Lady Patricia: A comedy in three acts
Part 1
_PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW_
_LADY PATRICIA_
_PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW._
DON. By RUDOLF BESIER.
“Mr. Besier is a man who can see and think for himself, and constructs as setting for the result of that activity a form of his own. The construction of ‘Don’ is as daring as it is original.”—Mr. Max Beerbohm in _The Saturday Review_.
“It is a fresh and moving story ... and full of good things.”—Mr. A. B. Walkley in _The Times_.
“‘Don’ is a genuine modern comedy, rich in observation and courage, and will add to the author’s reputation as a sincere dramatist.”—Mr. E. F. Spence in _The Westminster Gazette_.
“If the essence of drama be conflict, the wrestle of will, then ‘Don,’ by Rudolf Besier, comes as near as any play I know to essential drama. It is a sparring match in heaven knows how many rounds.”—Mr. William Archer in _The Nation_.
THE EARTH. By JAMES B. FAGAN.
“A magnificent play—at one and the same time a vital and fearless attack on political fraud, and a brilliantly written strong human drama. Moreover, the lighter interludes are written with a brilliance and a polished humour with which one had not credited Mr. Fagan hitherto”—_The Daily Chronicle._
“‘The Earth’ must conquer every one by its buoyant irony, its pungent delineations, and not least by its rich stores of simple and wholesome moral feeling.... The credit may be equally divided between the vivacity and iridescence of its witty and trenchant dialogue and the tenacious grip of its searching and most substantial issues.”—_The Pall Mall Gazette._
“An interesting and remarkable achievement.”—_The Westminster Gazette._
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN. NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & CO.
_LADY PATRICIA_
_A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS_
_BY RUDOLF BESIER Author of “Don”_
_NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & COMPANY 36-38 WEST 37th STREET_
TO ELIZABETH FAGAN
(_All rights reserved._)
CHARACTERS
DEAN LESLEY MICHAEL COSWAY WILLIAM O’FARREL (BILL) BALDWIN ELLIS JOHN LADY PATRICIA COSWAY MRS. O’FARREL CLARE LESLEY
The Cast of the play as it was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, on March 22, 1911, under the management of Mr. Herbert Trench.
Dean Lesley MR. ERIC LEWIS Michael Cosway MR. ARTHUR WONTNER Bill O’Farrel MR. CHARLES MAUDE Baldwin MR. C. V. FRANCE Ellis MR. DICKSON KENWIN John MR. NORMAN PAGE Lady Patricia Cosway MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL Mrs. O’Farrel MISS ROSINA FILIPPI Clare Lesley MISS ATHENE SEYLER
SCENERY
THE FIRST ACT.
The platform and summer-house built on an oak-tree in the grounds of “Ultima Thule,” Michael Cosway’s country seat at Norman Arches.
THE SECOND ACT.
The same.
THE THIRD ACT.
The Deanery garden, Norman Arches.
Five weeks elapse between Acts I. and II., and one night between Acts II. and III.
_CAUTION_
_Professionals and Amateurs are hereby warned that “LADY PATRICIA,” being fully protected under the Copyright Laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, and anyone presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized agent will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to produce “LADY PATRICIA” must be made to Charles Frohman, Empire Theatre, New York City._
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]
THE FIRST ACT
_The scene shows the summer-house and platform built in an oak-tree at “Ultima Thule.” The stage, slightly raised, represents the platform. In the right-hand corner is the summer-house, built on branches a few feet higher than the platform. The entrance to the platform is through a square hole, reached by a ladder from beneath. The tree, a vast, ancient, and mossy oak, comes straight through the centre of the platform, its branches spreading aloft in every direction._
(_LADY PATRICIA, in a loose and exquisite costume, lies full length in a deck-chair, reading aloud from some beautiful vellum MSS. She is a woman of about thirty-five, languid, elegant, exotic, romantic, and sentimental. Beside her is a tall vase with arum-lilies and a table with a samovar. It is a late afternoon in May._)
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Reading with fine feeling._)
_Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand_ _Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore_ _Alone upon the threshold of my door_ _Of individual life shall I command_ _The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand_ _Serenely in the sunshine as before,_ _Without the sense of that which I forebore—_ _Thy touch upon the palm——_
(_ELLIS, the footman, enters carrying a tray with a cup and saucer, and some sliced lemon. LADY PATRICIA raises her hand to command silence. He stands rigid. She continues with scarcely a break:_)
_The widest land_ _Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine,_ _With pulses that beat double. What I do_ _And what I dream include thee as the wine_ _Must taste of its own grape. And when I sue_ _God for myself, He hears that name of thine,_ _And sees within my eyes the tears of two...._
(_A pause; she repeats in a deep voice_)
_And sees within my eyes the tears of two ..._ _... the tears of two...._
What is it, Browning?
(_ELLIS stands motionless; a pause; she looks round at him._)
Did I call you Browning? How absurd! I meant Ellis.... Oh, the tea! Yes, of course. Please put everything near me on the table.
(_He does so._)
(_She repeats dreamily_) _... the tears of two...._
ELLIS.
I beg your pardon, my lady?
LADY PATRICIA.
Nothing. I will look after myself.
(_ELLIS turns to go._)
Oh, Ellis....
ELLIS.
Yes, my lady?
LADY PATRICIA.
You have brought only one cup.
ELLIS.
I thought you were taking tea by yourself, my lady.
LADY PATRICIA.
Please bring another cup.
ELLIS.
Yes, my lady. And milk and cream, my lady?
LADY PATRICIA.
Milk and cream.... (_After a dreamy pause._) Yes, I am afraid so. But don’t put it on the table. Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send Baldwin to me?
ELLIS.
Yes, my lady.
(_He goes out._)
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Turns over the pages of a MS., and then reads with thrilling beauty._)
_When I am dead, my dearest,_ _Sing no sad songs for me,_ _Plant thou no roses at my head,_ _Nor shady cypress-tree._ _Be green the grass above me,_ _With showers and dewdrops wet,_ _And if thou wilt, remember,_ _And if thou wilt, forget._
_I shall not see the shadows,_ _I shall not feel the rain,_ _I shall not hear the nightingale_ _Sing on as if in pain._ _And dreaming through the twilight_ _That doth not rise or set,_ _Haply I may remember,_ _And haply may forget._
(_With dramatic emphasis._)
_When I am dead, my dearest——_
(_Enter BALDWIN, a gardener of about seventy, heavy, slow, phlegmatic._)
BALDWIN.
(_In spite of LADY PATRICIA’S raised hand._) Beg pardon, m’lady?
LADY PATRICIA.
_Sing no sad songs_—— (_Fretfully._) Oh, Baldwin, what do you want?
BALDWIN.
Mr. Ellis said as you wished to speak to me, mum.
LADY PATRICIA.
Mr. Ellis?... Oh, yes, I remember now. What is it I wanted to tell you?
BALDWIN.
Mr. Ellis didn’t make mention, m’lady.
LADY PATRICIA.
How stupid of him! (_She regards BALDWIN dreamily._) Baldwin....
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’um?
LADY PATRICIA.
You ought to be very happy.
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’um.
LADY PATRICIA.
Very happy. Because you are a gardener. I can imagine no calling more beautiful. You are the father of innumerable children, and they are all lovely.
BALDWIN.
Thank ’ee, m’lady. I’ve ’ad thirteen—and two of ’em by my first wife.
LADY PATRICIA.
Thir-teen!... Good heavens, Baldwin, what are you talking about?
BALDWIN.
You made mention of my family, m’lady.
LADY PATRICIA.
Oh, but I meant the flowers you tend and rear. The gillyflowers and eglantine, myrtle, rosemary, columbine, and daffydowndillies. Not—how strange and dreadful! Thirteen!
BALDWIN.
I’ve ’eard tell that thirteen’s an unlucky number, m’lady. But I ain’t suspicious.
LADY PATRICIA.
Suspicious?
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’um. And if I was, fac’s won’t change for the wishin’. Thirteen’s the number, and thirteen it’s like to remain, seeing as Mrs. Baldwin’s turned sixty-three.
LADY PATRICIA.
I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about.
BALDWIN.
I——
LADY PATRICIA.
You needn’t repeat it.... Oh, I remember now why I sent for you, Baldwin. I wonder if, without hurting the beauty of the tree, you could open a window to the sunset?
BALDWIN.
Open a winder?...
LADY PATRICIA.
You don’t understand me? Let me put it differently! I should like you to cut away some of the foliage so that I can watch the sun dropping behind the hills.
BALDWIN.
Yes, m’lady. But——
LADY PATRICIA.
I know what you are going to say. When we built this place in the tree, I gave you special directions not to touch the western foliage as it hid the view of Ashurst Manor, which I found distressingly unsightly. Yes! But since my aunt, Mrs. O’Farrel, has taken the house, it seems to me far less offensive. Likes and dislikes are, after all, so much a matter of temperament and association! The former owner was an impossible person.
BALDWIN.
The Scotch gentleman?
LADY PATRICIA.
He was a Jew, Baldwin, though his name was Mackintosh. I don’t wish to speak of him. When you cut the foliage, please use restraint and feeling. On no account disfigure the tree. Watch from this spot the sun going down, and lop away a little branch here and a little branch there, so as to give me some perfect glimpses of gold and rose.
(_ELLIS enters with cup and saucer, milk, cream, whisky, soda, and a tumbler._)
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’m.
LADY PATRICIA.
(_To ELLIS._) What have you got there?
ELLIS.
The cup and saucer and the milk and cream, my lady. And I thought I had better bring whisky and soda as well, my lady.
LADY PATRICIA.
I never told you to. I wish you wouldn’t be so enterprising. Please hide it with the cream in the summer-house. (_ELLIS does so._) So you think I can safely trust you with this important piece of work, Baldwin?
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’m.
(_ELLIS goes out._)
LADY PATRICIA.
Do it as soon as possible, as I shall often be sitting here during these adorable summer evenings—
(_BILL O’FARREL enters during the rest of her sentence. He is a wholesome, typically English young man of about twenty-six._)
—and I couldn’t bear to miss many sunsets like yesterday’s.
BILL.
Patricia!
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Without rising._) Bill!
BILL.
(_Seizing her hands._) Patricia!
LADY PATRICIA.
Bill!... That will do, Baldwin.
BILL.
Quite well, Baldwin?
BALDWIN.
Pretty middlin’, Mr. O’Farrel, sir, thank you.... Then it don’t matter showin’ up Ashurst Manor, m’lady?
BILL.
(_With a laugh, to PATRICIA._) Hullo! what’s this?
LADY PATRICIA.
No, no, Baldwin! I wish to see it. It has suddenly grown beautiful! A fairy palace!
BILL.
Great Scott!
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’m. But——
LADY PATRICIA.
That will do, Baldwin.
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’m.
(_He goes out._)
BILL.
What’s this about Ashurst?
LADY PATRICIA.
I have asked Baldwin to cut away some of those branches so that I can see it. I used to loathe the sight of the house. Then your mother bought it, and I liked it. I love it now that you have come to stay there.... You may kiss me, Bill.
BILL.
May I?
(_He kisses her forehead._)
LADY PATRICIA.
You may kiss me again.
BILL.
May I?
(_He kisses her cheek._)
LADY PATRICIA.
You may kiss me again.
BILL.
Patricia!
(_He kisses her mouth._)
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Clinging to him._) Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment—how I’ve longed for it!... All these weary months I’ve lived in the past and future, on memories and anticipations. Now, at last I have the present—I have reality—you—to have and to hold—you—you.... Kiss me.
BILL.
(_Embracing her ardently._) Patricia!
LADY PATRICIA.
Hush! (_Disengaging herself._) We mustn’t be foolish.... Sit down.... (_He sits at her feet._) So you got my telegram?
BILL.
Directly the boat came alongside. But it took me a deuce of a time to make out! My French is a bit rusty, and the rotters had jumbled up some of the words. As it is, I only made out the gist of it—to take an earlier train from London than I’d intended, and to call on you before going on to Ashurst, as I’d find you alone in a summer-house you’d built on some tree or other. The twiddly bits of the message didn’t somehow seem to make sense....
LADY PATRICIA.
The ... twiddly bits?
BILL.
Yes; something about a star in red water, and horses with white manes. Couldn’t make it out at all.
LADY PATRICIA.
That was a quotation from De Musset, my poor boy.
BILL.
Great Scott! I thought it was a cypher. People don’t generally quote poetry in their telegrams.
LADY PATRICIA.
I do.
BILL.
In any case, it seemed to me a bit rash of you to send the wire at all—even in French.
LADY PATRICIA.
Oh, did it? As a matter of fact, I used French, not to conceal the message, but because the language seemed to me so beautifully appropriate for making a clandestine meeting.
BILL.
By Jove! Fancy thinking of that!
LADY PATRICIA.
To sin beautifully is the less a sin. Don’t forget, dear, that, however innocent, our love is wrong. We should never neglect an opportunity of ennobling it with little touches of beauty, should we?
BILL.
Rather not!... So Michael’s away?
LADY PATRICIA.
Only this afternoon. He has gone to a garden party at the Fitzgeralds’. Your mother’s there as well. Everybody’s there. But I wanted to see you for a little while before any one else, so I sent you that wire and pretended a headache. A petty deceit that avenged itself! For directly I told it, I felt a slight twinge of neuralgia.
BILL.
Hard luck! But it’s better, dear, isn’t it?
LADY PATRICIA.
I suppose it is. But you mustn’t say “hard luck.” My life, alas! is so full of deceits that when one of them is punished, I always try to be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself—everything that has happened these last months. Your letters have been too full of facts to tell me anything. And I do so long to hear all your news....
BILL.
Patricia....
LADY PATRICIA.
Yes, dear?
BILL.
What an awfully good woman you are!
LADY PATRICIA.
Am I?... I wonder!
BILL.
And your eyes are simply ripping.
LADY PATRICIA.
Are they?
BILL.
And your hands, by Jove!
LADY PATRICIA.
What of my hands, dear?
BILL.
They’re simply ripping.
LADY PATRICIA.
Dear heart! (_Stroking his head._) Dear soft hair. But I’m waiting.
BILL.
Oh yes, I forgot. But there really ain’t much to tell that I haven’t told you in my letters. I arrived in New York on a Saturday after an awfully jolly passage. Those big Cunarders are corking boats. Had a bit of a dust-up at the Customs, but I squared the chap with a ten-dollar bill. A chap on board advised me to put up at the Waldorf-Astoria. He told me it was one of their swaggerest hotels, but I must say——
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Laughing._) Yes, yes, dear, you’ve told me all that before! And about the nigger waiter whose thumb was always in the soup—and the Californian peach as big as a baby’s head—and the factory that was burned down in Chicago—and the card-sharper who tried to swindle you at poker, “but he got hold of the wrong chap, by Jove!”—and so many other thrilling details. (_Almost with passion, taking his face in her hands._) You darling! Oh, you darling!
BILL.
I thought I’d told you everything.
LADY PATRICIA.
Of course you did—everything. (_With far-off eyes._) I wonder why I am so foolish as to expect the essentials from you—those labourings of the soul at midnight, yearnings, ecstasies, and long, long thoughts under the stars. If you had been capable of these I should never have loved you. It’s just your simplicity and eternal boyishness that took my heart. Poor Michael’s spiritual nature, his dreams, his subtlety, his devotion, never touched me deeper than the intellect. I mistook sympathy for love—I seemed to have found a kindred spirit—I married him. Yes! we are all born to suffer and endure.... Which reminds me, my poor dear boy, you must be dying for tea. (_Pouring out the tea._) I hope you had some lunch?
BILL.
Rather! I had a luncheon-basket in the train, and put away the best part of a chicken, among other things.
LADY PATRICIA.
How young and hungry you are!
(_Hands him a cup of tea with a lemon slice in the saucer._)
BILL.
I say!...
LADY PATRICIA.
Yes, dear?
BILL.
Have you any milk or cream?
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Sorrowfully._) Oh, Bill!...
BILL.
I can’t help it. This Russian mess ain’t a Christian drink. I can’t think how you can swallow it.
LADY PATRICIA.
I don’t suppose I like it any better than you, dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have often told you, produces an odious colour—and I refuse to encourage it. You should try to do likewise.... However, you will find cream in the summer-house.
BILL.
Right-ho! (_Goes into summer-house._) Hullo! Good man! Here’s whisky-and-soda. (_Talking in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her._) That’s the stuff! Nothing like a syphonated spot when one’s got a real thirst! No tea for me, thanks.
LADY PATRICIA.
(_To herself, smiling._) Dear babbler....
BILL.
(_Coming down, a glassful in his hand._) Here’s to you, Patricia!
LADY PATRICIA.
(_In a deep voice, looking into eternity._) We are all born to suffer, to endure, to renounce....
BILL.
Oh, well! I’ll drink that Russian stuff if you like.
LADY PATRICIA.
I was not thinking of tea. I was thinking of life.
BILL.
(_Unfeignedly relieved._) Yes, it’s an awfully hard world. (_Takes a long draught._) By Jove, that’s clinking good!
LADY PATRICIA.
It becomes more and more difficult to play my part, and return Michael’s love, which seems to grow stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes follow my every movement, his mind anticipates my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere of passionate worship. Few women have ever received such love. It is the love that poets dream of—the love that must follow those marriages that are made in heaven.
BILL.
Good Lord, it’s awfully rough on you!
LADY PATRICIA.
I think and I think and I think, but I can see no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the best gift of God, and that such love as Michael’s—so noble, so pure, so unselfish—should be utterly wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am unworthy.
(_She pauses expectantly._)
BILL.
And it puts me in such a rotten position. If Michael treated you badly, I shouldn’t care a rap how much I made love to you.
LADY PATRICIA.
(_With slight asperity._) Can it be that I am unworthy?
BILL.
As it is I often feel such a beastly cad....
LADY PATRICIA.
Then you think me unworthy?
BILL.
I?
LADY PATRICIA.
You never denied it.
BILL.
But I didn’t know you wanted me to! You’re worthy of anything! You know that!
LADY PATRICIA.
Dear, dear boy! But am I? I wonder! Heaven only knows how desperately I tried to love him, and when I found it impossible, how I never faltered in pretending a love equal to his. And I knew that it would kill him should he learn the truth. But if the part I played was difficult before you came, after you came, and I knew what love was, it was almost beyond my power. And yet I drew strength somehow, not only to resist temptation and keep our love pure, but never by word, deed, or expression to let Michael suspect for one moment that his devotion was not returned. Yes! I think a woman who has done all this cannot be altogether unworthy.
BILL.
You’re—you’re a saint—you’re an angel!
LADY PATRICIA.
Am I? I wonder!
BILL.
You really are!
LADY PATRICIA.
Dear, inarticulate boy!... And, Bill, remember this. We have put our hands to the plough, and there must be no turning back. The martyrdom which must be lifelong has only just begun. I feel I shall find strength to play my bitter rôle to the final curtain. For I love renunciation, endurance, and purity. They are such exquisite virtues. And virtue is very beautiful.... But you are made of more earthly materials, my poor boy. Do you realise that your love must always remain unsatisfied? Can you love me without the faintest hope of more reward than a look, a touch, a kiss?...
BILL.
That’s all right, Patricia. Don’t you worry about me.
LADY PATRICIA.
But you are young and vigorous and passionate....
BILL.
That’s all right!
LADY PATRICIA.
I can only offer you the shadow; your nature will some day cry out for the substance.
BILL.
Not it!
LADY PATRICIA.
Ah, if only I had the strength and courage to bid you good-bye for ever!
BILL.
I shouldn’t go.
LADY PATRICIA.
Ah, Bill!...
(_She invites his caress with a beautiful movement. Kneeling beside her, he gathers her in his arms and kisses her. At that moment BALDWIN enters, carrying a saw and a pair of shears. They are blissfully unconscious of his presence. He glances at them with complete indifference, then comes down looking carefully at the sky on the right, his head dodging from side to side as though he were spying for something among the branches._)
BALDWIN.
If you please, ’m....
(_BILL, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his feet._)
BILL.
What the devil are you doing here?
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Calmly._) Well, Baldwin?
BALDWIN.
If you please, m’lady, I thought as I ’ad best watch the sun early. It’s close on six ’m, and I thought as p’raps you’d like some branches lopped ’igher up. The sun’s a fine sight at six, mum—much more light in it than a hour later, an’ it’s a neasier job loppin’ they ’igher branches than them out there, as I shan’t need no ladder.
BILL.
Quite mad!
LADY PATRICIA.
I don’t want to sit here and look at the sun through a pair of smoked glasses. You may return here when the sun is lower.
BALDWIN.
Yes, m’lady. But——
LADY PATRICIA.
Go away....
BALDWIN.
Yes, ’m.
(_He goes out._)
LADY PATRICIA.
Very tiresome, isn’t he?
BILL.
I don’t half like the old ass catching us like that.
LADY PATRICIA.
Catching us?
BILL.
Yes, fairly caught us in the act....
LADY PATRICIA.
Bill!
BILL.
Well, he must have seen me kiss you. I don’t half like it.
LADY PATRICIA.
How very _bourgeois_ you are!
BILL.
Well, I don’t know about that. But——
LADY PATRICIA.
Not _bourgeois_, then! No, no! Young and self-conscious! Fancy getting red and embarrassed because a gardener saw you looking affectionate!... Dear, dear boy!... Now sit down again and listen. I caught an impression of the sunset yesterday, a few lines, but I believe they are precious—not _precieux_—precious in the true sense of the word.... Don’t you hate this modern artistic jargon?
BILL.
Rather!
LADY PATRICIA.
Listen.... (_She recites._)
_A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,_ _Far off against the orient green and cold;_ _Silence declines upon these branches old;_ _The level land is still;_ _The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glows_ _The delicate beauty of the sunset rose;_ _And pensive grey encroaches on the gold._
Tenderly coloured, are they not?
BILL.
Yours?
LADY PATRICIA.
Mine.
BILL.
Ripping!
LADY PATRICIA.
Ripping.... Oh, how unpleasant! Say that other word instead.
BILL.
What word?
LADY PATRICIA.
I don’t quite know. Something to do with bottles.
BILL.
Clinking?
LADY PATRICIA.
No.... Something to do with wine....
BILL.
Oh! you mean—corking.
LADY PATRICIA.
Yes, corking.
BILL.
Right-ho!
LADY PATRICIA.
Thank you, dear.... And so you like my lines?
BILL.
They’re corking. And so’s your voice when you read ’em.
LADY PATRICIA.