Part 5

The fact is, I’ve noticed lately that I’m not so thin as I was.

DICKIE.

It can’t have required great perspicacity to notice that.

BARLOW.

I’m not asking you for repartee, Dickie, but advice.

DICKIE.

You don’t want to bother about a figure at your time of life.

BARLOW.

To tell you the truth, I have an inkling that I’ve made something of an impression on a very charming lady....

DICKIE.

[_Interrupting._] Take my advice and marry her quickly before the impression wears off.

BARLOW.

Strange as it may appear to you, she’s a married woman.

DICKIE.

Then don’t hesitate--do a bolt.

BARLOW.

What do you mean, Dickie?

DICKIE.

My dear Uncle Davenport, I’m young enough to be your son; philandering with a married woman is the most exaggerated form of amusement that’s ever been invented. Take care! That’s all I say. Take care!

BARLOW.

Why?

DICKIE.

She’ll bind you hand and foot, and put a halter round your neck and lead you about by it. She’ll ask you ten times a day if you love her, and each time you get up to go away she’ll make a scene to force you to stay longer. Each time you put on your hat she’ll pin you down to the exact hour of your next visit.

BARLOW.

But all women do that. It only shows that they like you.

DICKIE.

Yes, I suppose all women do that--except Pen. Pen never bothers. She never asks you if you love her. She never keeps you when you want to get away. She never insists on knowing all your movements. And when you leave her she never asks that fatal, fiendish question, at what time will you be back?

BARLOW.

Well, my boy, if my wife were as indifferent to me as that, I should ask myself who the other feller was.

DICKIE.

What the dickens do you mean by that?

BARLOW.

My dear Dickie, it’s woman’s nature to be exacting. If she’s in love with you she’s always a nuisance, and a very charming nuisance too, to my mind. I like it.

DICKIE.

You are not suggesting that Penelope....

BARLOW.

Now, my dear boy, I didn’t come to talk to you about Penelope, but about my own health.

DICKIE.

[_Impatiently._] Oh, you’ve got chronic adiposity. That’s all that’s the matter with you.

BARLOW.

Good gracious me, that sounds very alarming. And what shall I do for it?

DICKIE.

[_Savagely, very quickly._] Give up wines, spirits and liqueurs, bread, butter, milk, cream, sugar, potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, peas, turnips, rice, sago, tapioca, macaroni, jam, honey, and marmalade.

BARLOW.

But that’s not treatment, that’s homicide!

DICKIE.

[_Taking no notice._] Put on a sweater and run round the park every morning before breakfast. Let’s have a look at your liver.

BARLOW.

But, my dear Dickie....

DICKIE.

Lie down on that sofa. Now don’t make a fuss about it. I’m not going to kill you. [BARLOW _lies down_.] Put your knees up.

BARLOW.

[_As_ DICKIE _feels his liver_.] She’s a fine, dashing woman. There’s no doubt about that.

DICKIE.

Let yourself go quite loose. Who’s a fine, dashing woman?

BARLOW.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[DICKIE _starts. He gives_ BARLOW _a look, and then walks away, open-mouthed_.

BARLOW.

Dickie, Dickie.

[_Much alarmed he gets off the sofa._

BARLOW.

Is my liver very wrong?

DICKIE.

[_Completely abstracted._] It’s in a beastly state. I thought it would be.

BARLOW.

[_In tragic tones._] Richard, tell me the worst at once.

DICKIE.

[_Impatiently._] Don’t be such an old donkey. Your liver’s as right as mine is. There’s nothing the matter with you except that you do yourself too well, and don’t take enough exercise.

BARLOW.

[_With unction._] I suppose one has to pay for being the most popular diner-out of one’s time.

DICKIE.

[_Looking at him sharply._] Is it on Mrs. Fergusson that you’ve made something of an impression?

BARLOW.

[_With great self-satisfaction._] My dear fellow, I am the last man to give a woman away.

DICKIE.

Ah!

BARLOW.

Between ourselves, Dickie, do you think Mrs. Fergusson would find it peculiar if I asked her to lunch with me _tête-à-tête_ at the Carlton?

DICKIE.

Peculiar! She’d jump at it.

BARLOW.

Do you think her husband would mind?

DICKIE.

Oh, her husband’s all right. He keeps on bravely serving his country in a foreign land.

BARLOW.

It shows that she has a nice nature, or she wouldn’t have come to ask Penelope if she minded your going to Paris together.

DICKIE.

Yes, she has a charming nature.

BARLOW.

Lucky dog, I wish I were going to Paris with her.

DICKIE.

[_Fervently._] I wish you were.

BARLOW.

Ha, ha. Well, well, I must be running away. I’m dining out as usual. These good duchesses, they will not leave me alone. Good-bye.

[_He goes out._ DICKIE _walks up and down the room thinking. In a moment_ PENELOPE _puts her head in_.

PENELOPE.

I say, darling, oughtn’t you to be packing?

DICKIE.

Come in and let’s smoke a cigarette together.

PENELOPE.

All right.

[_She takes a cigarette, which he lights for her._

PENELOPE.

I hope you’ll have a splendid time in Paris.

[_She sits down._

DICKIE.

You never sit on the arm of my chair as you used to.

PENELOPE.

I’m horribly afraid I’m growing middle-aged. I’ve discovered how much more comfortable it is to have a chair of my own.

DICKIE.

[_Trying to hide a slight embarrassment._] Weren’t you rather surprised when Mrs. Fergusson told you she was going to Paris to-night?

PENELOPE.

Surprised?

[PENELOPE _gives a little gurgle, tries to stifle it but cannot, then, giving way, bursts into peal upon peal of laughter_. DICKIE _watches her with increasing astonishment_.

DICKIE.

What on earth are you laughing at?

PENELOPE.

[_Bubbling over._] Darling, you must think me an old silly. Of course, I knew you were going together.

DICKIE.

[_Thoroughly startled._] I don’t know what you’re talking about.

PENELOPE.

I have tried not to see anything, but you do make it so difficult.

DICKIE.

[_Making up his mind to be very haughty._] Will you have the goodness to explain yourself?

PENELOPE.

My dear, of course I know all about it.

DICKIE.

I entirely fail to gather your meaning. What do you know all about?

PENELOPE.

About you and Ada, silly.

DICKIE.

[_Very haughtily._] Penelope, do you mean to say you suspect me of ...?

PENELOPE.

[_With an affectionate smile._] Darling!

DICKIE.

[_Suddenly alarmed._] What d’you know?

PENELOPE.

Everything.

[_He gives a gasp and looks at_ PENELOPE _anxiously_.

PENELOPE.

I’ve been so amused to watch you during the last two months.

DICKIE.

Amused?

PENELOPE.

Upon my word, it’s been as good as a play.

DICKIE.

[_Quite at a loss._] Have you known all along?

PENELOPE.

My dear, didn’t you see that I did everything in the world to throw you together?

DICKIE.

But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in it.

PENELOPE.

[_Good-humouredly._] Come, come, Dickie!

DICKIE.

But why haven’t you said anything?

PENELOPE.

I thought it would only embarrass you. I didn’t mean to say anything to-day, but I couldn’t help laughing when you asked me if I was surprised.

DICKIE.

Aren’t you angry?

PENELOPE.

Angry? What about?

DICKIE.

Aren’t you jealous?

PENELOPE.

Jealous? You must think me a little donkey.

DICKIE.

You took it as a matter of course? It amused you? It was as good as a play?

PENELOPE.

Darling, we’ve been married for five years. It’s absurd to think there could be anything between us after all that time.

DICKIE.

Oh, is it? I wasn’t aware of that fact.

PENELOPE.

The whole thing seemed to me of no importance. I was pleased to think you were happy.

DICKIE.

[_Flying into a passion._] Well, I think it’s positively disgraceful, Penelope.

PENELOPE.

Oh, my dear, don’t exaggerate. It was a harmless peccadillo.

DICKIE.

I’m not talking of my behaviour, but of yours.

PENELOPE.

Mine?

DICKIE.

Yes, scandalous I call it.

PENELOPE.

[_Quite disappointed._] And I thought it was so tactful.

DICKIE.

Tactful be blowed. You must be entirely devoid of any sense of decency.

PENELOPE.

My dear, _I_ haven’t done anything.

DICKIE.

That’s just it. You ought to have done something. You ought to have kicked up a row; you ought to have made scenes; you ought to have divorced me. But just to sit there and let it go on as if it were nothing at all! It’s too monstrous.

PENELOPE.

I’m awfully sorry. If I’d known you wanted me to make a scene of course I would have, but really it didn’t seem worth making a fuss about.

DICKIE.

I’ve never heard anything so callous, anything so cold-blooded, anything so cynical.

PENELOPE.

You are difficult to please.

DICKIE.

But don’t you realise that I’ve treated you abominably.

PENELOPE.

Oh, no, you’ve always been the best and most discreet of husbands.

DICKIE.

No, I’ve been a bad husband. I’m man enough to acknowledge it. And I mean to turn over a new leaf, Penelope; I will give Ada up. I promise you never to see her again.

PENELOPE.

Darling, why should you cause her needless pain? After all, she’s an old friend of mine. I think the least I can expect is that you should treat her nicely.

DICKIE.

D’you mean to say you want it to go on?

PENELOPE.

It’s an arrangement that suits us all three. It amuses you, Ada has some one to take her about, and I get a lot of new frocks.

DICKIE.

Frocks?

PENELOPE.

Yes, you see, I’ve been consoling my aching heart by replenishing my wardrobe.

DICKIE.

So you’re willing to sacrifice our whole happiness to your frocks. Oh, I’ve cherished a viper in my bosom. I may have acted like a perfect beast, but, hang it all, I do know what’s right and wrong. I have a moral sense.

PENELOPE.

It seems to have displaced your sense of humour.

DICKIE.

Do you know that all these weeks I’ve been tortured with remorse? I’ve told myself every day that I was treating you shamefully, I’ve not had a moment’s happiness. I’ve lived on a perfect rack.

PENELOPE.

It doesn’t seem to have had any serious effect on your health.

DICKIE.

And here have you been laughing up your sleeve all the time. It can’t go on.

PENELOPE.

Upon my word, I don’t see why not?

DICKIE.

We’ve been mistaken in one another. I’m not the man to stand such a position with indifference. And I’ve been mistaken in you, Penelope. I thought you cared for me.

PENELOPE.

I dote upon you.

DICKIE.

That’s a jolly nice way of showing it.

PENELOPE.

That’s just what I thought it was.

DICKIE.

You’ve outraged all my better nature.

PENELOPE.

Then what do you propose to do?

DICKIE.

I’m going to do the only possible thing. Separate.

PENELOPE.

[_Hearing voices in the hall._] Here are papa and mamma. They said they were coming back.

DICKIE.

I hope they’ll never find out what a wicked, cruel woman you are. It would send down their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.

PENELOPE.

But, my dear, they know all about it.

DICKIE.

What! Is there any one who doesn’t know?

PENELOPE.

We didn’t tell Uncle Davenport. He’s such a man of the world, he has no sense of humour.

[PEYTON _comes in to announce the_ GOLIGHTLYS, _then goes out_.

PEYTON.

Professor and Mrs. Golightly.

[_The_ GOLIGHTLYS _come in_.

PENELOPE.

[_Kissing_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY.] Well, mother ... Papa, Dickie wants to separate from me because I won’t divorce him.

GOLIGHTLY.

That doesn’t sound very logical.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

What has happened?

PENELOPE.

Nothing’s happened. I can’t make out why Dickie’s so cross.

DICKIE.

[_Indignantly._] Nothing!

PENELOPE.

I didn’t mean to say anything about it, but Dickie found out that we knew all about his little love affair.

GOLIGHTLY.

My dear, how tactless of you! A man likes to keep those things from his wife.

DICKIE.

And d’you know the attitude Penelope takes up?

GOLIGHTLY.

She hasn’t been making a scene?

DICKIE.

That’s just it. Any woman of feeling would make a scene. There must be something radically wrong about her, or she would have wept and stamped and torn her hair.

GOLIGHTLY.

[_Mildly._] Oh, my dear boy, don’t you exaggerate the enormity of your offence?

DICKIE.

There are no excuses for me.

GOLIGHTLY.

It was a mere trifle. It would show a lamentable want of humour in Penelope if she took it seriously.

DICKIE.

D’you mean to say you agree with her?

GOLIGHTLY.

My dear fellow, we’re in the twentieth century.

DICKIE.

Oh! Mrs. Golightly, you spend your time in converting the heathen. Don’t you think your own family needs some of your attention?

[PENELOPE, _unseen by_ DICKIE, _makes a face at_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY _to induce her to keep up the scene_.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

A long acquaintance with savage races has led me to the conclusion that man is naturally a polygamous animal.

DICKIE.

My brain reels.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

I confess I was relieved to hear it was a married woman. It seems to make it so much more respectable.

DICKIE.

It appears to me I’m the only moral man here.

PENELOPE.

Dickie, darling, _I_ haven’t been having an affair with the policeman.

DICKIE.

I wish you had. I wouldn’t have treated you like this.

PENELOPE.

I thought of it, but I didn’t like the colour of his moustache.

DICKIE.

I know I’m to blame. I’ve behaved like a perfect brute.

PENELOPE.

Oh, nonsense.

DICKIE.

Don’t contradict, Penelope. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself.

GOLIGHTLY.

Come, come!

DICKIE.

I repeat, there are no excuses for me.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

Poor fellow, he seems quite cut up.

DICKIE.

I haven’t a leg to stand on, but, by Jove, I’ve got a moral sense, and I tell you all that I’m simply outraged. You’re overthrowing the foundations of society. Whatever I’ve done, I’ve got more respect for the sanctity of the home and the decencies of family life than all of you put together.

[_He flings towards the door, stops, and turns round to shake his fist at them._

DICKIE.

A moral sense. That’s what I’ve got.

[_He goes out, slamming the door behind him._

PENELOPE.

[_With a laugh._] Poor darling.

GOLIGHTLY.

What on earth made you blurt it all out?

PENELOPE.

She came here to-day, and I saw that he was sick to death of her.... Mamma, you behaved like a heroine of romance.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

I shall never forgive myself for the dreadful things you’ve made me say.

PENELOPE.

Oh, yes, you will, mother. Fast an extra day all through next Lent. It’ll be equally good for your soul and for your figure.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

Penelope!

PENELOPE.

[_To_ GOLIGHTLY.] I suddenly felt the moment had come.

GOLIGHTLY.

Take care.

[DICKIE _bursts violently into the room_.

DICKIE.

I say, what are these two confounded women doing in the hall?

PENELOPE.

What women? Oh, I know.... [_She goes to the door._] Please come in. They’re from Françoise. The Modiste.

[_The girls come in, laden with hat boxes._

PENELOPE.

You told me I might get a hat or two to console myself for your trip to Paris.

GOLIGHTLY.

Very nice of you, Dickie. That shows you haven’t a selfish nature.

[PENELOPE _makes another face at her mother_.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

You’ve never given me a free hand to buy hats, Charles.

GOLIGHTLY.

On the other hand, I’ve never taken little jaunts to Paris without you, my dear.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

Some women are so lucky in their husbands.

[_Meanwhile the girls have been taking hats out, and_ PENELOPE _puts one on. She is perfectly delighted._

PENELOPE.

Oh, isn’t this a dream? [_Looking at the other._] Oh! oh! Did you ever see anything so lovely? Dickie, you are a dear. I’m so glad you’re going to Paris.

DICKIE.

[_Furiously._] I’m not going to Paris.

PENELOPE.

What!

DICKIE.

Take all these hats away.

PENELOPE.

But Mrs. Mack?

DICKIE.

Mrs. Mack can go to the devil.

[_He seizes the telephone._

DICKIE.

Hulloa, hulloa. Gerrard 1234. Tell Mrs. Fergusson that Mrs. Mack has had a relapse, and will not be able to go to Paris to-night.

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

THE THIRD ACT

SCENE: PENELOPE’S _boudoir. It is an attractive room, furnished with bright-coloured chintzes, and gay with autumn flowers and great bunches of leaves. There is a large looking-glass. It is a room to live in, and there are books and magazines scattered about. Photographs of_ DICKIE _in every imaginable attitude_.

PEN, _in a ravishing costume, is alone, standing in the middle of the room. She looks at herself in the glass and turns right round, smiling with satisfaction. She preens herself. Suddenly she sees something she does not quite like; she frowns a little, then she makes a face at herself, solemnly and elaborately curtsies, and gaily throws herself a kiss._

PEYTON _comes in, followed by the_ GOLIGHTLYS.

PEYTON.

Professor and Mrs. Golightly.

PENELOPE.

[_Stretching out her arms._] Oh, my sainted mother!

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

[_Out of breath._] I’ve never climbed up so many stairs in my life.

PENELOPE.

I told Peyton to bring you up here so that no one should come and bother us. [_With a dramatic gesture._] My noble father!

GOLIGHTLY.

My chiyld!

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

Don’t be ridiculous, Pen.

PENELOPE.

Sit down, mamma, and get your breath back, because I’m just going to take it away again.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

It sounds hardly worth while.

PENELOPE.

Dickie adores me.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

Is that all?

PENELOPE.

But it’s the most surprising, exquisite, wonderful thing in the world, and I’m in the seventh heaven of delight.

GOLIGHTLY.

But has he told you so?

PENELOPE.

Oh, no, we’re not on speaking terms at present.

GOLIGHTLY.

Ah, I suppose you express your mutual affection in dumb show.

PENELOPE.

He went out immediately after you left last night, and didn’t come home till past twelve. I heard him stop at my door, so I huddled myself under the bed-clothes and pretended to be fast asleep, but I just let my hand drop carelessly over one side of the bed. Then he gave a tiny little knock, and as I didn’t answer he came in, and he crept up on tip-toe, and he looked at me as if--as if he’d like to eat me up.

GOLIGHTLY.

Penelope, you’re romancing. How on earth could you know that?

PENELOPE.

[_Putting her finger at the back of her head._] I saw him through the back of my head--there. And then he bent down and just touched my hand with his lips. [_Showing her hand to_ GOLIGHTLY.] Look, that’s where he kissed it--just on the knuckle.

GOLIGHTLY.

[_Gravely looking at her hand._] It seems to have left no mark.

PENELOPE.

Don’t be silly. And then he crept softly out again, and I had the first really good sleep I’ve had for a month. And this morning I had my breakfast in bed, and when I got up he’d gone out.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

You haven’t seen him to-day at all?

PENELOPE.

No, he didn’t come in to luncheon.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

Well, Charles, I’m grateful that you never showed your passion for me by keeping systematically out of my way.

PENELOPE.

But, my dear, it’s so simple. Of course, he’s in a dreadful temper. I’ve made him feel a perfect fool, and he hates it. But, good heavens! after five years I know how to deal with him when I’ve hurt his pride. I’ll just give him a chance of saving his face, and then we’ll fall into one another’s arms and be happy ever afterwards.

[GOLIGHTLY, _who has been sitting near a table, draws a sheet of paper towards him and begins, meditatively, to write_.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

But, darling, don’t waste the precious hours, do it at once.

PENELOPE.

No, I’m wiser than that. I’m not going to do anything till Ada Fergusson is quite disposed of.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

Has anything been seen of her?

PENELOPE.

No, but I expect her here every minute.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

[_With a gasp._] Here?

PENELOPE.

She rang up last night and spoke [_imitating a man’s tones_] in a deep voice, like this, so that I shouldn’t recognise her. She asked if Dickie was at home, and I said he wasn’t. [_Imitating the man’s voice again._] Will you ask him to ring up Mrs. Mack as soon as he comes back? Oh! I said, I think he’s been at Mrs. Mack’s all the evening, and I rang off quickly. And this morning I just took the receiver off, and I think by now Ada must be in a pretty temper.

[_She catches sight of_ GOLIGHTLY _and goes up to look at what he is writing_.

PENELOPE.

[_Tapping the table sharply with her open hand._] Two and two don’t make five, father.

GOLIGHTLY.

I never said they did, darling.

PENELOPE.

Then why are you writing it down?

GOLIGHTLY.

You seem to think they do, my dear; and I have the highest respect for your intelligence.

PENELOPE.

Mamma, if you thought it absolutely necessary to provide a father for your offspring, I wish you had chosen one who wasn’t quite so irritating.

[GOLIGHTLY _does not answer, but quietly adds two and two together_. PENELOPE _watches him for a moment_.

PENELOPE.

D’you think I’m a perfect fool, father?

GOLIGHTLY.

Yes, my dear.

PENELOPE.

Why?

GOLIGHTLY.

You’re preparing for Dickie once more an uninterrupted diet of strawberry ices.

[PENELOPE _goes up to her father and sits down opposite to him. She takes the pencil out of his hand._

PENELOPE.

Put that down, father, and tell me what you’re talking about.

GOLIGHTLY.

[_Joining his hands and leaning back in his chair._] How are you going to keep your husband’s love now you have got it back?

PENELOPE.

[_With a nod and a smile._] I’m never going to bore him with demonstrations of affection. I’m never going to ask him if he loves me. And when he goes out I’m never going to inquire at what time he’ll be back.

GOLIGHTLY.

[_Calmly._] And what will you do when the next pretty little grass-widow throws herself at his head?

PENELOPE.

[_Rather outraged at the mere thought._] I hope he’ll duck and dodge her.

GOLIGHTLY.

[_With a deprecating shrug of the shoulders._] Your mother, from her unrivalled knowledge of heathen races, has told you that man is naturally a polygamous animal.

MRS. GOLIGHTLY.

I shall never forgive myself.

PENELOPE.

Do you mean to say I’m to expect Dickie to have flirtations with half a dozen different women?

GOLIGHTLY.

I only see one way to avoid it.

PENELOPE.

And what is that?

GOLIGHTLY.

Be half a dozen different women yourself.

PENELOPE.

It sounds dreadfully exhausting.

GOLIGHTLY.

Remember that man is by nature a hunter. But how the dickens can he pursue if you’re always flinging yourself in his arms? Even the barndoor hen gives her lawful mate a run for his money.

[PENELOPE _looks from her father to her mother. She gives a little sigh._

PENELOPE.

It was so easy for me to love, honour, and obey him, and so delightful. It never struck me that I ought to keep watch over my feelings.

GOLIGHTLY.

We all strive for happiness, but what would happiness be if it clung to us like a poor relation?

PENELOPE.

[_Nodding her head._] Strawberry ice for breakfast, strawberry ice for luncheon, and strawberry ice for tea.

GOLIGHTLY.

Put a Rembrandt on your walls, and in a week you’ll pass it without a glance.

PENELOPE.

[_Pulling out deprecating hands._] Papa, don’t batter me with metaphors.

GOLIGHTLY.

[_With a smile._] Well, you made your love too cheap, my dear. You should have let your husband beg for it, and you made it a drug in the market. Dole out your riches. Make yourself a fortress that must be freshly stormed each day. Let him never know that he has all your heart. He must think always that at the bottom of your soul there is a jewel of great price that is beyond his reach.

PENELOPE.

Do you mean to say that I must be always on my guard?

GOLIGHTLY.

A wise woman never lets her husband be quite, quite sure of her. The moment he is--[_with a shrug of the shoulders_]--Cupid puts on a top-hat and becomes a churchwarden.

PENELOPE.

[_Huskily._] D’you think it’s worth all that?

GOLIGHTLY.

That is a question only you can answer.

PENELOPE.