldn’t require any dinner afterit——NANCY(hastily). Yes, darling, but I said it first, and I really meant it. (Carelessly) I don’t know how it is, but somehow I feel I shan’t be at all hungry for dinner to-day.BROXOPP. Nancy, whatisfor dinner to-day?NANCY(as though dinner were a small matter in that house). Oh, chops, bread and cheese and all that sort of thing. (Eagerly) But never mind dinner now—go on telling me.BROXOPP. Nancy, look at me and tell me how many chops you have ordered?[10]NANCY(bravely). I thought perhaps one would be enough for you, dear, as you weren’t very hungry, and not being hungrymyself——BROXOPP(jumping up). I thought so! The Great Broxopp to dine off one chop! The Great Broxopp’s wife to dine off no chops! (He leans against the wall in a magnificent manner, and with a tremendous flourish produces a five pound note) Woman, buy five hundred chops! (Producing another five pound note with an even greater air) Five hundred tons of fried potatoes! (Flourishing a third note) Five million bottles of tomato sauce! (Thumping his heart) That’s the sort of man I am.NANCY. Jim! Have you earned all this?BROXOPP(disparagingly). Tut! That’s nothing to what is coming.NANCY. Fifteen pounds! (Suddenly remembering) Now what would youreallylike for dinner?BROXOPP(going over to her and taking her hands). Nancy,youbelieved in me all the time. It has been weary waiting for you, but now—(answering her question) I think I should like a kiss.NANCY(kissing him and staying very close). Of course I believed in you, my wonderful man. And now they’ll all believe in you. (After a pause) Who believed the fifteen pounds? Was it Mr. Spenlow?BROXOPP. Spenlow? Bah! (He strides across the room and tears down the Spenlow advertisements.) Spenlow comes down—like his suspenders.Facilis descensus Spenlovi.(Dramatically) I see the man Spenlow begging his bread from door to door. I see his wife’s stockings falling in swathes about her ankles. Isee——NANCY. Darling!BROXOPP. You’re quite right, dear. I’m being vulgar again. And worse than that—uncharitable.[11]When we are rich, we will ask the Spenlows to stay with us. We will be kind to them; we will provide them with suspenders.NANCY(bringing him back to the point). Jim! (She holds up the money.) You haven’t told me yet.BROXOPP(carelessly). Oh, that? That was from Fordyce.NANCY. The Fordyce cheap Restaurants?BROXOPP. The same. I had an inspiration this morning. I forced my way into the office of the man Fordyce, and I took him on one side and whispered winged words into his ear. I said (dramatically) “Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” It will be all over London to-morrow. “Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” What an arresting thought to a hungry man!NANCY. Shall we have dinner there to-day, dear?BROXOPP. Good heavens, no! It is sufficient that I drag others into his beastly eating-house.Wewill dine on champagne, regally.NANCY. Darling, I know you are an artist and mustn’t be thwarted, but—there’s the rent—and—and other days coming—and——BROXOPP(dropping into his chair again). Nancy, come and sit on my knee. (With suppressed excitement) Quick, while I’m sitting down. I shall be wanting to walk about directly. This room is too small for me. (She comes to him.) Nancy, it has been a hard struggle for you, I’m afraid.NANCY. I’ve loved it, Jim.BROXOPP. Well, that’s over now. Now the real fun is beginning. (Triumphantly) Nancy, I’m on my own at last. Broxopp is on his own! (He puts her down impetuously and jumps up.) I look into the future and what do I see? I see on every hoarding, I see on the side of every omnibus, I see dotted among the[12]fields along the great railway routes these magic words: “BROXOPP’S BEANS FOR BABIES.”NANCY(carried away). Darling!BROXOPP. Yes! I have begun. And now the world will see what advertisement can do in the hands of an artist. Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!NANCY. But—(timidly) do babies like beans?BROXOPP(confidently). They will. I can make them like anything. I can make themcryfor beans. They will lean out of their little cradles and hold out their little hands and say: “Broxopp. I want Broxopp. Give me my beans.”NANCY(seeing them). The darlings. (Business-like) Now tell me all about it.BROXOPP(really meaning to this time). It began with—Ah, Nancy, it began withyou. I might have known it would. I owe it, like everything else, to you.NANCY(awed). To me?BROXOPP. To you. It was the nail-brush.NANCY. The nail-brush?BROXOPP. Yes, you told me the other day to buy a nail-brush. (Looking at his fingers) You were quite right. As you said, a gentleman is known by his hands. I hadn’t thought of it before. Always tell me, darling. Well, I went into a chemist’s. Fordyce had given me fifteen guineas. I had the odd shillings in my pocket and I suddenly remembered. There was a very nice gentlemanly young fellow behind the counter, and as sometimes happens on these occasions, I got into conversation with him.NANCY(smiling to herself). Yes, darling.BROXOPP. I told him something of my outlook on life. I spoke of the lack of imagination which is the curse of this country, instancing the man Spenlow as an example of the type with whom we artists had to[13]deal. He interrupted me to say that he had found it so, too. A patent food which he had composed in his leisure moments—I broke in hastily. “Tell me of your food,” I said. “Perhaps,” and I smote my breast, “perhapsIam the capitalist for whom you look.”NANCY. The five hundred pounds!BROXOPP. The five hundred pounds. The nest-egg which I had been keeping for just such a moment. In a flash I saw that the moment had come.NANCY(a little frightened). Then we shall never have that five hundred pounds behind us again.BROXOPP. But think of the thousands we shall have in front of us! Millions!NANCY. We seemed so safe with that in the bank. My little inheritance. No, darling, I’m not disagreeing. I know you’re quite right. But I’m just a little frightened. You see, I’m not so brave as you.BROXOPP. But you will be bravewithme? You believe in me?NANCY. Oh, yes, yes. (Bravely) Go on.BROXOPP(going on). He told me about his discovery. A food for babies. Thomson’s Food for Babies, he called it. (Scornfully) No wonder nobody would look at it. “The name you want on that food,” I said, “is Broxopp.” Who is Thomson? Anybody. The next man you meet may be Thomson. But there is only one Broxopp—the Great Broxopp. (With an inspired air) Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!NANCY(timidly). I still don’t quite see why beans.BROXOPP. Nor did he, Nancy. “Mr. Thomson,” I said, “this ismybusiness.Yougo about inventing foods. Do I interfere with you? No. I don’t say that we must have this, that, and the other in it. All I do is to put it on the market and advertise it. And when I’m doing that, don’t you interfere withme.[14]Why beans? you say. Exactly! I want the whole of England to ask that question. Beans for Babies—what an absurd idea! Whoisthis Broxopp? Once they begin talking like that, I’ve got them. As for the food—make it up into bean shape and let them dissolve it. Or no. Leave it as it is. They’ll talk about it more that way.Lucus a non lucendo.Good-morning!”NANCY. What doesthatmean?BROXOPP(off-handedly). It’s Latin, dear, for calling a thing black because it’s white. Thomson understood; he’s an educated man, he’s not like Spenlow.NANCY. And do we share the profits with Mr. Thomson?BROXOPP. He’ll have to take some, of course, because it’s his food. I shall be generous to him, Nancy; don’t you be afraid of that.NANCY. I know you will, darling; that’s what I’m afraid of.BROXOPP(carelessly). We shall have an agreement drawn up. (On fire to begin.) It will be hard work for the first year. Every penny we make will have to be used again to advertise it. (Thumping the table) But I can do it! With you helping me, Nancy, I can do it.NANCY(adoringly). You can do it, my man. And oh! how proud I shall be of helping you.BROXOPP. And the time will come when the world will be full of Broxopp Babies! I look into the future and I see—millions of them!NANCY(coming very close). Jim, when I am all alone, then sometimes I look into the future, too.BROXOPP(indulgently). And what do you see, Nancy?NANCY. Sometimes I seem to seeonelittle Broxopp baby.[15]BROXOPP(with a shout). Nancy! Youmean——NANCY. Would you like to have a little one of your very own, Jim?BROXOPP. My darling! It only needed this! (He takes her in his arms.)NANCY. My husband!BROXOPP(releasing her). A Broxopp—to carry on the name! A little Broxopp! Nancy, he shall be the first, the pioneer of all the Broxopp Babies! (Carried away) I see him—everywhere—sitting in his littlevest——NANCY(seeing him too). His little vest!BROXOPP. Holding out his little pudgyhand——NANCY. His little pudgy hand!BROXOPP. And saying to all the world (he hesitates, and a sudden triumphant inspiration gives him the words) “I am a Broxopp Baby—are you?”(They gaze eagerly into the future,BROXOPPseeing his million babies,NANCYseeing her one.)

THE GREAT BROXOPP[3]

Scene:TheGREAT BROXOPP’Slodgings in Bloomsbury; a humble room in late Victorian days, forBROXOPPhas only just begun. He has been married for six months, and we seeNANCY(the dear)at work, while her husband is looking for it. He is an advertising agent, in the days when advertising agents did not lunch with peers and newspaper proprietors. Probably he would prefer to call himself an “adviser to men of business.” As we see from a large advertisement over the sideboard—drawn and lettered by hand(NANCY’S)—he has been hoping to adviseSPENLOWon the best way to sell his suspenders.SPENLOW, we are assured, “gives that natty appearance.” The comfort, saysTHE GREAT ONE, in an inspired moment:“The comfort is immenseWith Spenlow’s great invention!Other makes mean Suspense,But Spenlow means Suspension!!”Many such inspirations decorate the walls—some accepted, some even paid for—andNANCYis now making a fair copy of one of them.MARY, the Broxopps’ servant—NANCYthought they could do without one, but theGREAT BROXOPPwanted to be[4]called “Yes, sir,” and insisted on it—well then,MARYcomes in.

“The comfort is immenseWith Spenlow’s great invention!Other makes mean Suspense,But Spenlow means Suspension!!”

“The comfort is immense

With Spenlow’s great invention!

Other makes mean Suspense,

But Spenlow means Suspension!!”

Many such inspirations decorate the walls—some accepted, some even paid for—andNANCYis now making a fair copy of one of them.

MARY, the Broxopps’ servant—NANCYthought they could do without one, but theGREAT BROXOPPwanted to be[4]called “Yes, sir,” and insisted on it—well then,MARYcomes in.

NANCY(without looking up). Yes, Mary?

MARY. It’s about the dinner, ma’am.

NANCY(with a sigh). Yes, I was afraid it was. It isn’t a very nice subject to talk about, is it, Mary?

MARY. Well, ma’am, it has its awkwardness like.

NANCY(after a pause, but not very hopefully). How is the joint looking?

MARY. Well, it’s past looking like anything very much.

NANCY. Well, there’s the bone.

MARY. Yes, there’s the bone.

NANCY(gaily). Well, there we are, Mary. Soup.

MARY. If you remember, ma’am, we had soup yesterday.

NANCY(wistfully). Couldn’t you—couldn’t you squeeze it again, Mary?

MARY. It’s past squeezing, ma’am—in this world.

NANCY. I was reading in a book the other day about two people who went out to dinner one night—they always dine late in books, Mary—and ordered a grilled bone. It seemed such a funny thing to have, when they had everything else to choose from. I supposeourbone——?

MARY. Grilling wouldn’t do it no good, ma’am.

NANCY. Well, I suppose we mustn’t blame it. It has been a good joint tous.

MARY. A good stayer, as you might say.

NANCY. Yes. Well, I suppose we shall have to get another.

MARY. Yes, ma’am.

NANCY. Would you look in my purse? (MARYgoes to the sideboard and opens the purse.) How much is there?

[5]MARY. Three coppers and two stamps, ma’am.

NANCY. Oh! (Determined to be brave) Well, that’s fivepence.

MARY. They are halfpenny stamps, ma’am.

NANCY(utterly undone). Oh, Mary! What a very unfortunate morning we’re having. (Coaxingly) Well, anyhow it’s fourpence, isn’t it?

MARY. Yes, ma’am.

NANCY. Well, now what can we get for fourpence?

MARY(stolidly). A turkey.

NANCY(laughing with complete happiness). Oh, Mary, don’t be so gloomy about it. (Collapsing into laughter again) Let’s have two turkeys—two tuppenny ones.

MARY. It’s enough to make any one gloomy to see a nice gentleman like Mr. Broxopp and a nice lady like yourself starving in a garret.

NANCY. I don’t know what a garret is, but if this is one, I love garrets. And we’re not starving; we’ve got fourpence. (Becoming practical again) What about a nice chop?

MARY. It isn’t much for two of you.

NANCY. Three of us, Mary.

MARY. Oh, I can do all right on bread and cheese, ma’am.

NANCY. Well then, so can I. And Jim can have the chop. There! Now let me get on with my work. (Contemptuously to herself as she goes on with her drawing) Starving! And in a housefullof bread and cheese!

MARY. Mr. Broxopp is not the sort of gentleman to eat a chop while his wife is only eating a bit of cheese.

NANCY(with love in her voice and eyes). No, he isn’t! (Proudly) Isn’t he afineman, Mary?

MARY. Yes, he’s a real gentleman is Mr. Broxopp. It’s queer he doesn’t make more money.

NANCY. Well, you see, he’s an artist.

[6]MARY(surprised). An artist? Now that’s funny, I’ve never seen him painting any of his pictures.

NANCY. I don’t mean that sort of an artist. I meanhe’s——(Wrinkling her forehead) Now, how did he put it yesterday? He likes ideas for their own sake. He wants to educate the public up to them. He doesn’t believe in pandering to the public for money. He’s in advance of his generation—like all great artists.

MARY(hopefully). Yes, ma’am.

NANCY(pointing to the advertisement of Spenlow’s suspenders). Now, there you see what I mean. Now that’s what the artist in Mr. Broxopp feels that a suspender-advertisementoughtto be like. But Mr. Spenlow doesn’t agree with him. Mr. Spenlow says it’s above the public’s head. And so he’s rejected Jim’s work. That’s the worst of trying to work for a man like Mr. Spenlow. He doesn’t understand artists. Jim says that ifhesaw an advertisement like that, he’d buy ten pairs at once, even if he never wore anything but kilts. And Jim says you can’t work for men like that, and one day he’ll write advertisements for something of his own.

MARY. Lor, ma’am! Well, I’ve often wondered myself if it was quite decent for a gentleman like Mr. Broxopp to write about things that aren’t spoken of in ordinary give-and-take conversation. Butthen——

NANCY(with pretty dignity). That is not the point, Mary. An artist has no limitations of that sort. And—and you’re interrupting me at my work.

MARY(going over to her and just touching her lightly on the shoulder). Bless you, dearie, youarefond of him, aren’t you?

NANCY. Oh, I just love him. (Eagerly) And he must have that chop to himself, Mary, and I’ll tell you[7]what I’ll do. I’ll write him a little note to say I’ve been invited out to dinner—and who do you think is going to invite me? Why, you! And we’ll have our bread and cheese together in the kitchen. Won’t that be fun? (Suddenly looking tragic) Oh!

MARY. What’s the matter, ma’am?

NANCY. Why, perhaps he’ll go out again directly after dinner and then I shan’t have seen him all day! (After thinking it over) No, Mary, I shall have dinner with him. (Firmly) But I shall say I’mnothungry. (There is a sound of whistling on the stairs.) Listen, there’s Jim! Oh, Mary, go quickly! He hasn’t seen me for such a long time and he’ll like to find me alone.

MARY(sympathetically).Iknow, ma’am.

[She goes out.

(TheGREAT BROXOPPcomes in. He wears a tail-coat of the period, a wide-awake hat, and a spreading blue tie—“The Broxopp tie” as it is called in later years. He is twenty-five at this time, but might be any age, an impetuous, enthusiastic, flamboyant, simple creature; candid, generous; a gentleman, yet with no manners; an artist, yet not without vulgarity. His beliefs are simple. He believes in himself andNANCY;but mostly in himself.)

BROXOPP. Nancy!

NANCY. Jim! (She flies into his arms.)

BROXOPP(releasing himself and looking at his watch). Two hours and twenty minutes since I kissed you, Nancy.

NANCY. Is that all? It seems so much longer.

BROXOPP(comparing his watch with the clock). You’re right; I’m a little slow. It’s two hours and twenty-three minutes. I must have another one. (Has one.)

NANCY. Oh, Jim, darling, it’s lovely having you[8]back. But you’re early, aren’t you? Tell me what’s been happening.

BROXOPP(trying to speak indifferently). How do you know anything has been happening?

NANCY(excitedly). Then ithas! I knew it had! I felt it. Tell me quickly! (With a sudden change) No, don’t tell me quickly, tell me very, very slowly.Begin from the very beginning when you left here after breakfast. (Pleadingly) Only just tell me first that itisgood news.

BROXOPP(with an air). Madam, you see in front of you the Great Broxopp.

NANCY. Yes, but you’ve told me that every day since we’ve been married.

BROXOPP(momentarily shaken, but quickly recovering). But you believed it! Say you believed it!

NANCY. Of course I did.

BROXOPP(strutting about the room). Aha,sheknew! She recognised the Great Broxopp. (Striking an attitude) And now the whole world will know.

NANCY. Is it as wonderful as that?

BROXOPP. It is, Nancy, it is! I have been singing all the way home. (Seriously) Nancy, when we have lots of money I think I shall learn to sing. An artist like myself requires to give expression to his feelings in his great moments. Several people on the bus objected to my singing. I’m afraid they were right.

NANCY(awed). Are we going to have lots of money one day? Oh, quick, tell me—but slowly right from the beginning. (She arranges his chair for him.) Or would you rather walk about, dear?

BROXOPP(sitting down). Well, I shall probably have to walk about directly, but—Where areyougoing to sit?

NANCY(on the floor at his knees). Here.

[9]BROXOPP(earnestly). Nancy, you must get me out of my habit of sitting down before you are seated. It isn’t what a gentleman would do.

NANCY(patting his hand). It’s what a husband would do. That’s what wives are for—to make their husbands comfy.

BROXOPP. Well, dear, never hesitate to tell me any little thing you notice about me. I never drop my aitches now, do I?

NANCY(smiling lovingly at him). Never, darling.

BROXOPP(complacently). Very few people could have got out of that in a year. But then (raising his hand with a gesture of pride) Broxopp is notlike——Dear me, have I been wearing my hat all the time?

NANCY. Yes, darling, I love you in your hat.

(A little upset,BROXOPPtakes it off and throws it on the floor.)

BROXOPP(pained). Darling, you should have told me.

NANCY. I love you so—just as you are. The Great Broxopp. Now then, begin from the beginning.

BROXOPP(his confidence recovered). Well, after breakfast—a breakfast so enormous that, as I said to you at the time, I probably shouldn’t require any dinner afterit——

NANCY(hastily). Yes, darling, but I said it first, and I really meant it. (Carelessly) I don’t know how it is, but somehow I feel I shan’t be at all hungry for dinner to-day.

BROXOPP. Nancy, whatisfor dinner to-day?

NANCY(as though dinner were a small matter in that house). Oh, chops, bread and cheese and all that sort of thing. (Eagerly) But never mind dinner now—go on telling me.

BROXOPP. Nancy, look at me and tell me how many chops you have ordered?

[10]NANCY(bravely). I thought perhaps one would be enough for you, dear, as you weren’t very hungry, and not being hungrymyself——

BROXOPP(jumping up). I thought so! The Great Broxopp to dine off one chop! The Great Broxopp’s wife to dine off no chops! (He leans against the wall in a magnificent manner, and with a tremendous flourish produces a five pound note) Woman, buy five hundred chops! (Producing another five pound note with an even greater air) Five hundred tons of fried potatoes! (Flourishing a third note) Five million bottles of tomato sauce! (Thumping his heart) That’s the sort of man I am.

NANCY. Jim! Have you earned all this?

BROXOPP(disparagingly). Tut! That’s nothing to what is coming.

NANCY. Fifteen pounds! (Suddenly remembering) Now what would youreallylike for dinner?

BROXOPP(going over to her and taking her hands). Nancy,youbelieved in me all the time. It has been weary waiting for you, but now—(answering her question) I think I should like a kiss.

NANCY(kissing him and staying very close). Of course I believed in you, my wonderful man. And now they’ll all believe in you. (After a pause) Who believed the fifteen pounds? Was it Mr. Spenlow?

BROXOPP. Spenlow? Bah! (He strides across the room and tears down the Spenlow advertisements.) Spenlow comes down—like his suspenders.Facilis descensus Spenlovi.(Dramatically) I see the man Spenlow begging his bread from door to door. I see his wife’s stockings falling in swathes about her ankles. Isee——

NANCY. Darling!

BROXOPP. You’re quite right, dear. I’m being vulgar again. And worse than that—uncharitable.[11]When we are rich, we will ask the Spenlows to stay with us. We will be kind to them; we will provide them with suspenders.

NANCY(bringing him back to the point). Jim! (She holds up the money.) You haven’t told me yet.

BROXOPP(carelessly). Oh, that? That was from Fordyce.

NANCY. The Fordyce cheap Restaurants?

BROXOPP. The same. I had an inspiration this morning. I forced my way into the office of the man Fordyce, and I took him on one side and whispered winged words into his ear. I said (dramatically) “Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” It will be all over London to-morrow. “Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” What an arresting thought to a hungry man!

NANCY. Shall we have dinner there to-day, dear?

BROXOPP. Good heavens, no! It is sufficient that I drag others into his beastly eating-house.Wewill dine on champagne, regally.

NANCY. Darling, I know you are an artist and mustn’t be thwarted, but—there’s the rent—and—and other days coming—and——

BROXOPP(dropping into his chair again). Nancy, come and sit on my knee. (With suppressed excitement) Quick, while I’m sitting down. I shall be wanting to walk about directly. This room is too small for me. (She comes to him.) Nancy, it has been a hard struggle for you, I’m afraid.

NANCY. I’ve loved it, Jim.

BROXOPP. Well, that’s over now. Now the real fun is beginning. (Triumphantly) Nancy, I’m on my own at last. Broxopp is on his own! (He puts her down impetuously and jumps up.) I look into the future and what do I see? I see on every hoarding, I see on the side of every omnibus, I see dotted among the[12]fields along the great railway routes these magic words: “BROXOPP’S BEANS FOR BABIES.”

NANCY(carried away). Darling!

BROXOPP. Yes! I have begun. And now the world will see what advertisement can do in the hands of an artist. Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!

NANCY. But—(timidly) do babies like beans?

BROXOPP(confidently). They will. I can make them like anything. I can make themcryfor beans. They will lean out of their little cradles and hold out their little hands and say: “Broxopp. I want Broxopp. Give me my beans.”

NANCY(seeing them). The darlings. (Business-like) Now tell me all about it.

BROXOPP(really meaning to this time). It began with—Ah, Nancy, it began withyou. I might have known it would. I owe it, like everything else, to you.

NANCY(awed). To me?

BROXOPP. To you. It was the nail-brush.

NANCY. The nail-brush?

BROXOPP. Yes, you told me the other day to buy a nail-brush. (Looking at his fingers) You were quite right. As you said, a gentleman is known by his hands. I hadn’t thought of it before. Always tell me, darling. Well, I went into a chemist’s. Fordyce had given me fifteen guineas. I had the odd shillings in my pocket and I suddenly remembered. There was a very nice gentlemanly young fellow behind the counter, and as sometimes happens on these occasions, I got into conversation with him.

NANCY(smiling to herself). Yes, darling.

BROXOPP. I told him something of my outlook on life. I spoke of the lack of imagination which is the curse of this country, instancing the man Spenlow as an example of the type with whom we artists had to[13]deal. He interrupted me to say that he had found it so, too. A patent food which he had composed in his leisure moments—I broke in hastily. “Tell me of your food,” I said. “Perhaps,” and I smote my breast, “perhapsIam the capitalist for whom you look.”

NANCY. The five hundred pounds!

BROXOPP. The five hundred pounds. The nest-egg which I had been keeping for just such a moment. In a flash I saw that the moment had come.

NANCY(a little frightened). Then we shall never have that five hundred pounds behind us again.

BROXOPP. But think of the thousands we shall have in front of us! Millions!

NANCY. We seemed so safe with that in the bank. My little inheritance. No, darling, I’m not disagreeing. I know you’re quite right. But I’m just a little frightened. You see, I’m not so brave as you.

BROXOPP. But you will be bravewithme? You believe in me?

NANCY. Oh, yes, yes. (Bravely) Go on.

BROXOPP(going on). He told me about his discovery. A food for babies. Thomson’s Food for Babies, he called it. (Scornfully) No wonder nobody would look at it. “The name you want on that food,” I said, “is Broxopp.” Who is Thomson? Anybody. The next man you meet may be Thomson. But there is only one Broxopp—the Great Broxopp. (With an inspired air) Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!

NANCY(timidly). I still don’t quite see why beans.

BROXOPP. Nor did he, Nancy. “Mr. Thomson,” I said, “this ismybusiness.Yougo about inventing foods. Do I interfere with you? No. I don’t say that we must have this, that, and the other in it. All I do is to put it on the market and advertise it. And when I’m doing that, don’t you interfere withme.[14]Why beans? you say. Exactly! I want the whole of England to ask that question. Beans for Babies—what an absurd idea! Whoisthis Broxopp? Once they begin talking like that, I’ve got them. As for the food—make it up into bean shape and let them dissolve it. Or no. Leave it as it is. They’ll talk about it more that way.Lucus a non lucendo.Good-morning!”

NANCY. What doesthatmean?

BROXOPP(off-handedly). It’s Latin, dear, for calling a thing black because it’s white. Thomson understood; he’s an educated man, he’s not like Spenlow.

NANCY. And do we share the profits with Mr. Thomson?

BROXOPP. He’ll have to take some, of course, because it’s his food. I shall be generous to him, Nancy; don’t you be afraid of that.

NANCY. I know you will, darling; that’s what I’m afraid of.

BROXOPP(carelessly). We shall have an agreement drawn up. (On fire to begin.) It will be hard work for the first year. Every penny we make will have to be used again to advertise it. (Thumping the table) But I can do it! With you helping me, Nancy, I can do it.

NANCY(adoringly). You can do it, my man. And oh! how proud I shall be of helping you.

BROXOPP. And the time will come when the world will be full of Broxopp Babies! I look into the future and I see—millions of them!

NANCY(coming very close). Jim, when I am all alone, then sometimes I look into the future, too.

BROXOPP(indulgently). And what do you see, Nancy?

NANCY. Sometimes I seem to seeonelittle Broxopp baby.

[15]BROXOPP(with a shout). Nancy! Youmean——

NANCY. Would you like to have a little one of your very own, Jim?

BROXOPP. My darling! It only needed this! (He takes her in his arms.)

NANCY. My husband!

BROXOPP(releasing her). A Broxopp—to carry on the name! A little Broxopp! Nancy, he shall be the first, the pioneer of all the Broxopp Babies! (Carried away) I see him—everywhere—sitting in his littlevest——

NANCY(seeing him too). His little vest!

BROXOPP. Holding out his little pudgyhand——

NANCY. His little pudgy hand!

BROXOPP. And saying to all the world (he hesitates, and a sudden triumphant inspiration gives him the words) “I am a Broxopp Baby—are you?”

(They gaze eagerly into the future,BROXOPPseeing his million babies,NANCYseeing her one.)

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