THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON
by
J. M. Barrie
Part 1 out of 3
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THE PLAYS OF J. M. BARRIE
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON
A COMEDY
ACT I
AT LOAM HOUSE, MAYFAIR
A moment before the curtain rises, the Hon. Ernest Woolley drives up
to the door of Loam House in Mayfair. There is a happy smile on his
pleasant, insignificant face, and this presumably means that he is
thinking of himself. He is too busy over nothing, this man about
town, to be always thinking of himself, but, on the other hand, he
almost never thinks of any other person. Probably Ernest's great
moment is when he wakes of a morning and realises that he really is
Ernest, for we must all wish to be that which is our ideal. We can
conceive him springing out of bed light-heartedly and waiting for
his man to do the rest. He is dressed in excellent taste, with just
the little bit more which shows that he is not without a sense of
humour: the dandiacal are often saved by carrying a smile at the
whole thing in their spats, let us say. Ernest left Cambridge the
other day, a member of The Athenaeum (which he would be sorry to
have you confound with a club in London of the same name). He is a
bachelor, but not of arts, no mean epigrammatist (as you shall see),
and a favourite of the ladies. He is almost a celebrity in
restaurants, where he dines frequently, returning to sup; and during
this last year he has probably paid as much in them for the
privilege of handing his hat to an attendant as the rent of a
working-man's flat. He complains brightly that he is hard up, and
that if somebody or other at Westminster does not look out the
country will go to the dogs. He is no fool. He has the shrewdness to
float with the current because it is a labour-saving process, but he
has sufficient pluck to fight, if fight he must (a brief contest,
for he would soon be toppled over). He has a light nature, which
would enable him to bob up cheerily in new conditions and return
unaltered to the old ones. His selfishness is his most endearing
quality. If he has his way he will spend his life like a cat in
pushing his betters out of the soft places, and until he is old he
will be fondled in the process.
He gives his hat to one footman and his cane to another, and mounts
the great staircase unassisted and undirected. As a nephew of the
house he need show no credentials even to Crichton, who is guarding
a door above.
It would not be good taste to describe Crichton, who is only a
servant; if to the scandal of all good houses he is to stand out as
a figure in the play, he must do it on his own, as they say in the
pantry and the boudoir.
We are not going to help him. We have had misgivings ever since we
found his name in the title, and we shall keep him out of his rights
as long as we can. Even though we softened to him he would not be a
hero in these clothes of servitude; and he loves his clothes. How to
get him out of them? It would require a cataclysm. To be an indoor
servant at all is to Crichton a badge of honour; to be a butler at
thirty is the realisation of his proudest ambitions. He is devotedly
attached to his master, who, in his opinion, has but one fault, he
is not sufficiently contemptuous of his inferiors. We are
immediately to be introduced to this solitary failing of a great
English peer.
This perfect butler, then, opens a door, and ushers Ernest into a
certain room. At the same moment the curtain rises on this room, and
the play begins.
It is one of several reception-rooms in Loam House, not the most
magnificent but quite the softest; and of a warm afternoon all that
those who are anybody crave for is the softest. The larger rooms are
magnificent and bare, carpetless, so that it is an accomplishment to
keep one's feet on them; they are sometimes lent for charitable
purposes; they are also all in use on the night of a dinner-party,
when you may find yourself alone in one, having taken a wrong
turning; or alone, save for two others who are within hailing
distance.
This room, however, is comparatively small and very soft. There are
so many cushions in it that you wonder why, if you are an outsider
and don't know that, it needs six cushions to make one fair head
comfy. The couches themselves are cushions as large as beds, and
there is an art of sinking into them and of waiting to be helped out
of them. There are several famous paintings on the walls, of which
you may say 'Jolly thing that,' without losing caste as knowing too
much; and in cases there are glorious miniatures, but the daughters
of the house cannot tell you of whom; 'there is a catalogue
somewhere.' There are a thousand or so of roses in basins, several
library novels, and a row of weekly illustrated newspapers lying
against each other like fallen soldiers. If any one disturbs this
row Crichton seems to know of it from afar and appears noiselessly
and replaces the wanderer. One thing unexpected in such a room is a
great array of tea things. Ernest spots them with a twinkle, and has
his epigram at once unsheathed. He dallies, however, before
delivering the thrust.
ERNEST. I perceive, from the tea cups, Crichton, that the great
function is to take place here.
CRICHTON (with a respectful sigh). Yes, sir.
ERNEST (chuckling heartlessly). The servants' hall coming up to have
tea in the drawing-room! (With terrible sarcasm.) No wonder you look
happy, Crichton.
CRICHTON (under the knife). No, sir.
ERNEST. Do you know, Crichton, I think that with an effort you might
look even happier. (CRICHTON smiles wanly.) You don't approve of his
lordship's compelling his servants to be his equals--once a month?
CRICHTON. It is not for me, sir, to disapprove of his lordship's
radical views.
ERNEST. Certainly not. And, after all, it is only once a month that
he is affable to you.
CRICHTON. On all other days of the month, sir, his lordship's
treatment of us is everything that could be desired.
ERNEST. (This is the epigram.) Tea cups! Life, Crichton, is like a
cup of tea; the more heartily we drink, the sooner we reach the
dregs.
CRICHTON (obediently). Thank you, sir.
ERNEST (becoming confidential, as we do when we have need of an
ally). Crichton, in case I should be asked to say a few words to
the servants, I have strung together a little speech. (His hand
strays to his pocket.) I was wondering where I should stand.
(He tries various places and postures, and comes to rest leaning
over a high chair, whence, in dumb show, he addresses a gathering.
CRICHTON, with the best intentions, gives him a footstool to stand
on, and departs, happily unconscious that ERNEST in some dudgeon has
kicked the footstool across the room.)
ERNEST (addressing an imaginary audience, and desirous of startling
them at once). Suppose you were all little fishes at the bottom of
the sea--
(He is not quite satisfied with his position, though sure that the
fault must lie with the chair for being too high, not with him for
being too short. CRICHTON'S suggestion was not perhaps a bad one
after all. He lifts the stool, but hastily conceals it behind him on
the entrance of the LADIES CATHERINE and AGATHA, two daughters of
the house. CATHERINE is twenty, and AGATHA two years younger. They
are very fashionable young women indeed, who might wake up for a
dance, but they are very lazy, CATHERINE being two years lazier than
AGATHA.)
ERNEST (uneasily jocular, because he is concealing the footstool).
And how are my little friends to-day?
AGATHA (contriving to reach a settee). Don't be silly, Ernest. If
you want to know how we are, we are dead. Even to think of
entertaining the servants is so exhausting.
CATHERINE (subsiding nearer the door). Besides which, we have had to
decide what frocks to take with us on the yacht, and that is such a
mental strain.
ERNEST. You poor over-worked things. (Evidently AGATHA is his
favourite, for he helps her to put her feet on the settee, while
CATHERINE has to dispose of her own feet.) Rest your weary limbs.
CATHERINE (perhaps in revenge). But why have you a footstool in your
hand?
AGATHA. Yes?
ERNEST. Why? (Brilliantly; but to be sure he has had time to think
it out.) You see, as the servants are to be the guests I must be
butler. I was practising. This is a tray, observe.
(Holding the footstool as a tray, he minces across the room like an
accomplished footman. The gods favour him, for just here LADY MARY
enters, and he holds out the footstool to her.)
Tea, my lady?
(LADY MARY is a beautiful creature of twenty-two, and is of a
natural hauteur which is at once the fury and the envy of her
sisters. If she chooses she can make you seem so insignificant that
you feel you might be swept away with the crumb-brush. She seldom
chooses, because of the trouble of preening herself as she does it;
she is usually content to show that you merely tire her eyes. She
often seems to be about to go to sleep in the middle of a remark:
there is quite a long and anxious pause, and then she continues,
like a clock that hesitates, bored in the middle of its strike.)
LADY MARY (arching her brows). It is only you, Ernest; I thought
there was some one here (and she also bestows herself on cushions).
ERNEST (a little piqued, and deserting the footstool). Had a very
tiring day also, Mary?
LADY MARY (yawning). Dreadfully. Been trying on engagement-rings all
the morning.
ERNEST (who is as fond of gossip as the oldest club member). What's
that? (To AGATHA.) Is it Brocklehurst?
(The energetic AGATHA nods.)
You have given your warm young heart to Brocky?
(LADY MARY is impervious to his humour, but he continues bravely.)
I don't wish to fatigue you, Mary, by insisting on a verbal answer,
but if, without straining yourself, you can signify Yes or No, won't
you make the effort?
(She indolently flashes a ring on her most important finger, and he
starts back melodramatically.)
The ring! Then I am too late, too late! (Fixing LADY MARY sternly,
like a prosecuting counsel.) May I ask, Mary, does Brocky know? Of
course, it was that terrible mother of his who pulled this through.
Mother does everything for Brocky. Still, in the eyes of the law you
will be, not her wife, but his, and, therefore, I hold that Brocky
ought to be informed. Now--
(He discovers that their languorous eyes have closed.)
If you girls are shamming sleep in the expectation that I shall
awaken you in the manner beloved of ladies, abandon all such hopes.
(CATHERINE and AGATHA look up without speaking.)
LADY MARY (speaking without looking up). You impertinent boy.
ERNEST (eagerly plucking another epigram from his quiver). I knew
that was it, though I don't know everything. Agatha, I'm not young
enough to know everything.
(He looks hopefully from one to another, but though they try to
grasp this, his brilliance baffles them.)
AGATHA (his secret admirer). Young enough?
ERNEST (encouragingly). Don't you see? I'm not young enough to know
everything.
AGATHA. I'm sure it's awfully clever, but it's so puzzling.
(Here CRICHTON ushers in an athletic, pleasant-faced young
clergyman, MR. TREHERNE, who greets the company.)
CATHERINE. Ernest, say it to Mr. Treherne.
ERNEST. Look here, Treherne, I'm not young enough to know
everything.
TREHERNE. How do you mean, Ernest?
ERNEST. (a little nettled). I mean what I say.
LADY MARY. Say it again; say it more slowly.
ERNEST. I'm--not--young--enough--to--know--everything.
TREHERNE. I see. What you really mean, my boy, is that you are not
old enough to know everything.
ERNEST. No, I don't.
TREHERNE. I assure you that's it.
LADY MARY. Of course it is.
CATHERINE. Yes, Ernest, that's it.
(ERNEST, in desperation, appeals to CRICHTON.)
ERNEST. I am not young enough, Crichton, to know everything.
(It is an anxious moment, but a smile is at length extorted from
CRICHTON as with a corkscrew.)
CRICHTON. Thank you, sir. (He goes.)
ERNEST (relieved). Ah, if you had that fellow's head, Treherne, you
would find something better to do with it than play cricket. I hear
you bowl with your head.
TREHERNE (with proper humility). I'm afraid cricket is all I'm good
for, Ernest.
CATHERINE (who thinks he has a heavenly nose). Indeed, it isn't. You
are sure to get on, Mr. Treherne.
TREHERNE. Thank you, Lady Catherine.
CATHERINE. But it was the bishop who told me so. He said a clergyman
who breaks both ways is sure to get on in England.
TREHERNE. I'm jolly glad.
(The master of the house comes in, accompanied by LORD BROCKLEHURST.
The EARL OF LOAM is a widower, a philanthropist, and a peer of
advanced ideas. As a widower he is at least able to interfere in the
domestic concerns of his house--to rummage in the drawers, so to
speak, for which he has felt an itching all his blameless life; his
philanthropy has opened quite a number of other drawers to him; and
his advanced ideas have blown out his figure. He takes in all the
weightiest monthly reviews, and prefers those that are uncut,
because he perhaps never looks better than when cutting them; but he
does not read them, and save for the cutting it would suit him as
well merely to take in the covers. He writes letters to the papers,
which are printed in a type to scale with himself, and he is very
jealous of those other correspondents who get his type. Let laws and
learning, art and commerce die, but leave the big type to an
intellectual aristocracy. He is really the reformed House of Lords
which will come some day.
Young LORD BROCKLEHURST is nothing save for his rank. You could pick
him up by the handful any day in Piccadilly or Holborn, buying
socks--or selling them.)
LORD LOAM (expansively). You are here, Ernest. Feeling fit for the
voyage, Treherne?
TREHERNE. Looking forward to it enormously.
LORD LOAM. That's right. (He chases his children about as if they
were chickens.) Now then, Mary, up and doing, up and doing. Time we
had the servants in. They enjoy it so much.
LADY MARY. They hate it.
LORD LOAM. Mary, to your duties. (And he points severely to the tea-
table.)
ERNEST (twinkling). Congratulations, Brocky.
LORD BROCKLEHURST (who detests humour). Thanks.
ERNEST. Mother pleased?
LORD BROCKLEHURST (with dignity). Mother is very pleased.
ERNEST. That's good. Do you go on the yacht with us?
LORD BROCKLEHURST. Sorry I can't. And look here, Ernest, I will not
be called Brocky.
ERNEST. Mother don't like it?
LORD BROCKLEHURST. She does not. (He leaves ERNEST, who forgives him
and begins to think about his speech. CRICHTON enters.)
LORD LOAM (speaking as one man to another). We are quite ready,
Crichton. (CRICHTON is distressed.)
LADY MARY (sarcastically). How Crichton enjoys it!
LORD LOAM (frowning). He is the only one who doesn't; pitiful
creature.
CRICHTON (shuddering under his lord's displeasure). I can't help
being a Conservative, my lord.
LORD LOAM. Be a man, Crichton. You are the same flesh and blood as
myself.
CRICHTON (in pain). Oh, my lord!
LORD LOAM (sharply). Show them in; and, by the way, they were not
all here last time.
CRICHTON. All, my lord, except the merest trifles.
LORD LOAM. It must be every one. (Lowering.) And remember this,
Crichton, for the time being you are my equal. (Testily.) I shall
soon show you whether you are not my equal. Do as you are told.
(CRICHTON departs to obey, and his lordship is now a general. He has
no pity for his daughters, and uses a terrible threat.)
And girls, remember, no condescension. The first who condescends
recites. (This sends them skurrying to their labours.)
By the way, Brocklehurst, can you do anything?
LORD BROCKLEHURST. How do you mean?
LORD LOAM. Can you do anything--with a penny or a handkerchief, make
them disappear, for instance?
LORD BROCKLEHURST. Good heavens, no.
LORD LOAM. It's a pity. Every one in our position ought to be able
to do something. Ernest, I shall probably ask you to say a few
words; something bright and sparkling.
ERNEST. But, my dear uncle, I have prepared nothing.
LORD LOAM. Anything impromptu will do.
ERNEST. Oh--well--if anything strikes me on the spur of the moment.
(He unostentatiously gets the footstool into position behind the
chair. CRICHTON reappears to announce the guests, of whom the first
is the housekeeper.)
CRICHTON (reluctantly). Mrs. Perkins.
LORD LOAM (shaking hands). Very delighted, Mrs. Perkins. Mary, our
friend, Mrs. Perkins.
LADY MARY. How do you do, Mrs. Perkins? Won't you sit here?
LORD LOAM (threateningly). Agatha!
AGATHA (hastily). How do you do? Won't you sit down?
LORD LOAM (introducing). Lord Brocklehurst--my valued friend, Mrs.
Perkins.
(LORD BROCKLEHURST bows and escapes. He has to fall back on ERNEST.)
LORD BROCKLEHURST. For heaven's sake, Ernest, don't leave me for a
moment; this sort of thing is utterly opposed to all my principles.
ERNEST (airily). You stick to me, Brocky, and I'll pull you through.
CRICHTON. Monsieur Fleury.
ERNEST. The chef.
LORD LOAM (shaking hands with the chef). Very charmed to see you,
Monsieur Fleury.
FLEURY. Thank you very much.
(FLEURY bows to AGATHA, who is not effusive.)
LORD LOAM (warningly). Agatha--recitation!
(She tosses her head, but immediately finds a seat and tea for M.
FLEURY. TREHERNE and ERNEST move about, making themselves amiable.
LADY MARY is presiding at the tea-tray.)
CRICHTON. Mr. Rolleston.
LORD LOAM (shaking hands with his valet). How do you do, Rolleston?
(CATHERINE looks after the wants of ROLLESTON.)
CRICHTON. Mr. Tompsett.
(TOMPSETT, the coachman, is received with honours, from which he
shrinks.)
CRICHTON. Miss Fisher.
(This superb creature is no less than LADY MARY'S maid, and even
LORD LOAM is a little nervous.)
LORD LOAM. This is a pleasure, Miss Fisher.
ERNEST (unabashed). If I might venture, Miss Fisher (and he takes
her unto himself).
CRICHTON. Miss Simmons.
LORD LOAM (to CATHERINE'S maid). You are always welcome, Miss
Simmons.
ERNEST (perhaps to kindle jealousy in Miss FISHER). At last we meet.
Won't you sit down?
CRICHTON. Mademoiselle Jeanne.
LORD LOAM. Charmed to see you, Mademoiselle Jeanne.
(A place is found for AGATHA'S maid, and the scene is now an
animated one; but still our host thinks his girls are not
sufficiently sociable. He frowns on LADY MARY.)
LADY MARY (in alarm). Mr. Treherne, this is Fisher, my maid.
LORD LOAM (sharply). Your what, Mary?
LADY MARY. My friend.
CRICHTON. Thomas.
LORD LOAM. How do you do, Thomas?
(The first footman gives him a reluctant hand.)
CRICHTON. John.
LORD LOAM. How do you do, John?
(ERNEST signs to LORD BROCKLEHURST, who hastens to him.)
ERNEST (introducing). Brocklehurst, this is John. I think you have
already met on the door-step.
CRICHTON. Jane.
(She comes, wrapping her hands miserably in her apron.)
LORD LOAM (doggedly). Give me your hand, Jane.
CRICHTON. Gladys.
ERNEST. How do you do, Gladys. You know my uncle?
LORD LOAM. Your hand, Gladys.
(He bestows her on AGATHA.)
CRICHTON. Tweeny.
(She is a very humble and frightened kitchenmaid, of whom we are to
see more.)
LORD LOAM. So happy to see you.
FISHER. John, I saw you talking to Lord Brocklehurst just now;
introduce me.
LORD BROCKLEHURST (at the same moment to ERNEST). That's an uncommon
pretty girl; if I must feed one of them, Ernest, that's the one.
(But ERNEST tries to part him and FISHER as they are about to shake
hands.)
ERNEST. No you don't, it won't do, Brocky. (To Miss FISHER.) You are
too pretty, my dear. Mother wouldn't like it. (Discovering TWEENY.)
Here's something safer. Charming girl, Brocky, dying to know you;
let me introduce you. Tweeny, Lord Brocklehurst--Lord Brocklehurst,
Tweeny.
(BROCKLEHURST accepts his fate; but he still has an eye for FISHER,
and something may come of this.)
LORD LOAM (severely). They are not all here, Crichton.
CRICHTON (with a sigh). Odds and ends.
(A STABLE-BOY and a PAGE are shown in, and for a moment no daughter
of the house advances to them.)
LORD LOAM (with a roving eye on his children). Which is to recite?
(The last of the company are, so to say, embraced.)
LORD LOAM (to TOMPSETT, as they partake of tea together). And how
are all at home?
TOMPSETT. Fairish, my lord, if 'tis the horses you are inquiring
for?
LORD LOAM. No, no, the family. How's the baby?
TOMPSETT. Blooming, your lordship.
LORD LOAM. A very fine boy. I remember saying so when I saw him;
nice little fellow.
TOMPSETT (not quite knowing whether to let it pass). Beg pardon, my
lord, it's a girl.
LORD LOAM. A girl? Aha! ha! ha! exactly what I said. I distinctly
remember saying, If it's spared it will be a girl.
(CRICHTON now comes down.)
LORD LOAM. Very delighted to see you, Crichton.
(CRICHTON has to shake hands.)
Mary, you know Mr. Crichton?
(He wanders off in search of other prey.)
LADY MARY. Milk and sugar, Crichton?
CRICHTON. I'm ashamed to be seen talking to you, my lady.
LADY MARY. To such a perfect servant as you all this must be most
distasteful. (CRICHTON is too respectful to answer.) Oh, please do
speak, or I shall have to recite. You do hate it, don't you?
CRICHTON. It pains me, your ladyship. It disturbs the etiquette of
the servants' hall. After last month's meeting the pageboy, in a
burst of equality, called me Crichton. He was dismissed.
LADY MARY. I wonder--I really do--how you can remain with us.
CRICHTON. I should have felt compelled to give notice, my lady, if
the master had not had a seat in the Upper House. I cling to that.
LADY MARY. Do go on speaking. Tell me, what did Mr. Ernest mean by
saying he was not young enough to know everything?
CRICHTON. I have no idea, my lady.
LADY MARY. But you laughed.
CRICHTON. My lady, he is the second son of a peer.
LADY MARY. Very proper sentiments. You are a good soul, Crichton.
LORD BROCKLEHURST (desperately to TWEENY). And now tell me, have you
been to the Opera? What sort of weather have you been having in the
kitchen? (TWEENY gurgles.) For Heaven's sake, woman, be articulate.
CRICHTON (still talking to LADY MARY). No, my lady; his lordship may
compel us to be equal upstairs, but there will never be equality in
the servants' hall.
LORD LOAM (overhearing this). What's that? No equality? Can't you
see, Crichton, that our divisions into classes are artificial, that
if we were to return to nature, which is the aspiration of my life,
all would be equal?
CRICHTON. If I may make so bold as to contradict your lordship--
LORD LOAM (with an effort). Go on.
CRICHTON. The divisions into classes, my lord, are not artificial.
They are the natural outcome of a civilised society. (To LADY MARY.)
There must always be a master and servants in all civilised
communities, my lady, for it is natural, and whatever is natural is
right.
LORD LOAM (wincing). It is very unnatural for me to stand here and
allow you to talk such nonsense.
CRICHTON (eagerly). Yes, my lord, it is. That is what I have been
striving to point out to your lordship.
AGATHA (to CATHERINE). What is the matter with Fisher? She is
looking daggers.
CATHERINE. The tedious creature; some question of etiquette, I
suppose.
(She sails across to FISHER.)
How are you, Fisher?
FISHER (with a toss of her head). I am nothing, my lady, I am
nothing at all.
AGATHA. Oh dear, who says so?
FISHER (affronted). His lordship has asked that kitchen wench to
have a second cup of tea.
CATHERINE. But why not?
FISHER. If it pleases his lordship to offer it to her before
offering it to me--
AGATHA. So that is it. Do you want another cup of tea, Fisher?
FISHER. No, my lady--but my position--I should have been asked
first.
AGATHA. Oh dear.
(All this has taken some time, and by now the feeble appetites of
the uncomfortable guests have been satiated. But they know there is
still another ordeal to face--his lordship's monthly speech. Every
one awaits it with misgiving--the servants lest they should applaud,
as last time, in the wrong place, and the daughters because he may
be personal about them, as the time before. ERNEST is annoyed that
there should be this speech at all when there is such a much better
one coming, and BROCKLEHURST foresees the degradation of the
peerage. All are thinking of themselves alone save CRICHTON, who
knows his master's weakness, and fears he may stick in the middle.
LORD LOAM, however, advances cheerfully to his doom. He sees
ERNEST'S stool, and artfully stands on it, to his nephew's natural
indignation. The three ladies knit their lips, the servants look
down their noses, and the address begins.)
LORD LOAM. My friends, I am glad to see you all looking so happy. It
used to be predicted by the scoffer that these meetings would prove
distasteful to you. Are they distasteful? I hear you laughing at the
question.
(He has not heard them, but he hears them now, the watchful CRICHTON
giving them a lead.)
No harm in saying that among us to-day is one who was formerly
hostile to the movement, but who to-day has been won over. I refer
to Lord Brocklehurst, who, I am sure, will presently say to me that
if the charming lady now by his side has derived as much pleasure
from his company as he has derived from hers, he will be more than
satisfied.
(All look at TWEENY, who trembles.)
For the time being the artificial and unnatural--I say unnatural
(glaring at CRICHTON, who bows slightly)--barriers of society are
swept away. Would that they could be swept away for ever.
(The PAGEBOY cheers, and has the one moment of prominence in his
life. He grows up, marries and has children, but is never really
heard of again.)
But that is entirely and utterly out of the question. And now for a
few months we are to be separated. As you know, my daughters and Mr.
Ernest and Mr. Treherne are to accompany me on my yacht, on a voyage
to distant parts of the earth. In less than forty-eight hours we
shall be under weigh.
(But for CRICHTON'S eye the reckless PAGEBOY would repeat his
success.)
Do not think our life on the yacht is to be one long idle holiday.
My views on the excessive luxury of the day are well known, and what
I preach I am resolved to practise. I have therefore decided that my
daughters, instead of having one maid each as at present, shall on
this voyage have but one maid between them.
(Three maids rise; also three mistresses.)
CRICHTON. My lord!
LORD LOAM. My mind is made up.
ERNEST. I cordially agree.
LORD LOAM. And now, my friends, I should like to think that there is
some piece of advice I might give you, some thought, some noble
saying over which you might ponder in my absence. In this connection
I remember a proverb, which has had a great effect on my own life. I
first heard it many years ago. I have never forgotten it. It
constantly cheers and guides me. That proverb is--that proverb was--
the proverb I speak of--
(He grows pale and taps his forehead.)
LADY MARY. Oh dear, I believe he has forgotten it.
LORD LOAM (desperately). The proverb--that proverb to which I refer--
(Alas, it has gone. The distress is general. He has not even the
sense to sit down. He gropes for the proverb in the air. They try
applause, but it is no help.)
I have it now--(not he).
LADY MARY (with confidence). Crichton.
(He does not fail her. As quietly as if he were in goloshes, mind as
well as feet, he dismisses the domestics; they go according to
precedence as they entered, yet, in a moment, they are gone. Then he
signs to MR. TREHERNE, and they conduct LORD LOAM with dignity from
the room. His hands are still catching flies; he still mutters, 'The
proverb--that proverb'; but he continues, owing to CRICHTON'S
skilful treatment, to look every inch a peer. The ladies have now an
opportunity to air their indignation.)
LADY MARY. One maid among three grown women!
LORD BROCKLEHURST. Mary, I think I had better go. That dreadful
kitchenmaid--
LADY MARY. I can't blame you, George.
(He salutes her.)
LORD BROCKLEHURST. Your father's views are shocking to me, and I am
glad I am not to be one of the party on the yacht. My respect for
myself, Mary, my natural anxiety as to what mother will say. I shall
see you, darling, before you sail.
(He bows to the others and goes.)
ERNEST. Selfish brute, only thinking of himself. What about my
speech?
LADY MARY. One maid among three of us. What's to be done?
ERNEST. Pooh! You must do for yourselves, that's all.
LADY MARY. Do for ourselves. How can we know where our things are
kept?
AGATHA. Are you aware that dresses button up the back?
CATHERINE. How are we to get into our shoes and be prepared for the
carriage?
LADY MARY. Who is to put us to bed, and who is to get us up, and how
shall we ever know it's morning if there is no one to pull up the
blinds?
(CRICHTON crosses on his way out.)
ERNEST. How is his lordship now?
CRICHTON. A little easier, sir.
LADY MARY. Crichton, send Fisher to me.
(He goes.)
ERNEST. I have no pity for you girls, I--
LADY MARY. Ernest, go away, and don't insult the broken-hearted.
ERNEST. And uncommon glad I am to go. Ta-ta, all of you. He asked me
to say a few words. I came here to say a few words, and I'm not at
all sure that I couldn't bring an action against him.
(He departs, feeling that he has left a dart behind him. The girls
are alone with their tragic thoughts.)
LADY MARY (becomes a mother to the younger ones at last). My poor
sisters, come here. (They go to her doubtfully.) We must make this
draw us closer together. I shall do my best to help you in every
way. Just now I cannot think of myself at all.
AGATHA. But how unlike you, Mary.
LADY MARY. It is my duty to protect my sisters.
CATHERINE. I never knew her so sweet before, Agatha. (Cautiously.)
What do you propose to do, Mary?
LADY MARY. I propose when we are on the yacht to lend Fisher to you
when I don't need her myself.
AGATHA. Fisher?
LADY MARY (who has the most character of the three). Of course, as
the eldest, I have decided that it is my maid we shall take with us.
CATHERINE (speaking also for AGATHA). Mary, you toad.
AGATHA. Nothing on earth would induce Fisher to lift her hand for
either me or Catherine.
LADY MARY. I was afraid of it, Agatha. That is why I am so sorry for
you.
(The further exchange of pleasantries is interrupted by the arrival
of FISHER.)
LADY MARY. Fisher, you heard what his lordship said?
FISHER. Yes, my lady.
LADY MARY (coldly, though the others would have tried blandishment).
You have given me some satisfaction of late, Fisher, and to mark my
approval I have decided that you shall be the maid who accompanies
us.
FISHER (acidly). I thank you, my lady.
LADY MARY. That is all; you may go.
FISHER (rapping it out). If you please, my lady, I wish to give
notice.
(CATHERINE and AGATHA gleam, but LADY MARY is of sterner stuff.)
LADY MARY (taking up a book). Oh, certainly--you may go.
CATHERINE. But why, Fisher?
FISHER. I could not undertake, my lady, to wait upon three. We don't
do it. (In an indignant outburst to LADY MARY.) Oh, my lady, to
think that this affront--
LADY MARY (looking up). I thought I told you to go, Fisher.
(FISHER stands for a moment irresolute; then goes. As soon as she
has gone LADY MARY puts down her book and weeps. She is a pretty
woman, but this is the only pretty thing we have seen her do yet.)
AGATHA (succinctly). Serves you right.
(CRICHTON comes.)
CATHERINE. It will be Simmons after all. Send Simmons to me.
CRICHTON (after hesitating). My lady, might I venture to speak?
CATHERINE. What is it?
CRICHTON. I happen to know, your ladyship, that Simmons desires to
give notice for the same reason as Fisher.
CATHERINE. Oh!
AGATHA (triumphant). Then, Catherine, we take Jeanne.
CRICHTON. And Jeanne also, my lady.
(LADY MARY is reading, indifferent though the heavens fall, but her
sisters are not ashamed to show their despair to CRICHTON.)
AGATHA. We can't blame them. Could any maid who respected herself be
got to wait upon three?
LADY MARY (with languid interest). I suppose there are such persons,
Crichton?
CRICHTON (guardedly). I have heard, my lady, that there are such.
LADY MARY (a little desperate). Crichton, what's to be done? We sail
in two days; could one be discovered in the time?
AGATHA (frankly a supplicant). Surely you can think of some one?
CRICHTON (after hesitating). There is in this establishment, your
ladyship, a young woman--
LADY MARY. Yes?
CRICHTON. A young woman, on whom I have for some time cast an eye.
CATHERINE (eagerly). Do you mean as a possible lady's-maid?
CRICHTON. I had thought of her, my lady, in another connection.
LADY MARY. Ah!
CRICHTON. But I believe she is quite the young person you require.
Perhaps if you could see her, my lady--
LADY MARY. I shall certainly see her. Bring her to me. (He goes.)
You two needn't wait.
CATHERINE. Needn't we? We see your little game, Mary.
AGATHA. We shall certainly remain and have our two-thirds of her.
(They sit there doggedly until CRICHTON returns with TWEENY, who
looks scared.)
CRICHTON. This, my lady, is the young person.
CATHERINE (frankly). Oh dear!
(It is evident that all three consider her quite unsuitable.)
LADY MARY. Come here, girl. Don't be afraid.
(TWEENY looks imploringly at her idol.)
CRICHTON. Her appearance, my lady, is homely, and her manners, as
you may have observed, deplorable, but she has a heart of gold.
LADY MARY. What is your position downstairs?
TWEENY (bobbing). I'm a tweeny, your ladyship.
CATHERINE. A what?
CRICHTON. A tweeny; that is to say, my lady, she is not at present,
strictly speaking, anything; a between maid; she helps the vegetable
maid. It is she, my lady, who conveys the dishes from the one end of
the kitchen table, where they are placed by the cook, to the other
end, where they enter into the charge of Thomas and John.
LADY MARY. I see. And you and Crichton are--ah--keeping company?
(CRICHTON draws himself up.)
TWEENY (aghast). A butler don't keep company, my lady.
LADY MARY (indifferently). Does he not?
CRICHTON. No, your ladyship, we butlers may--(he makes a gesture
with his arms)--but we do not keep company.
AGATHA. I know what it is; you are engaged?
(TWEENY looks longingly at CRICHTON.)
CRICHTON. Certainly not, my lady. The utmost I can say at present is
that I have cast a favourable eye.
(Even this is much to TWEENY.)
LADY MARY. As you choose. But I am afraid, Crichton, she will not
suit us.
CRICHTON. My lady, beneath this simple exterior are concealed a very
sweet nature and rare womanly gifts.
AGATHA. Unfortunately, that is not what we want.
CRICHTON. And it is she, my lady, who dresses the hair of the
ladies'-maids for our evening meals.
(The ladies are interested at last.)
LADY MARY. She dresses Fisher's hair?
TWEENY. Yes, my lady, and I does them up when they goes to parties.
CRICHTON (pained, but not scolding). Does!
TWEENY. Doos. And it's me what alters your gowns to fit them.
CRICHTON. What alters!
TWEENY. Which alters.
AGATHA. Mary?
LADY MARY. I shall certainly have her.
CATHERINE. We shall certainly have her. Tweeny, we have decided to
make a lady's-maid of you.
TWEENY. Oh lawks!
AGATHA. We are doing this for you so that your position socially may
be more nearly akin to that of Crichton.
CRICHTON (gravely). It will undoubtedly increase the young person's
chances.
LADY MARY. Then if I get a good character for you from Mrs. Perkins,
she will make the necessary arrangements.
(She resumes reading.)
TWEENY (elated). My lady!
LADY MARY. By the way, I hope you are a good sailor.
TWEENY (startled). You don't mean, my lady, I'm to go on the ship?
LADY MARY. Certainly.
TWEENY. But--(To CRICHTON.) You ain't going, sir?
CRICHTON. No.
TWEENY (firm at last). Then neither ain't I.
AGATHA. YOU must.
TWEENY. Leave him! Not me.
LADY MARY. Girl, don't be silly. Crichton will be--considered in
your wages.
TWEENY. I ain't going.
CRICHTON. I feared this, my lady.
TWEENY. Nothing'll budge me.
LADY MARY. Leave the room.
(CRICHTON shows TWEENY out with marked politeness.)
AGATHA. Crichton, I think you might have shown more displeasure with
her.
CRICHTON (contrite). I was touched, my lady. I see, my lady, that to
part from her would be a wrench to me, though I could not well say
so in her presence, not having yet decided how far I shall go with
her.
(He is about to go when LORD LOAM returns, fuming.)
LORD LOAM. The ingrate! The smug! The fop!
CATHERINE. What is it now, father?
LORD LOAM. That man of mine, Rolleston, refuses to accompany us
because you are to have but one maid.
AGATHA. Hurrah!
LADY MARY (in better taste). Darling father, rather than you should
lose Rolleston, we will consent to take all the three of them.
LORD LOAM. Pooh, nonsense! Crichton, find me a valet who can do
without three maids.
CRICHTON. Yes, my lord. (Troubled.) In the time--the more suitable
the party, my lord, the less willing will he be to come without the--
the usual perquisites.
LORD LOAM. Any one will do.
CRICHTON (shocked). My lord!
LORD LOAM. The ingrate! The puppy!
(AGATHA has an idea, and whispers to LADY MARY.)
LADY MARY. I ask a favour of a servant?--never!
AGATHA. Then I will. Crichton, would it not be very distressing to
you to let his lordship go, attended by a valet who might prove
unworthy? It is only for three months; don't you think that you--you
yourself--you--
(As CRICHTON sees what she wants he pulls himself up with noble,
offended dignity, and she is appalled.)
I beg your pardon.
(He bows stiffly.)
CATHERINE (to CRICHTON). But think of the joy to Tweeny.
(CRICHTON is moved, but he shakes his head.)
LADY MARY (so much the cleverest). Crichton, do you think it safe to
let the master you love go so far away without you while he has
these dangerous views about equality?
(CRICHTON is profoundly stirred. After a struggle he goes to his
master, who has been pacing the room.)
CRICHTON. My lord, I have found a man.
LORD LOAM. Already? Who is he?
(CRICHTON presents himself with a gesture.)
Yourself?
CATHERINE. Father, how good of him.
LORD LOAM (pleased, but thinking it a small thing). Uncommon good.
Thank you, Crichton. This helps me nicely out of a hole; and how it
will annoy Rolleston! Come with me, and we shall tell him. Not that
I think you have lowered yourself in any way. Come along.
(He goes, and CRICHTON is to follow him, but is stopped by AGATHA
impulsively offering him her hand.)
CRICHTON (who is much shaken). My lady--a valet's hand!
AGATHA. I had no idea you would feel it so deeply; why did you do
it?
(CRICHTON is too respectful to reply.)
LADY MARY (regarding him). Crichton, I am curious. I insist upon an
answer.
CRICHTON. My lady, I am the son of a butler and a lady's-maid--
perhaps the happiest of all combinations, and to me the most
beautiful thing in the world is a haughty, aristocratic English
house, with every one kept in his place. Though I were equal to your
ladyship, where would be the pleasure to me? It would be
counterbalanced by the pain of feeling that Thomas and John were
equal to me.
CATHERINE. But father says if we were to return to nature--
CRICHTON. If we did, my lady, the first thing we should do would be
to elect a head. Circumstances might alter cases; the same person
might not be master; the same persons might not be servants. I can't
say as to that, nor should we have the deciding of it. Nature would
decide for us.
LADY MARY. You seem to have thought it all out carefully, Crichton.
CRICHTON. Yes, my lady.
CATHERINE. And you have done this for us, Crichton, because you
thought that--that father needed to be kept in his place?
CRICHTON. I should prefer you to say, my lady, that I have done it
for the house.
AGATHA. Thank you, Crichton. Mary, be nicer to him. (But LADY MARY
has begun to read again.) If there was any way in which we could
show our gratitude.
CRICHTON. If I might venture, my lady, would you kindly show it by
becoming more like Lady Mary. That disdain is what we like from our
superiors. Even so do we, the upper servants, disdain the lower
servants, while they take it out of the odds and ends.
(He goes, and they bury themselves in cushions.)
AGATHA. Oh dear, what a tiring day.
CATHERINE. I feel dead. Tuck in your feet, you selfish thing.
(LADY MARY is lying reading on another couch.)
LADY MARY. I wonder what he meant by circumstances might alter
cases.
AGATHA (yawning). Don't talk, Mary, I was nearly asleep.
LADY MARY. I wonder what he meant by the same person might not be
master, and the same persons might not be servants.
CATHERINE. Do be quiet, Mary, and leave it to nature; he said nature
would decide.
LADY MARY. I wonder--
(But she does not wonder very much. She would wonder more if she
knew what was coming. Her book slips unregarded to the floor. The
ladies are at rest until it is time to dress.)
End of Act I.
ACT II
THE ISLAND
Two months have elapsed, and the scene is a desert island in the
Pacific, on which our adventurers have been wrecked.
The curtain rises on a sea of bamboo, which shuts out all view save
the foliage of palm trees and some gaunt rocks. Occasionally
Crichton and Treherne come momentarily into sight, hacking and
hewing the bamboo, through which they are making a clearing between
the ladies and the shore; and by and by, owing to their efforts, we
shall have an unrestricted outlook on to a sullen sea that is at
present hidden. Then we shall also be able to note a mast standing
out of the water--all that is left, saving floating wreckage, of the
ill-fated yacht the Bluebell. The beginnings of a hut will also be
seen, with Crichton driving its walls into the ground or astride its
roof of saplings, for at present he is doing more than one thing at
a time. In a red shirt, with the ends of his sailor's breeches
thrust into wading-boots, he looks a man for the moment; we suddenly
remember some one's saying--perhaps it was ourselves--that a
cataclysm would be needed to get him out of his servant's clothes,
and apparently it has been forthcoming. It is no longer beneath our
dignity to cast an inquiring eye on his appearance. His features are
not distinguished, but he has a strong jaw and green eyes, in which
a yellow light burns that we have not seen before. His dark hair,
hitherto so decorously sleek, has been ruffled this way and that by
wind and weather, as if they were part of the cataclysm and wanted
to help his chance. His muscles must be soft and flabby still, but
though they shriek aloud to him to desist, he rains lusty blows with
his axe, like one who has come upon the open for the first time in
his life, and likes it. He is as yet far from being an expert
woodsman--mark the blood on his hands at places where he has hit
them instead of the tree; but note also that he does not waste time
in bandaging them--he rubs them in the earth and goes on. His face
is still of the discreet pallor that befits a butler, and he carries
the smaller logs as if they were a salver; not in a day or a month
will he shake off the badge of servitude, but without knowing it he
has begun.
But for the hatchets at work, and an occasional something horrible
falling from a tree into the ladies' laps, they hear nothing save
the mournful surf breaking on a coral shore.
They sit or recline huddled together against a rock, and they are
farther from home, in every sense of the word, than ever before.
Thirty-six hours ago, they were given three minutes in which to
dress, without a maid, and reach the boats, and they have not made
the best of that valuable time. None of them has boots, and had they
known this prickly island they would have thought first of boots.
They have a sufficiency of garments, but some of them were gifts
dropped into the boat--Lady Mary's tarpaulin coat and hat, for
instance, and Catherine's blue jersey and red cap, which certify
that the two ladies were lately before the mast. Agatha is too gay
in Ernest's dressing-gown, and clutches it to her person with both
hands as if afraid that it may be claimed by its rightful owner.
There are two pairs of bath slippers between the three of them, and
their hair cries aloud and in vain for hairpins.
By their side, on an inverted bucket, sits Ernest, clothed neatly in
the garments of day and night, but, alas, bare-footed. He is the
only cheerful member of this company of four, but his brightness is
due less to a manly desire to succour the helpless than to his
having been lately in the throes of composition, and to his modest
satisfaction with the result. He reads to the ladies, and they
listen, each with one scared eye to the things that fall from trees.
ERNEST (who has written on the fly-leaf of the only book saved from
the wreck). This is what I have written. 'Wrecked, wrecked, wrecked!
on an island in the Tropics, the following: the Hon. Ernest Woolley,
the Rev. John Treherne, the Ladies Mary, Catherine, and Agatha
Lasenby, with two servants. We are the sole survivors of Lord Loam's
steam yacht Bluebell, which encountered a fearful gale in these
seas, and soon became a total wreck. The crew behaved gallantly,
putting us all into the first boat. What became of them I cannot
tell, but we, after dreadful sufferings, and insufficiently clad, in
whatever garments we could lay hold of in the dark'--
LADY MARY. Please don't describe our garments.
ERNEST. --'succeeded in reaching this island, with the loss of only
one of our party, namely, Lord Loam, who flung away his life in a
gallant attempt to save a servant who had fallen overboard.' (The
ladies have wept long and sore for their father, but there is
something in this last utterance that makes them look up.)
AGATHA. But, Ernest, it was Crichton who jumped overboard trying to
save father.
ERNEST (with the candour that is one of his most engaging
qualities). Well, you know, it was rather silly of uncle to fling
away his life by trying to get into the boat first; and as this
document may be printed in the English papers, it struck me, an
English peer, you know--
LADY MARY (every inch an English peer's daughter). Ernest, that is
very thoughtful of you.
ERNEST (continuing, well pleased). --'By night the cries of wild
cats and the hissing of snakes terrify us extremely'--(this does not
satisfy him so well, and he makes a correction)--'terrify the ladies
extremely. Against these we have no weapons except one cutlass and a
hatchet. A bucket washed ashore is at present our only comfortable
seat'--
LADY MARY (with some spirit). And Ernest is sitting on it.
ERNEST. H'sh! Oh, do be quiet.--'To add to our horrors, night falls
suddenly in these parts, and it is then that savage animals begin to
prowl and roar.'
LADY MARY. Have you said that vampire bats suck the blood from our
toes as we sleep?
ERNEST. No, that's all. I end up, 'Rescue us or we perish. Rich
reward. Signed Ernest Woolley, in command of our little party.' This
is written on a leaf taken out of a book of poems that Crichton
found in his pocket. Fancy Crichton being a reader of poetry. Now I
shall put it into the bottle and fling it into the sea.
(He pushes the precious document into a soda-water bottle, and rams
the cork home. At the same moment, and without effort, he gives
birth to one of his most characteristic epigrams.)
The tide is going out, we mustn't miss the post.
(They are so unhappy that they fail to grasp it, and a little
petulantly he calls for CRICHTON, ever his stand-by in the hour of
epigram. CRICHTON breaks through the undergrowth quickly, thinking
the ladies are in danger.)
CRICHTON. Anything wrong, sir?
ERNEST (with fine confidence). The tide, Crichton, is a postman who
calls at our island twice a day for letters.
CRICHTON (after a pause). Thank you, sir.
(He returns to his labours, however, without giving the smile which
is the epigrammatist's right, and ERNEST is a little disappointed in
him.)
ERNEST. Poor Crichton! I sometimes think he is losing his sense of
humour. Come along, Agatha.
(He helps his favourite up the rocks, and they disappear gingerly
from view.)
CATHERINE. How horribly still it is.
LADY MARY (remembering some recent sounds). It is best when it is
still.
CATHERINE (drawing closer to her). Mary, I have heard that they are
always very still just before they jump.
LADY MARY. Don't. (A distinct chapping is heard, and they are
startled.)
LADY MARY (controlling herself). It is only Crichton knocking down
trees.
CATHERINE (almost imploringly). Mary, let us go and stand beside
him.
LADY MARY (coldly). Let a servant see that I am afraid!
CATHERINE. Don't, then; but remember this, dear, they often drop on
one from above.
(She moves away, nearer to the friendly sound of the axe, and LADY
MARY is left alone. She is the most courageous of them as well as
the haughtiest, but when something she had thought to be a stick
glides toward her, she forgets her dignity and screams.)
LADY MARY (calling). Crichton, Crichton!
(It must have been TREHERNE who was tree-felling, for CRICHTON comes
to her from the hut, drawing his cutlass.)
CRICHTON (anxious). Did you call, my lady?
LADY MARY (herself again, now that he is there). I! Why should I?
CRICHTON. I made a mistake, your ladyship. (Hesitating.) If you are
afraid of being alone, my lady--
LADY MARY. Afraid! Certainly not. (Doggedly.) You may go.
(But she does not complain when he remains within eyesight cutting
the bamboo. It is heavy work, and she watches him silently.)
LADY MARY. I wish, Crichton, you could work without getting so hot.
CRICHTON (mopping his face). I wish I could, my lady.
(He continues his labours.)
LADY MARY (taking off her oilskins). It makes me hot to look at you.
CRICHTON. It almost makes me cool to look at your ladyship.
LADY MARY (who perhaps thinks he is presuming). Anything I can do
for you in that way, Crichton, I shall do with pleasure.
CRICHTON (quite humbly). Thank you, my lady.
(By this time most of the bamboo has been cut, and the shore and sea
are visible, except where they are hidden by the half completed hut.
The mast rising solitary from the water adds to the desolation of
the scene, and at last tears run down LADY MARY'S face.)
CRICHTON. Don't give way, my lady, things might be worse.
LADY MARY. My poor father.
CRICHTON. If I could have given my life for his.
LADY MARY. You did all a man could do. Indeed I thank you, Crichton.
(With some admiration and more wonder.) You are a man.
CRICHTON. Thank you, my lady.
LADY MARY. But it is all so awful. Crichton, is there any hope of a
ship coming?
CRICHTON (after hesitation). Of course there is, my lady.
LADY MARY (facing him bravely). Don't treat me as a child. I have
got to know the worst, and to face it. Crichton, the truth.
CRICHTON (reluctantly). We were driven out of our course, my lady; I
fear far from the track of commerce.
LADY MARY. Thank you; I understand.
(For a moment, however, she breaks down. Then she clenches her hands
and stands erect.)
CRICHTON (watching her, and forgetting perhaps for the moment that
they are not just a man and woman). You're a good pluckt 'un, my
lady.
LADY MARY (falling into the same error). I shall try to be.
(Extricating herself.) Crichton, how dare you?
CRICHTON. I beg your ladyship's pardon; but you are.
(She smiles, as if it were a comfort to be told this even by
CRICHTON.)
And until a ship comes we are three men who are going to do our best
for you ladies.
LADY MARY (with a curl of the lip). Mr. Ernest does no work.
CRICHTON (cheerily). But he will, my lady.
LADY MARY. I doubt it.
CRICHTON (confidently, but perhaps thoughtlessly). No work--no
dinner--will make a great change in Mr. Ernest.
LADY MARY. No work--no dinner. When did you invent that rule,
Crichton?
CRICHTON (loaded with bamboo). I didn't invent it, my lady. I seem
to see it growing all over the island.
LADY MARY (disquieted). Crichton, your manner strikes me as curious.
CRICHTON (pained). I hope not, your ladyship.
LADY MARY (determined to have it out with him). You are not implying
anything so unnatural, I presume, as that if I and my sisters don't
work there will be no dinner for us?
CRICHTON (brightly). If it is unnatural, my lady, that is the end of
it.
LADY MARY. If? Now I understand. The perfect servant at home holds
that we are all equal now. I see.
CRICHTON (wounded to the quick). My lady, can you think me so
inconsistent?
LADY MARY. That is it.
CRICHTON (earnestly). My lady, I disbelieved in equality at home
because it was against nature, and for that same reason I as utterly
disbelieve in it on an island.
LADY MARY (relieved by his obvious sincerity). I apologise.
CRICHTON (continuing unfortunately). There must always, my lady, be
one to command and others to obey.
LADY MARY (satisfied). One to command, others to obey. Yes. (Then
suddenly she realises that there may be a dire meaning in his
confident words.) Crichton!
CRICHTON (who has intended no dire meaning). What is it, my lady?
(But she only stares into his face and then hurries from him. Left
alone he is puzzled, but being a practical man he busies himself
gathering firewood, until TWEENY appears excitedly carrying cocoa-
nuts in her skirt. She has made better use than the ladies of her
three minutes' grace for dressing.)
TWEENY (who can be happy even on an island if CRICHTON is with her).
Look what I found.
CRICHTON. Cocoa-nuts. Bravo!
TWEENY. They grows on trees.
CRICHTON. Where did you think they grew?
TWEENY. I thought as how they grew in rows on top of little sticks.
CRICHTON (wrinkling his brows). Oh Tweeny, Tweeny!
TWEENY (anxiously). Have I offended of your feelings again, sir?
CRICHTON. A little.
TWEENY (in a despairing outburst). I'm full o' vulgar words and
ways; and though I may keep them in their holes when you are by, as
soon as I'm by myself out they comes in a rush like beetles when the
house is dark. I says them gloating-like, in my head--'Blooming' I
says, and 'All my eye,' and 'Ginger,' and 'Nothink'; and all the
time we was being wrecked I was praying to myself, 'Please the Lord
it may be an island as it's natural to be vulgar on.'
(A shudder passes through CRICHTON, and she is abject.)
That's the kind I am, sir. I'm 'opeless. You'd better give me up.
(She is a pathetic, forlorn creature, and his manhood is stirred.)
CRICHTON (wondering a little at himself for saying it). I won't give
you up. It is strange that one so common should attract one so
fastidious; but so it is. (Thoughtfully.) There is something about
you, Tweeny, there is a je ne sais quoi about you.
TWEENY (knowing only that he has found something in her to commend).
Is there, is there? Oh, I am glad.
CRICHTON (putting his hand on her shoulder like a protector). We
shall fight your vulgarity together. (All this time he has been
arranging sticks for his fire.) Now get some dry grass. (She brings
him grass, and he puts it under the sticks. He produces an odd lens
from his pocket, and tries to focus the sun's rays.)
TWEENY. Why, what's that?
CRICHTON (the ingenious creature). That's the glass from my watch
and one from Mr. Treherne's, with a little water between them. I'm
hoping to kindle a fire with it.
TWEENY (properly impressed). Oh sir!
(After one failure the grass takes fire, and they are blowing on it
when excited cries near by bring them sharply to their feet. AGATHA
runs to them, white of face, followed by ERNEST.)
ERNEST. Danger! Crichton, a tiger-cat!
CRICHTON (getting his cutlass). Where?
AGATHA. It is at our heels.
ERNEST. Look out, Crichton.
CRICHTON. H'sh!
(TREHERNE comes to his assistance, while LADY MARY and CATHERINE
join AGATHA in the hut.) ERNEST. It will be on us in a moment. (He
seizes the hatchet and guards the hut. It is pleasing to see that
ERNEST is no coward.)
TREHERNE. Listen!
ERNEST. The grass is moving. It's coming.
(It comes. But it is no tiger-cat; it is LORD LOAM crawling on his
hands and knees, a very exhausted and dishevelled peer, wondrously
attired in rags. The girls see him, and with glad cries rush into
his arms.)
LADY MARY. Father.
LORD LOAM. Mary--Catherine--Agatha. Oh dear, my dears, my dears, oh
dear!
LADY MARY. Darling.
AGATHA. Sweetest.
CATHERINE. Love.
TREHERNE. Glad to see you, sir.
ERNEST. Uncle, uncle, dear old uncle.
(For a time such happy cries fill the air, but presently TREHERNE is
thoughtless.)
TREHERNE. Ernest thought you were a tiger-cat.
LORD LOAM (stung somehow to the quick). Oh, did you? I knew you at
once, Ernest; I knew you by the way you ran.
(ERNEST smiles forgivingly.)
CRICHTON (venturing forward at last). My lord, I am glad.
ERNEST (with upraised finger). But you are also idling, Crichton.
(Making himself comfortable on the ground.) We mustn't waste time.
To work, to work.
CRICHTON (after contemplating him without rancour). Yes, sir.
(He gets a pot from the hut and hangs it on a tripod over the fire,
which is now burning brightly.)
TREHERNE. Ernest, you be a little more civil. Crichton, let me help.
(He is soon busy helping CRICHTON to add to the strength of the
hut.)
LORD LOAM (gazing at the pot as ladies are said to gaze on precious
stones). Is that--but I suppose I'm dreaming again. (Timidly.) It
isn't by any chance a pot on top of a fire, is it?
LADY MARY. Indeed, it is, dearest. It is our supper.
LORD LOAM. I have been dreaming of a pot on a fire for two days.
(Quivering.) There 's nothing in it, is there?
ERNEST. Sniff, uncle. (LORD LOAM sniffs.)
LORD LOAM (reverently). It smells of onions!
(There is a sudden diversion.)
CATHERINE. Father, you have boots!
LADY MARY. So he has.
LORD LOAM. Of course I have.
ERNEST (with greedy cunning). You are actually wearing boots, uncle.
It's very unsafe, you know, in this climate.
LORD LOAM. Is it?
ERNEST. We have all abandoned them, you observe. The blood, the
arteries, you know.
LORD LOAM. I hadn't a notion.
(He holds out his feet, and ERNEST kneels.)
ERNEST. O Lord, yes.
(In another moment those boots will be his.)
LADY MARY (quickly). Father, he is trying to get your boots from
you. There is nothing in the world we wouldn't give for boots.
ERNEST (rising haughtily, a proud spirit misunderstood). I only
wanted the loan of them.
AGATHA (running her fingers along them lovingly). If you lend them
to any one, it will be to us, won't it, father.
LORD LOAM. Certainly, my child.
ERNEST. Oh, very well. (He is leaving these selfish ones.) I don't
want your old boots. (He gives his uncle a last chance.) You don't
think you could spare me one boot?
LORD LOAM (tartly). I do not.
ERNEST. Quite so. Well, all I can say is I'm sorry for you.
(He departs to recline elsewhere.)
LADY MARY. Father, we thought we should never see you again.
LORD LOAM. I was washed ashore, my dear, clinging to a hencoop. How
awful that first night was.
LADY MARY. Poor father.
LORD LOAM. When I woke, I wept. Then I began to feel extremely
hungry. There was a large turtle on the beach. I remembered from the
Swiss Family Robinson that if you turn a turtle over he is helpless.
My dears, I crawled towards him, I flung myself upon him--(here he
pauses to rub his leg)--the nasty, spiteful brute.
LADY MARY. You didn't turn him over?
LORD LOAM (vindictively, though he is a kindly man). Mary, the
senseless thing wouldn't wait; I found that none of them would wait.
CATHERINE. We should have been as badly off if Crichton hadn't--
LADY MARY (quickly). Don't praise Crichton.
LORD LOAM. And then those beastly monkeys, I always understood that
if you flung stones at them they would retaliate by flinging cocoa-
nuts at you. Would you believe it, I flung a hundred stones, and not
one monkey had sufficient intelligence to grasp my meaning. How I
longed for Crichton.
LADY MARY (wincing). For us also, father?
LORD LOAM. For you also. I tried for hours to make a fire. The
authors say that when wrecked on an island you can obtain a light by
rubbing two pieces of stick together. (With feeling.) The liars!
LADY MARY. And all this time you thought there was no one on the
island but yourself?
LORD LOAM. I thought so until this morning. I was searching the
pools for little fishes, which I caught in my hat, when suddenly I
saw before me--on the sand--
CATHERINE. What?
LORD LOAM. A hairpin.
LADY MARY. A hairpin! It must be one of ours. Give it me, father.
AGATHA. No, it's mine.
LORD LOAM. I didn't keep it.
LADY MARY (speaking for all three). Didn't keep it? Found a hairpin
on an island, and didn't keep it?
LORD LOAM (humbly). My dears.
AGATHA (scarcely to be placated). Oh father, we have returned to
nature more than you bargained for.
LADY MARY. For shame, Agatha. (She has something on her mind.)
Father, there is something I want you to do at once--I mean to
assert your position as the chief person on the island.
(They are all surprised.)
LORD LOAM. But who would presume to question it?
CATHERINE. She must mean Ernest.
LADY MARY. Must I?
AGATHA. It's cruel to say anything against Ernest.
LORD LOAM (firmly). If any one presumes to challenge my position, I
shall make short work of him.
AGATHA. Here comes Ernest; now see if you can say these horrid
things to his face.
LORD LOAM. I shall teach him his place at once.
LADY MARY (anxiously). But how?
LORD LOAM (chuckling). I have just thought of an extremely amusing
way of doing it. (As ERNEST approaches.) Ernest.
ERNEST (loftily). Excuse me, uncle, I'm thinking. I'm planning out
the building of this hut.
LORD LOAM. I also have been thinking.
ERNEST. That don't matter.
LORD LOAM. Eh?
ERNEST. Please, please, this is important.
LORD LOAM. I have been thinking that I ought to give you my boots.
ERNEST. What!
LADY MARY. Father.
LORD LOAM (genially). Take them, my boy. (With a rapidity we had not
thought him capable of, ERNEST becomes the wearer of the boots.) And
now I dare say you want to know why I give them to you, Ernest?
ERNEST (moving up and down in them deliciously). Not at all. The
great thing is, 'I've got 'em, I've got 'em.'
LORD LOAM (majestically, but with a knowing look at his daughters).
My reason is that, as head of our little party, you, Ernest, shall
be our hunter, you shall clear the forests of those savage beasts
that make them so dangerous. (Pleasantly.) And now you know, my dear
nephew, why I have given you my boots.
ERNEST. This is my answer.
(He kicks off the boots.)
LADY MARY (still anxious). Father, assert yourself.
LORD LOAM. I shall now assert myself. (But how to do it? He has a
happy thought.) Call Crichton.
LADY MARY. Oh father.
(CRICHTON comes in answer to a summons, and is followed by
TREHERNE.)
ERNEST (wondering a little at LADY MARY'S grave face). Crichton,
look here.
LORD LOAM (sturdily). Silence! Crichton, I want your advice as to
what I ought to do with Mr. Ernest. He has defied me.
ERNEST. Pooh!
CRICHTON (after considering). May I speak openly, my lord?
LADY MARY (keeping her eyes fixed on him). That is what we desire.
CRICHTON (quite humbly). Then I may say, your lordship, that I have
been considering Mr. Ernest's case at odd moments ever since we were
wrecked.
ERNEST. My case?
LORD LOAM (sternly). Hush.
CRICHTON. Since we landed on the island, my lord, it seems to me
that Mr. Ernest's epigrams have been particularly brilliant.
ERNEST (gratified). Thank you, Crichton.
CRICHTON. But I find--I seem to find it growing wild, my lord, in
the woods, that sayings which would be justly admired in England are
not much use on an island. I would therefore most respectfully
propose that henceforth every time Mr. Ernest favours us with an
epigram his head should be immersed in a bucket of cold spring
water.
(There is a terrible silence.)
LORD LOAM (uneasily). Serve him right.
ERNEST. I should like to see you try to do it, uncle.
CRICHTON (ever ready to come to the succour of his lordship). My
feeling, my lord, is that at the next offence I should convey him to
a retired spot, where I shall carry out the undertaking in as
respectful a manner as is consistent with a thorough immersion.
(Though his manner is most respectful, he is firm; he evidently
means what he says.)
LADY MARY (a ramrod). Father, you must not permit this; Ernest is
your nephew.
LORD LOAM (with his hand to his brow). After all, he is my nephew,
Crichton; and, as I am sure, he now sees that I am a strong man--
ERNEST (foolishly in the circumstances). A strong man. You mean a
stout man. You are one of mind to two of matter. (He looks round in
the old way for approval. No one has smiled, and to his
consternation he sees that CRICHTON is quietly turning up his
sleeves. ERNEST makes an appealing gesture to his uncle; then he
turns defiantly to CRICHTON.)
CRICHTON. Is it to be before the ladies, Mr. Ernest, or in the
privacy of the wood? (He fixes ERNEST with his eye. ERNEST is
cowed.) Come.
ERNEST (affecting bravado). Oh, all right.
CRICHTON (succinctly). Bring the bucket.
(ERNEST hesitates. He then lifts the bucket and follows CRICHTON to
the nearest spring.)
LORD LOAM (rather white). I'm sorry for him, but I had to be firm.
LADY MARY. Oh father, it wasn't you who was firm. Crichton did it
himself.
LORD LOAM. Bless me, so he did.
LADY MARY. Father, be strong.
LORD LOAM (bewildered). You can't mean that my faithful Crichton--
LADY MARY. Yes, I do.
TREHERNE. Lady Mary, I stake my word that Crichton is incapable of
acting dishonourably.
LADY MARY. I know that; I know it as well as you. Don't you see that
that is what makes him so dangerous?
TREHERNE. By Jove, I--I believe I catch your meaning.
CATHERINE. He is coming back.
LORD LOAM (who has always known himself to be a man of ideas). Let
us all go into the hut, just to show him at once that it is our hut.
LADY MARY (as they go). Father, I implore you, assert yourself now
and for ever.
LORD LOAM. I will.
LADY MARY. And, please, don't ask him how you are to do it.
(CRICHTON returns with sticks to mend the fire.)
LORD LOAM (loftily, from the door of the hut). Have you carried out
my instructions, Crichton?
CRICHTON (deferentially). Yes, my lord.
(ERNEST appears, mopping his hair, which has become very wet since
we last saw him. He is not bearing malice, he is too busy drying,
but AGATHA is specially his champion.)
AGATHA. It's infamous, infamous.
LORD LOAM: (strongly). My orders, Agatha.
LADY MARY. Now, father, please.
LORD LOAM (striking an attitude). Before I give you any further
orders, Crichton--
CRICHTON. Yes, my lord.
LORD LOAM. (delighted) Pooh! It's all right.
LADY MARY. No. Please go on.
LORD LOAM. Well, well. This question of the leadership; what do you
think now, Crichton?
CRICHTON. My lord, I feel it is a matter with which I have nothing
to do.
LORD LOAM. Excellent. Ha, Mary? That settles it, I think.
LADY MARY. It seems to, but--I'm not sure.
CRICHTON. It will settle itself naturally, my lord, without any
interference from us.
(The reference to nature gives general dissatisfaction.)
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