ACT I
_A solid, handsomely-furnished room in a house in Portman Square—solid round table, solid writing-desk, solid chairs and sofa, with no air of comfort, but only of dignity. Over the fireplace is a painting of OLIVER BLAYDS, also handsome and dignified.... OLIVER BLAYDS-CONWAY, his young grandson, comes in with ROYCE, the latter a clean-shaven man of forty, whose thick dark hair shows a touch of grey. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon._
* * * * *
OLIVER (_as he comes in_). This way. (_He holds the door open for ROYCE._)
ROYCE (_coming in_). Thanks.
OLIVER. Some of the family will be showing up directly. Make yourself comfortable. (_For himself, he does his best in one of the dignified chairs._)
ROYCE. Thanks. (_He looks round the room with interest, and sees the picture over the fireplace_) Hallo, there he is.
OLIVER. What? (_Bored_) Oh, the old ’un, yes.
ROYCE (_reverently_). Oliver Blayds, the last of the Victorians. (_OLIVER sighs and looks despairingly to Heaven._) I can’t take my hat off because it’s off already, but I should like to.
OLIVER. Good Lord, you don’t really feel like that, do you?
ROYCE. Of course. Don’t you?
OLIVER. Well, hardly. He’s my grandfather.
ROYCE. True. (_Smiling_) All the same, there’s nothing in the Ten Commandments about _not_ honouring your grandfather.
OLIVER. Nothing about honouring ’em either. It’s left optional. Of course, he’s a wonderful old fellow—ninety, and still going strong; but—well, as I say, he’s my grandfather.
ROYCE. I’m afraid, Conway, that even the fact of his being your grandfather doesn’t prevent me thinking him a very great poet, a very great philosopher, and a very great man.
OLIVER (_interested_). I say, do you really mean that, or are you just quoting from the Address you’ve come to present?
ROYCE. Well, it’s in the Address, but then I wrote the Address, and got it up.
OLIVER. Yes, I know—you told me—“To Oliver Blayds on his ninetieth birthday: Homage from some of the younger writers.” Very pretty of them and all that, and the old boy will love it. But do they really feel like that about him—that’s what interests me. I’ve always thought of him as old-fashioned, early Victorian, and that kind of thing.
ROYCE. Oh, he is. Like Shakespeare. Early Elizabethan and that kind of thing.
OLIVER. Shakespeare’s different. I meant more like Longfellow.... Don’t think I am setting up my opinion against yours. If you say that Blayds’ poetry is as good as the best, I’ll take your word for it. Blayds the poet, _you’re_ the authority. Blayds the grandfather, _I_ am.
ROYCE. All right, then, you can take my word for it that his best is as good as the best. Simple as Wordsworth, sensuous as Tennyson, passionate as Swinburne.
OLIVER. Yes, but what about the modern Johnnies? The Georgians.
ROYCE. When they’re ninety I’ll tell you. If I’m alive.
OLIVER. Thanks very much.
(_There is a short silence. ROYCE leaves the picture and comes slowly towards the writing-table._)
OLIVER (_shaking his head_). Oh, no!
ROYCE (_turning round_). What?
OLIVER. That’s not the table where the great masterpieces are written, and that’s not the pen they are written with.
ROYCE. My dear fellow——
OLIVER. Is there a pen there, by the way?
ROYCE (_looking_). Yes. Yours?
OLIVER. The family’s. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to keep pens there.
ROYCE. Why, where do they go to?
OLIVER. The United States, mostly. Everybody who’s let in here makes for the table sooner or later and pinches one of the pens. “Lands’ sake, what a head,” they say, waving at the picture with their right hand and feeling behind their back with the left; it’s wonderful to see ’em. Tim, my sister—Tim and I glued a pen on to the tray once when one of ’em was coming, and watched him clawing at it for about five minutes, and babbling about the picture the whole time. I should think he knew what the poet Blayds looked like by the time he got the pen into his pocket.
ROYCE (_going back to the picture_). Well, it’s a wonderful head.
OLIVER. Yes, I will say that for the old boy, he does look like somebody.
ROYCE. When was this done?
OLIVER. Oh, about eighteen years ago.
ROYCE. Yes. That was about when I met him.
OLIVER. You never told me you’d met him. Did you meet _me_ by any chance?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. I was five then, and people who came to see Blayds the poet patted the head of Blayds the poet’s grandson and said: “Are you going to be a poet too, my little man, when you grow up?”
ROYCE (_smiling_). And what did Blayds the poet’s grandson say?
OLIVER. Urged on by Blayds the poet’s son-in-law, Blayds the poet’s grandson offered to recite his grandfather’s well-known poem, “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking.” I’m sorry you missed it, Royce, but it’s no good asking for it now.
ROYCE (_half to himself_). It was at Bournemouth. He was there with his daughter. Not your mother, she would have been younger than that.
OLIVER. You mean Aunt Isobel.
ROYCE. Isobel, yes. (_After a little silence_) Isobel Blayds. Yes, that was eighteen years ago. I was about your age.
OLIVER. A fine handsome young fellow like me?
ROYCE. Yes.
OLIVER. Any grandfathers living?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. Lucky devil. But I don’t suppose you realised it.
ROYCE. No, I don’t think I realised it.
OLIVER (_thinking it out_). I suppose if I had a famous father I shouldn’t mind so much. I should feel that it was partly my doing. I mean that he wouldn’t have begun to be famous until I had been born. But the poet Blayds was a world-wide celebrity long before I came on the scene, and I’ve had it hanging over me ever since.... Why do you suppose I am a member of the club?
ROYCE. Well, why not? It’s a decent club. We are all very happy there.
OLIVER. Yes, but why did they elect _me_?
ROYCE. Oh, well, if we once began to ask ourselves that——
OLIVER. Not at all. The answer in your case is because A. L. Royce is a well-known critic and a jolly good fellow. The answer in my case is because there’s a B. in both. In other words, because there’s a Blayds in Blayds-Conway. If my father had stuck to his William Conway when he got married, I should never have been elected. Not at the age of twenty-two, anyway.
ROYCE. Then I’m very glad he changed his name. Because otherwise, it seems, I might not have had the pleasure of meeting you.
OLIVER. Oh, well, there’s always a something. But, compliments aside, it isn’t much fun for a man when things happen to him just because of the Blayds in Blayds-Conway. You know what I am doing now, don’t you? I told you.
ROYCE. Secretary to some politician, isn’t it?
OLIVER. Yes. And why? Because of the Blayds in——
ROYCE. Oh, nonsense!
OLIVER. It’s true. Do you think I want to be a private secretary to a dashed politician? What’s a private secretary at his best but a superior sort of valet? I wanted to be a motor engineer. Not allowed. Why not? Because the Blayds in Blayds-Conway wouldn’t have been any use. But politicians simply live on that sort of thing.
ROYCE. What sort of thing?
OLIVER. Giving people jobs because they’re the grandsons of somebody.
ROYCE. Yes, I wonder if I was as cynical as you eighteen years ago.
OLIVER. Probably not; there wasn’t a Grandfather Royce. By the way, talking about being jolly good fellows and all that, have you noticed that I haven’t offered you a cigarette yet?
ROYCE. I don’t want to smoke.
OLIVER. Well, that’s lucky. Smoking isn’t allowed in here.
ROYCE (_annoyed by this_). Now look here, Conway, do you mind if I speak plainly?
OLIVER. Do. But just one moment before you begin. My name, unfortunately, is _Blayds_-Conway. Call me Conway at the Club and I’ll thank you for it. But if you call me Conway in the hearing of certain members of my family, I’m afraid there will be trouble. Now what were you going to say?
ROYCE (_his annoyance gone_). Doesn’t matter.
OLIVER. No, do go on, Mr. Blayds-Royce.
ROYCE. Very well, Mr. Blayds-Conway. I am old enough to be—no, not your grandfather—your uncle—and I want to say this. Oliver Blayds is a very great man and also a very old man, and I think that while you live in the house of this very great man, the inconveniences to which his old age puts you, my dear Conway——
OLIVER. Blayds-Conway.
ROYCE (_smiling_). Blayds-Conway, I’m sorry.
OLIVER. Perhaps you’d better call me Oliver.
ROYCE. Yes, I think I will. Well, then, Oliver——
OLIVER. Yes, but you’ve missed the whole point. The whole point is that I don’t _want_ to live in his house. Do you realise that I’ve never had a house I could call my own? I mean a house where I could ask people. I brought you along this afternoon because you’d got permission to come anyhow with that Address of yours. But I shouldn’t have dared to bring anybody else along from the club. Here we all are, and always have been, living not _our_ lives, but _his_ life. Because—well, just because he likes it so.
ROYCE (_almost to himself_). Yes ... yes.... I know.
OLIVER. Well!
(_And there is so much conviction behind it that ROYCE has nothing to say. However, nothing is needed, for at this moment SEPTIMA BLAYDS-CONWAY comes in, a fair-haired nineteen-year-old modern, with no sentimental nonsense about her._)
SEPTIMA. Hallo!
OLIVER (_half getting out of his chair_). Hallo, Tim. Come and be introduced. This is Mr. A. L. Royce. My sister, Septima.
ROYCE (_surprised_). Septima? (_Mechanically he quotes_):
“Septima, seventh dark daughter; I saw her once where the black pines troop to the water— A rock-set river that broke into bottomless pools—”
SEPTIMA. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce. (_Holding out her hand to OLIVER_) Noll, I’ll trouble you.
OLIVER (_feeling in his pockets_). Damn! I did think, Royce—— (_He hands her a shilling_) Here you are.
SEPTIMA. Thanks. Thank you again, Mr. Royce.
ROYCE. I’m afraid I don’t understand.
SEPTIMA. It’s quite simple. I get a shilling when visitors quote “Septima” at me, and Noll gets a shilling when they don’t.
OLIVER (_reproachfully_). I did think that _you_ would be able to control yourself, Royce.
ROYCE (_smiling_). Sorry! My only excuse is that I never met any one called Septima before, and that it came quite unconsciously.
SEPTIMA. Oh, don’t apologise. I admire you immensely for it. It’s the only fun I get out of the name.
OLIVER. Septima Blayds-Conway, when you’re the only daughter, and fair at that—I ask you.
ROYCE (_defensively_). It’s a beautiful poem.
SEPTIMA. Have you come to see Blayds the poet?
ROYCE. Yes.
OLIVER. One of the homage merchants.
ROYCE. Miss Blayds-Conway, I appeal to you.
SEPTIMA. Anything I can do in return for your shilling——
ROYCE. I have come here on behalf of some of my contemporaries, in order to acquaint that very great man Oliver Blayds with the feelings of admiration which we younger writers entertain for him. It appears now that not only is Blayds a great poet and a great philosopher, but also a——
OLIVER. Great-grandfather.
ROYCE. But also a grandfather. Do you think you can persuade your brother that Blayds’ public reputation as a poet is in no way affected by his private reputation as a grandfather, and beg him to spare me any further revelations?
SEPTIMA. Certainly; I could do all that for ninepence, and you’d still be threepence in hand. (_Sternly to OLIVER_) Blayds-Conway, young fellow, have you been making r-revelations about your ger-rand-father?
OLIVER. My dear girl, I’ve made no r-revelations whatever. What’s upset him probably is that I refused to recite to him “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking.”
SEPTIMA. Did he pat your head and ask you to?
ROYCE. No, he didn’t.
SEPTIMA. Well, you needn’t be huffy about it, Mr. Royce. You would have been in very good company. Meredith and Hardy have, and lots of others.
OLIVER. Well, anyway, I’ve never been kissed by Maeterlinck.
SEPTIMA (_looking down coyly_). Mr. Royce, you have surprised my secret, which I have kept hidden these seventeen years. Maeterlinck—Maurice and I——
ROYCE. Revelations was not quite the word. What I should have said was that I have been plunged suddenly, and a little unexpectedly, into an unromantic, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which hardly suits the occasion of my visit. On any other day—you see what I mean, Miss Septima.
SEPTIMA. You’re quite right. This is not the occasion for persiflage. Besides, we’re very proud of him really.
ROYCE. I’m sure you are.
SEPTIMA (_weightily_). You know, Noll, there are times when I think that possibly we have misjudged Blayds.
OLIVER. Blayds the poet or Blayds the man?
SEPTIMA. Blayds the man. After all, Uncle Thomas was devoted to him, and _he_ was rather particular. Wasn’t he, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. I don’t think I know your Uncle Thomas, do I?
SEPTIMA. He wasn’t mine, he was mother’s.
OLIVER. The Sage of Chelsea.
ROYCE. Oh, Carlyle. Surely——
SEPTIMA. Mother called them all “uncle” in her day.
ROYCE. Well, now, there you are. That’s one of the most charming things about Oliver Blayds. He has always had a genius for friendship. Read the lives and letters of all the great Victorians, and you find it all the way. They loved him. They——
OLIVER (_striking up_). God save our gracious Queen!
ROYCE (_with a good-humoured shrug_). Oh, well!
SEPTIMA. Keep it for father and mother, Mr. Royce. We’re hopeless. Shall I tell you why?
ROYCE. Yes?
SEPTIMA. When you were a child, did you ever get the giggles in church?
ROYCE. Almost always—when the Vicar wasn’t looking.
SEPTIMA. There’s something about it, isn’t there—the solemnity of it all—which starts you giggling? When the Vicar isn’t looking.
ROYCE. Yes.
SEPTIMA. Exactly. And that’s why _we_ giggle—when the Vicar isn’t looking.
MARION (_from outside_). Septima!
OLIVER. And here comes the Vicar’s wife.
(_MARION BLAYDS-CONWAY is fifty-five now. A dear, foolish woman, who has never got over the fact that she is OLIVER BLAYDS’ daughter, but secretly thinks that it is almost more wonderful to be WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY’S wife._)
MARION. Oh, there you are. Why didn’t you—— (_She sees ROYCE_) Oh!
OLIVER. This is Mr. A. L. Royce, Mother.
MARION (_distantly_). How do you do?
ROYCE. How do you do?
(_There is an awkward silence._)
MARION. You’ll excuse me a moment, Mr.—er—er——
OLIVER. Royce, Mother, A. L. Royce.
MARION. Septima—— This is naturally rather a busy day, Mr.—er—— We hardly expected—— (_She frowns at OLIVER, who ought to have known better by this time._) Septima, I want you just a moment—Oliver will look after his friend. I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr.—er——
ROYCE. Oh, quite. Of course.
SEPTIMA. Mr. Royce has come to see Grandfather, Mother.
MARION (_appalled_). To see Grandfather!
ROYCE. I was hoping—Mr. Blayds-Conway was good enough to say——
MARION. I am afraid it is quite impossible. I am very sorry, but really quite impossible. My son shouldn’t have held out hopes.
OLIVER. He didn’t. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mother. It’s Father who invited him.
ROYCE. I am here on behalf of certain of my contemporaries——
OLIVER. Homage from some of our younger writers——
ROYCE. Mr. Blayds was gracious enough to indicate that——
SEPTIMA (_in a violent whisper_). A. L. Royce, Mother!
MARION. Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon. Why didn’t you tell me it was A. L. Royce, Oliver? Of course! We wrote to you.
ROYCE. Yes.
MARION (_all hospitality_). How silly of me! You must forgive me, Mr. Royce. Oliver ought to have told me. Grandfather—Mr. Blayds—will be ready at three-thirty. The doctor was very anxious that Grandfather shouldn’t see any one this year—outside the family, of course. I couldn’t tell you how many people wrote asking if they could come to-day. Presidents of Societies and that sort of thing. From all over the world. Father did tell us. Do you remember, Septima?
SEPTIMA. I’m afraid I don’t, Mother. I know I didn’t believe it.
MARION (_to ROYCE_). Septima—after the poem, you know. “Septima, seventh dark daughter——” (_And she would quote the whole of it, but that her children interrupt._)
OLIVER (_solemnly_). Don’t say you’ve never heard of it, Royce.
SEPTIMA (_distressed_). I don’t believe he has.
OLIVER (_encouragingly_). You must read it. I think you’d like it.
MARION. It’s one of his best known. _The Times_ quoted it only last week. We had the cutting. “Septima, seventh dark daughter——” It was a favourite of my husband’s even before he married me.
ROYCE. It has been a favourite of mine for many years.
MARION. And many other people’s, I’m sure. We often get letters—Oh, if you could see the letters we get!
ROYCE. I wonder you don’t have a secretary.
MARION (_with dignity_). My husband—Mr. Blayds-Conway—_is_ Grandfather’s secretary. He was appointed to the post soon after he married me. Twenty-five years ago. There is almost nothing he mightn’t have done, but he saw where his duty lay, and he has devoted himself to Grandfather—to Mr. Blayds—ever since.
ROYCE. I am sure we are all grateful to him.
MARION. Grandfather, as you know, has refused a Peerage more than once. But I always say that if devotion to duty counts for anything, William, my husband, ought to have been knighted long ago. Perhaps when Grandfather has passed away—— But there!
ROYCE. I was telling Oliver that I did meet Mr. Blayds once—and Miss Blayds. Down at Bournemouth. She was looking after him. He wasn’t very well at the time.
MARION. Oh, Isobel, yes. A wonderful nurse. I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her.
ROYCE. She is still——? I thought perhaps she was married, or——
MARION. Oh, no! Isobel isn’t the marrying sort. I say that I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her, but I might almost say that I don’t know what she would do without Grandfather. (_Looking at her watch_) Dear me, I promised Father that I would get those letters off. Septima, dear, you must help me. Have you been round the house at all, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. No, I’ve only just come.
MARION. There are certain rooms which are shown to the public. Signed photographs, gifts from Tennyson, Ruskin, Carlyle and many others. Illuminated addresses and so on, all most interesting. Oliver, perhaps you would show Mr. Royce—if it would interest you——
ROYCE. Oh, indeed, yes.
MARION. Oliver!
OLIVER (_throwing down the book he was looking at_). Right. (_He gets up._) Come on, Royce. (_As they go out_) There’s one thing that I can show you, anyway.
ROYCE. What’s that?
OLIVER (_violently_). My bedroom. We’re allowed to smoke there.
[_They go out._
MARION (_sitting down at the writing-table_). He seems a nice man. About thirty-five, wouldn’t you say—or more?
SEPTIMA. Forty. But you never can tell with men. (_She comes to the table._)
MARION (_getting to work_). Now those letters just want putting into their envelopes. And _those_ want envelopes written for them. If you will read out the addresses, dear—I think that will be the quickest way—I will——
SEPTIMA (_thinking her own thoughts_). Mother!
MARION. Yes, dear? (_Writing_) Doctor John Treherne.
SEPTIMA. I want to speak to you.
MARION. Do you mean about anything important?
SEPTIMA. For me, yes.
MARION. You haven’t annoyed your grandfather, I hope.
SEPTIMA. It has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION. Beechcroft, Bexhill-on-Sea. We’ve been so busy all day. Naturally, being the Birthday. Couldn’t you leave it till to-morrow, dear?
SEPTIMA (_eagerly_). Rita Ferguson wants me to share rooms with her. You know I’ve always wanted to, and now she’s just heard of some; there’s a studio goes with it. On Campden Hill.
MARION. Yes, dear. We’ll see what Grandfather says.
SEPTIMA (_annoyed_). I said that this has nothing to do with Grandfather. We’re talking about _me_. It’s no good trying to do anything here, and——
MARION. There! I’ve written _Campden_ Hill; how stupid of me. _Haverstock_ Hill. We’ll see what Grandfather says, dear.
SEPTIMA (_doggedly_). It has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION (_outraged_). Septima!
SEPTIMA. “We’ll see what Grandfather says”—that has always been the answer to everything in this house.
MARION (_as sarcastically as she can, but she is not very good at it_). You can hardly have forgotten who Grandfather is.
SEPTIMA. I haven’t.
MARION (_awed_). What was it the _Telegraph_ called him only this morning? “The Supreme Songster of an Earlier Epoch.” (_Her own father!_)
SEPTIMA. I said that I hadn’t forgotten what Grandfather _is_. You’re telling me what he _was_. He _is_ an old man of ninety. I’m twenty. Anything that I do will affect him for at most five years. It will affect me for fifty years. That’s why I say this has nothing to do with Grandfather.
MARION (_distressed_). Septima, sometimes you almost seem as if you were irreligious. When you think who Grandfather is—and his birthday too. (_Weakly_) You must talk to your father.
SEPTIMA. That’s better. Father’s only sixty.
MARION. You must talk to your father. He will see what Grandfather says.
SEPTIMA. And there we are—back again to ninety! It’s always the way.
MARION (_plaintively_). I really don’t understand you children. You ought to be proud of living in the house of such a great man. I don’t know what Grandfather will say when he hears about it. (_Tearfully_) The Reverend William Styles ... Hockley Vicarage ... Bishop Stortford. (_And from every line she extracts some slight religious comfort._)
SEPTIMA (_thoughtfully_). I suppose father would cut off my allowance if I just went.
MARION. Went?
SEPTIMA. Yes. Would he? It would be beastly unfair, of course, but I suppose he would.
MARION (_at the end of her resources_). Septima, you’re _not_ to talk like that.
SEPTIMA. I think I’ll get Aunt Isobel to tackle Grandfather. She’s only forty. Perhaps _she_ could persuade him.
MARION. I won’t hear another word. And you had better tidy yourself up. I will finish these letters myself.
SEPTIMA (_going to the door_). Yes, I must go and tidy up. (_At the door_) But I warn you, Mother, I mean to have it out this time. And if Grandfather—— (_She breaks off as her father comes in_) Oh, Lord! (_She comes back into the room, making way for him._)
(_WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY was obviously meant for the Civil Service. His prim neatness, his gold pince-nez, his fussiness would be invaluable in almost any Department. However, running BLAYDS is the next best thing to running the Empire._)
WILLIAM. What is this, Septima? Where are you going?
SEPTIMA. Tidy myself up.
WILLIAM. That’s right. And then you might help your mother to entertain Mr. Royce until we send for him. Perhaps we might—wait a moment——
MARION. Oh, have you seen Mr. Royce, William? He seems a nice young man, doesn’t he? I’m sure Grandfather will like him.
WILLIAM (_pontifically_). I still think that it was very unwise of us to attempt to see anybody to-day. Naturally I made it clear to Mr. Royce what a very unexpected departure this is from our usual practice. I fancy that he realises the honour which we have paid to the younger school of writers. Those who are knocking at the door, so to speak.
MARION. Oh, I’m sure he does.
SEPTIMA (_to the ceiling_). Does anybody want me?
WILLIAM. Wait a moment, please. (_He takes a key out of his pocket and considers._) Yes.... Yes.... (_He gives the key to SEPTIMA_) You may show Mr. Royce the autograph letter from Queen Victoria, on the occasion of your grandmother’s death. Be very careful, please. I think he might be allowed to take it in his hands—don’t you think so, Marion?—but lock it up immediately afterwards, and bring me back the key.
SEPTIMA. Yes, Father. (_As she goes_) What fun he’s going to have!
WILLIAM. Are those the letters?
MARION. Yes, dear, I’ve nearly finished them.
WILLIAM. They will do afterwards. (_Handing her a bunch of telegrams_) I want you to sort these telegrams. Isobel is seeing about the flowers?
MARION. Oh, yes, sure to be, dear. How do you mean, sort them?
WILLIAM. In three groups will be best. Those from societies or public bodies, those from distinguished people, including Royalty—you will find one from the Duchess there; her Royal Highness is very faithful to us—and those from unknown or anonymous admirers.
MARION. Oh, yes, I see, dear. (_She gets to work._)
WILLIAM. He will like to know who have remembered him. I fancy that we have done even better than we did on the eightieth birthday, and of course the day is not yet over. (_He walks about the room importantly, weighing great matters in his mind. This is his day._)
MARION. Yes, dear.
WILLIAM (_frowning anxiously_). What did we do last year about drinking the health? Was it in here, or did we go to his room?
MARION. He was down to lunch last year. Don’t you remember, dear?
WILLIAM. Ah, yes, of course. Stupid of me. Yes, this last year has made a great difference to him. He is breaking up, I fear. We cannot keep him with us for many more birthdays.
MARION. Don’t say that, dear.
WILLIAM. Well, we can but do our best.
MARION. What would you like to do, dear, about the health?
WILLIAM. H’m. Let me think. (_He thinks._)
MARION (_busy with the telegrams_). Some of these are a little difficult. Do you think that Sir John and Lady Wilkins would look better among the distinguished people including Royalty, or with the unknown and anonymous ones?
WILLIAM. Anybody doubtful is unknown. I only want a rough grouping. We shall have a general acknowledgment in the _Times_. And oh, that reminds me. I want an announcement for the late editions of the evening papers. Perhaps you had better just take this down. You can finish those afterwards.
MARION. Yes, dear. (_She gets ready_) Yes, dear?
WILLIAM (_after tremendous thought_). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
MARION (_writing_). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
WILLIAM. The veteran poet spent his ninetieth birthday——
MARION (_to herself_). The veteran poet——
WILLIAM. Passed his ninetieth birthday—that’s better—passed his ninetieth birthday quietly, amid his family——
MARION. Amid his family——
WILLIAM. At his well-known house—residence—in Portman Square. (_He stops suddenly. You thought he was just dictating, but his brain has been working all the time, and he has come to a decision. He announces it._) We will drink the health in here. See that there is an extra glass for Mr. Royce. “In Portman Square”—have you got that?
MARION. Yes, dear.
WILLIAM. Mr. William Blayds-Conway, who courteously gave—granted our representative an interview, informed us that the poet was in good health—— It’s a pity you never learnt shorthand, Marion.
MARION. I did try, dear.
WILLIAM (_remembering that historic effort_). Yes, I know ... in good health——
MARION. Good health——
WILLIAM. And keenly appreciative of the many tributes of affection which he had received.
MARION. Which he had received.
WILLIAM. Among those who called during the day were——
MARION. Yes, dear?
WILLIAM. Fill that in from the visitors’ book. (_He holds out his hand for the paper_) How does that go?
MARION (_giving it to him_). I wasn’t quite sure how many “p’s” there were in appreciative.
WILLIAM. Two.
MARION. Yes, I thought two was safer.
WILLIAM (_handing it back to her_). Yes, that’s all right. (_Bringing out his keys_) I shall want to make a few notes while Mr. Royce is being received. It may be that Oliver Blayds will say something worth recording. One would like to get something if it were possible. (_He has unlocked a drawer in the table and brought out his manuscript book._) And see that that goes off now. I should think about eight names. Say three Society, three Artistic and Literary, and two Naval, Military and Political. (_Again you see his brain working.... He has come to another decision. He announces it._) Perhaps two Society would be enough.
MARION. Yes, dear. (_Beginning to make for the door_) Will there be anything else you’ll want? (_Holding out the paper_) After I’ve done this?
WILLIAM (_considering_). No ... no.... I’m coming with you. (_Taking out his keys_) I must get the port. (_He opens the door for her, and they go out together._)
(_The room is empty for a moment, and then ISOBEL comes in. She is nearly forty. You can see how lovely she was at twenty, but she gave up being lovely eighteen years ago, said good-bye to ISOBEL, and became just Nurse. If BLAYDS wants cheerfulness, she is cheerful; if sympathy, sympathetic; if interest, interested. She is off duty now, and we see at once how tired she is. But she has some spiritual comfort, some secret pride to sustain her, and it is only occasionally that the tiredness, the deadness, shows through. She has flowers in her arms, and slowly, thoughtfully, she decks the room for the great man. We see now for a moment that she is much older than we thought; it is for her own ninetieth birthday that she is decorating the room.... Now she has finished, and she sits down, her hands in her lap, waiting, waiting patiently.... Some thought brings a wistful smile to her mouth. Yes, she must have been very lovely at twenty. Then ROYCE comes in._)
ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (_He sees who it is._) Oh!
ISOBEL. It’s all right, I—— Are you waiting to see—— (_She recognises him_) Oh!
(_They stand looking at each other, about six feet apart, not moving, saying nothing. Then very gently he begins to hum the refrain of a waltz. Slowly she remembers._)
ISOBEL. How long ago was it?
ROYCE. Eighteen years.
ISOBEL (_who has lived eighty years since then_). So little?
ROYCE (_distressed_). Isobel!
ISOBEL (_remembering his name now_). Austin.
ROYCE. It comes back to you?
ISOBEL. A few faded memories—and the smell of the pine woods. And there was a band, wasn’t there? That was the waltz they played. _How_ did it go? (_He gives her a bar or two again.... She nods_) Yes. (_She whispers the tune to herself._) Why does that make me think of—— Didn’t you cut your wrist? On the rocks?
ROYCE. You remember? (_He holds out his wrist_) Look!
ISOBEL (_nodding_). I knew that came into it. I tied it up for you.
ROYCE (_sentimentally_). I have the handkerchief still. (_More honestly_) Somewhere.... I know I have it. (_He tries to think where it would be._)
ISOBEL. There was a dog, wasn’t there?
ROYCE. How well you remember. Rags. A fox terrier.
ISOBEL (_doubtfully_). Yes?
ROYCE. Or was that later? I had an Aberdeen before that.
ISOBEL. Yes, that was it, I think.
ROYCE. Thomas.
ISOBEL (_smiling_). Thomas. Yes.... Only eighteen little years ago. But what worlds away. Just give me that tune again. (_He gives it to her, and the memories stir again._) You had a pipe you were very proud of—with a cracked bowl—and a silver band to keep it together. What silly things one remembers ... you’d forgotten it.
ROYCE. I remember that pink cotton dress.
ISOBEL. Eighty years ago. Or is it only eighteen? And now we meet again. You married? I seem to remember hearing.
ROYCE (_uncomfortably_). Yes.
ISOBEL. I hope it was happy.
ROYCE. No. We separated.
ISOBEL. I am sorry.
ROYCE. Was it likely it would be?
ISOBEL (_surprised_). Was that all the chance of happiness you gave her?
ROYCE. You think I oughtn’t to have married?
ISOBEL. Oh, my dear, who am I to order people’s lives?
ROYCE. You ordered mine.
ISOBEL (_ignoring this_). But you _have_ been happy? Marriage isn’t everything. You have been happy in your work, in your books, in your friends?
ROYCE (_after thinking_). Yes, Isobel, on the whole, yes.
ISOBEL. I’m glad.... (_She holds out her hand suddenly with a smile_) How do you do, Mr. Royce? (_She is inviting him to step off the sentimental footing._)
ROYCE (_stepping off_). How do you do, Miss Blayds? It’s delightful to meet you again.
ISOBEL. Let’s sit down; shall we? (_They sit down together._) My father will be coming in directly. You are here to see him, of course?
ROYCE. Yes. Tell me about him—or rather about yourself. You are still looking after him?
ISOBEL. Yes.
ROYCE. For eighteen years.
ISOBEL. Nearly twenty altogether.
ROYCE. And has it been worth it?
ISOBEL. He has written wonderful things in those twenty years. Not very much, but very wonderful.
ROYCE. Yes, that has always been the miracle about him, the way he has kept his youth. And the fire and spirit of youth. You have helped him there.
ISOBEL (_proudly_). Has it been worth it?
ROYCE (_puzzled_). I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. The world would think so; but I—naturally I am prejudiced.
ISOBEL. Yes.
ROYCE (_smiling_). You might have looked after _me_ for those eighteen years.
ISOBEL. Did you want it as much as he? (_As he protests_) No, I don’t mean “want” it—need it?
ROYCE. Well, that’s always the problem, isn’t it—whether the old or the young have the better right to be selfish. We both needed you, in different ways. You gave yourself to him, and he has wasted your life. I don’t think _I_ should have wasted it.
ISOBEL. I am proud to have helped him. No one will know. Everything which he wrote will be his. Only _I_ shall know how much of it was mine. Well, that’s something. Not wasted.
ROYCE. Sacrificed.
ISOBEL. Am I to regret that?
ROYCE. Do you regret it?
ISOBEL (_after considering_). When you asked me to marry you I—I couldn’t. He was an old man then; he wanted me; I was everything to him. Oh, he has had his friends, more friends than any man, but he had to be the head of a family too, and without me—I’ve kept him alive, active. He has sharpened his brains on me. (_With a shrug_) On whom else?
ROYCE. Yes, I understand that.
ISOBEL. You wouldn’t have married me and come to live with us all, as Marion and William have done?
ROYCE. No, no, that’s death.
ISOBEL. Yes, I knew you felt like that. But I couldn’t leave him. (_ROYCE shrugs his shoulders unconvinced._) Oh, I _did_ love you then; I _did_ want to marry you! But I couldn’t. He wasn’t just an ordinary man—you must remember that, please. He was Blayds.... Oh, what are we in the world for but to find beauty, and who could find it as he, and who could help him as I?
ROYCE. I was ready to wait.
ISOBEL. Ah, but how could we? Until he died! Every day you would be thinking, “I wonder how he is to-day,” and I should be knowing that you were thinking that. Oh, horrible! Sitting and waiting for his death.
ROYCE (_thoughtfully, recognising her point of view_). Yes.... Yes.... But if you were back now, knowing what you know, would you do it again?
ISOBEL. I think so. I think it has been worth it. It isn’t fair to ask me. I’m glad now that I have given him those eighteen years, but perhaps I should have been afraid of it if I had known it was to be as long as that. It has been trying, of course—such a very old man in body, although so young in mind—but it has not been for an old man that I have done it; not for a selfish father; but for the glorious young poet who has never grown up, and who wanted me.
ROYCE (_looking into her soul_). But you have had your bad moments.
ISOBEL (_distressed_). Oh, don’t! It isn’t fair.
(_ROYCE, his eyes still on her, begins the refrain again._)
ISOBEL (_smiling sadly_). Oh, no, Mr. Royce! That’s all over. I’m an old woman now.
ROYCE (_rather ashamed_). I’m sorry.... Yes, you’re older now.
ISOBEL. Twenty and thirty-eight—there’s a world of difference between them.
ROYCE. I’m forty.
ISOBEL (_smiling_). Don’t ask me to pity you. What’s forty to a man?
ROYCE. You’re right. In fact I’m masquerading here to-day as one of the younger writers.
ISOBEL (_glad to be off the subject of herself_). Father likes to feel that he is admired by the younger writers. So if you’ve brought all their signatures with you, he’ll be pleased to see you, Mr. Royce. I had better give you just one word of warning. Don’t be too hard on the 1863 volume.
ROYCE. I shan’t even mention it.
ISOBEL. But if _he_ does——? It has been attacked so much that he has a sort of mother-love for it now, and even I feel protective towards it, and want to say, “Come here, darling, nobody loves you.” Say something kind if you can. Of course I know it isn’t his best, but when you’ve been praised as much as he, the little praise which is withheld is always the praise you want the most.
ROYCE. How delightfully human that sounds. That is just what I’ve always felt in my own small way.
_WILLIAM comes fussily in._
WILLIAM. Is Mr. Royce——? Ah, there you are! (_Looking round the room_) You’ve done the flowers, Isobel? That’s right. Well, Mr. Royce, I hope they’ve been looking after you properly.
ROYCE. Oh, yes, thanks.
WILLIAM. That’s right. Isobel—(_he looks, in a statesmanlike way, at his watch_)—in five minutes, shall we say?
ISOBEL. Yes.
WILLIAM. How is he just now?
ISOBEL. He seems better to-day.
WILLIAM. That’s right. We shall drink the health in here.
ISOBEL. Very well. [_She goes out._
WILLIAM. A little custom we have, Mr. Royce.
ROYCE. Oh, yes.
WILLIAM. We shall all wish him many happy returns of the day—you understand that he isn’t dressed now until the afternoon—and then I shall present you. After that, we shall all drink the health—you will join us, of course.
ROYCE (_smiling_). Certainly.
WILLIAM. Then, of course, it depends how we are feeling. We may feel in the mood for a little talk, or we may be too tired for anything more than a few words of greeting. You have the Address with you?
ROYCE. Yes. (_Looking about him_) At least I put it down somewhere.
WILLIAM (_scandalised_). You put it down—somewhere! My dear Mr. Royce (_he searches anxiously_)—at any moment now—— (_He looks at his watch._) Perhaps I’d better—— (_A Maid comes in with the port and glasses_) Parsons, have you seen a—— (_He makes vague rectangular shapes with his hands._)
ROYCE. Here it is.
WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. (_As the Maid puts the tray down_) Yes, there, I think, Parsons. How many glasses have you brought?
PARSONS. Seven, sir.
WILLIAM. There should be six. One—two—three——
PARSONS (_firmly_). Madam said seven, sir.
WILLIAM. Seven, yes, that’s right. When I ring the bell, you’ll tell Miss Isobel that we are ready.
PARSONS. Yes, sir.
(_She goes out, making way for MARION, SEPTIMA, and OLIVER as she does so._)
WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. Now then, let me see.... I think—— Marion, will you sit here? Septima, you there. Oliver—Oliver, that’s a very light suit you’re wearing.
OLIVER. It’s a birthday, Father, not a funeral.
WILLIAM (_with dignity_). Yes, but whose birthday? Well, it’s too late now—you sit there. Mr. Royce, you sit next to me, so that I can take you up. Now are we all ready?
SEPTIMA (_wickedly_). Wait a moment. (_She blows her nose_) Right.
WILLIAM. All ready? (_He rings the bell with an air._)
(_There is a solemn silence of expectation. Then OLIVER shifts a leg and catches his ankle against SEPTIMA’S chair._)
OLIVER. Damn! Oo! (_He rubs his ankle._)
WILLIAM (_in church_). S’sh!
(_There is another solemn silence, and then the Maid opens the door. BLAYDS, in an invalid chair, is wheeled in by ISOBEL. They all stand up. With his long white beard, his still plentiful white hair curling over his ears, OLIVER BLAYDS does indeed “look like somebody.” Only his eyes, under their shaggy brows, are still young. Indomitable spirit and humour gleam in them. With all the dignity, majesty even, which he brings to the part, you feel that he realises what great fun it is being OLIVER BLAYDS._)
BLAYDS. Good-day to you all.
MARION (_going forward and kissing his forehead_). Many happy returns of the day, Father.
BLAYDS. Thank you, Marion. Happy, I hope; many, I neither expect nor want.
(_WILLIAM, who is just going forward, stops for a moment to jot this down on his shirt cuff. Then, beckoning to ROYCE to follow him, he approaches._)
WILLIAM. My heartiest congratulations, sir.
BLAYDS. Thank you, William. When you are ninety, I’ll do as much for you.
WILLIAM (_laughing heartily_). Ha, ha! Very good, sir. May I present Mr. A. L. Royce, the well-known critic?
BLAYDS (_looking thoughtfully at ROYCE_). We have met before, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. At Bournemouth, sir. Eighteen years ago.
BLAYDS (_nodding_). Yes. I remember.
WILLIAM. Wonderful, wonderful!
BLAYDS (_holding out his hand_). Thank you for wasting your time now on an old man. You must stay and talk to me afterwards.
ROYCE. It’s very kind of you, sir. I——
WILLIAM. Just a moment, Mr. Royce. (_He indicates SEPTIMA and OLIVER._)
ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (_He steps on one side._)
WILLIAM (_in a whisper_). Septima.
SEPTIMA (_coming forward_). Congratulations, Grandfather. (_She bends her head, and he kisses her._)
BLAYDS. Thank you, my dear. I don’t know what I’ve done, but thank you.
OLIVER (_coming forward_). Congratulations, Grandfather. (_He bends down and BLAYDS puts a hand on his head._)
BLAYDS. Thank you, my boy, thank you. (_Wistfully_) I was your age once.
(_WILLIAM, who has been very busy pouring out port, now gets busy distributing it. When they are all ready he holds up his glass._)
WILLIAM. Are we all ready? (_They are._) Blayds!
ALL. Blayds! (_They drink._)
BLAYDS (_moved as always by this_). Thank you, thank you. (_Recovering himself_) Is that the Jubilee port, William?
WILLIAM. Yes, sir.
BLAYDS (_looking wistfully at ISOBEL_). May I?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear, if you like. William——
WILLIAM (_anxiously_). Do you think——? (_She nods, and he pours out a glass._) Here you are, sir.
BLAYDS (_taking it in rather a shaky hand_). Mr. Royce, I will drink to you; and, through you, to all that eager youth which is seeking, each in his own way, for beauty. (_He raises his glass._) May they find it at the last! (_He drinks._)
ROYCE. Thank you very much, sir. I shall remember.
WILLIAM. Allow me, sir. (_He recovers BLAYDS’ glass._) Marion, you have business to attend to? Oliver——? Septima——?
MARION. Yes, dear. (_Cheerfully to BLAYDS_) We’re going now, Grandfather.
BLAYDS (_nodding_). I shall talk a little to Mr. Royce.
MARION. That’s right, dear; don’t tire yourself. Come along, children.
(_OLIVER comes along. SEPTIMA hesitates. She “means to have it out this time.”_)
SEPTIMA (_irresolutely_). Grandfather——
BLAYDS. Well?
MARION. Come along, dear.
SEPTIMA (_overawed by the majesty of BLAYDS_). Oh—all right. (_They go. But she will certainly have it out next time._)
WILLIAM (_in a whisper to ROYCE_). The Address? (_To BLAYDS_) Mr. Royce has a message of congratulation from some of the younger writers, which he wishes to present to you, sir. Mr. Royce——
(_ROYCE comes forward with it._)
BLAYDS. It is very good of them.
ROYCE (_doubtfully_). Shall I read it, sir?
BLAYDS (_smiling_). The usual thing?
ROYCE (_smiling too_). Pretty much. A little better than usual, I hope, because I wrote it.
(_WILLIAM is now at the writing-table, waiting hopefully for crumbs._)
BLAYDS (_holding out his hand_). Give it to me. And sit down, please. Near me. I don’t hear too well. (_He takes the book and glances at it._) Pretty. (_He glances at some of the names and says, with a pleased smile_) I didn’t think they took any interest in an old man. Isobel, you will read it to me afterwards, and tell me who they all are?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear.
BLAYDS. Will that do, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. Of course, sir.... I should just like you to know, to have the privilege of telling you here, and on this day, that every one of us there has a very real admiration for your work and a very real reverence for yourself. And we feel that, in signing, we have done honour to ourselves, rather than honour to Blayds, whom no words of ours can honour as his own have done.
BLAYDS. Thank you.... You must read it to me, Isobel. (_He gives her the book._) A very real admiration for _all_ my work, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. Yes, sir.
BLAYDS. Except the 1863 volume?
ROYCE. I have never regretted that, sir.
BLAYDS (_pleased_). Ah! You hear, Isobel?
ROYCE. I don’t say that it is my own favourite, but I could quite understand if it were the author’s. There are things about it——
BLAYDS. Isobel, are you listening?
ISOBEL (_smiling_). Yes, Father.
ROYCE. Things outside your usual range, if I may say so——
BLAYDS (_nodding and chuckling_). You hear, Isobel? Didn’t I always tell you? Well, well, we mustn’t talk any more about that.... William!
WILLIAM (_jumping up_). Sir?
BLAYDS. What are you doing?
WILLIAM. Just finishing off a few letters, sir.
BLAYDS. Would you be good enough to bring me my Sordello?
WILLIAM. The one which Browning gave you, sir?
BLAYDS. Of course. I wish to show Mr. Royce the inscription—(_to ROYCE_)—an absurd one, all rhymes to Blayds. It will be in the library somewhere; it may have got moved.
WILLIAM. Certainly, sir.
ISOBEL. Father——
BLAYDS (_holding up a hand to stop her_). Thank you, William. (_William goes out._) You were saying, Isobel?
ISOBEL. Nothing. I thought it was in your bedroom. I was reading to you last night.
BLAYDS (_sharply_). Of course it’s in my bedroom. But can’t I get my own son-in-law out of the room if I want to?
ISOBEL (_soothingly_). Of course, dear. It was silly of me.
BLAYDS. My son-in-law, Mr. Royce, meditates after my death a little book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in the Cotswolds,” but I am not certain of this yet. (_He chuckles to himself._)
ISOBEL (_reproachfully_). Father!
BLAYDS (_apologetically_). All right, Isobel. Mr. Royce won’t mind.
ISOBEL (_smiling reluctantly_). It’s very unkind.
BLAYDS. You never knew Whistler, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. No, sir; he was a bit before my time.
BLAYDS. Ah, he was the one to say unkind things. But you forgave him because he had a way with him. And there was always the hope that when he had finished with _you_, he would say something still worse about one of your friends. (_He chuckles to himself again._) I sent him a book of mine once—which one was it, Isobel?
ISOBEL. _Helen._
BLAYDS. _Helen_, yes. I got a postcard from him a few days later: “Dear Oliver, rub it out and do it again.” Well, I happened to meet him the next day, and I said that I was sorry I couldn’t take his advice, as it was too late now to do anything about it. “Yes,” said Jimmie, “as God said when he’d made Swinburne.”
ISOBEL. You’ve heard that, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. No. Ought I to have?
ISOBEL. It has been published.
BLAYDS (_wickedly_). I told my son-in-law. Anything which I tell my son-in-law is published.
ISOBEL. I always say that father made it up.
BLAYDS. You didn’t know Jimmie, my dear. There was nothing he couldn’t have said. But a most stimulating companion.
ROYCE. Yes, he must have been.
BLAYDS. So was Alfred. He had a great sense of humour. All of us who knew him well knew that.
ROYCE. It is curious how many people nowadays regard Tennyson as something of a prig, with no sense of humour. I always feel that his association with Queen Victoria had something to do with it. A Court poet is so very un-stimulating.
BLAYDS. I think you’re right. It was a pity. (_He chuckles to himself. ROYCE waits expectantly._) I went to Court once.
ROYCE (_surprised_). You?
BLAYDS (_nodding_). Yes, I went to Osborne to see the Queen. Alfred’s doing I always suspected, but he wouldn’t own to it. (_He chuckles._)
ISOBEL. Tell him about it, dear.
BLAYDS. I had a new pair of boots. They squeaked. They squeaked all the way from London to the Isle of Wight. The Queen was waiting for me at the end of a long room. I squeaked in. I bowed. I squeaked my way up to her. We talked. I was not allowed to sit down, of course; I just stood shifting from one foot to the other—and squeaking. She said: “Don’t you think Lord Tennyson’s poetry is very beautiful?” and I squeaked and said, “Damn these boots!” A gentleman-in-waiting told me afterwards that it was contrary to etiquette to start a new topic of conversation with Royalty—so I suppose that that is why I have never been asked to Court again.
ISOBEL. It was your joke, Father, not the gentleman-in-waiting’s. (_BLAYDS chuckles._)
ROYCE. Yes, I’m sure of that.
BLAYDS. Isobel knows all my stories.... When you’re ninety, they know all your stories.
ISOBEL. I like hearing them again, dear, and Mr. Royce hasn’t heard them.
BLAYDS. I’ll tell you one you _don’t_ know, Isobel.
ISOBEL. Not you.
BLAYDS. Will you bet?
ISOBEL. It’s taking your money.
BLAYDS. Mr. Royce will hold the stakes. A shilling.
ISOBEL. You will be ruined. (_She takes out her purse._)
BLAYDS (_childishly_). Have you got one for me too?
ISOBEL (_taking out two_). One for you and one for me. Here you are, Mr. Royce.
ROYCE. Thank you. Both good ones? Right.
BLAYDS. George Meredith told me this. Are you fond of cricket, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. Yes, very.
BLAYDS. So was Meredith, so was I.... A young boy playing for his school. The important match of the year; he gets his colours only if he plays—you understand? Just before the game began, he was sitting in one of those—what do they call them?—deck chairs, when it collapsed, his hand between the hinges. Three crushed fingers; no chance of playing; no colours. At that age a tragedy; it seems that one’s whole life is over. You understand?
ROYCE. Yes. Oh, very well.
BLAYDS. But if once the match begins with him, he has his colours, whatever happens afterwards. So he decides to say nothing about the fingers. He keeps his hand in his pocket; nobody has seen the accident, nobody guesses. His side is in first. He watches—his hand is in his pocket. When his turn comes to bat, he forces a glove over the crushed fingers and goes to the wickets. He makes nothing—well, that doesn’t matter; he is the wicket-keeper and has gone in last. But he knows now that he can never take his place in the field; and he knows, too, what an unfair thing he has done to his school to let them start their game with a cripple. It is impossible now to confess.... So, in between the innings, he arranges another accident with his chair, and falls back on it, with his fingers—his already crushed fingers this time—in the hinges. So nobody ever knew. Not until he was a man, and it all seemed very little and far away.
ISOBEL. What a horrible story! Give him the money, Mr. Royce.
BLAYDS. Keep it for me, Isobel. (_ISOBEL takes it._)
ROYCE. Is it true, sir?
BLAYDS. So Meredith said. He told me.
ROYCE. Lord, what pluck! I think I should have forgiven him for that.
BLAYDS. Yes, an unfair thing to do; but having done it, he carried it off in the grand manner.
ISOBEL. To save himself.
BLAYDS. Well, well. But he had qualities. Don’t you think so, Mr. Royce?
ROYCE. I do indeed.
(_There is a silence. The excitement of the occasion has died away, and you can almost see BLAYDS getting older._)
BLAYDS (_after a pause_). I could tell you another story, Isobel, which you don’t know.... Of another boy who carried it off.
ISOBEL. Not now, dear. You mustn’t tire yourself.
BLAYDS (_a very old man suddenly_). No, not now. But I shall tell you one day. Yes, I shall have to tell you.... I shall have to tell you.
ISOBEL (_quietly, to ROYCE_). I think perhaps——
ROYCE (_getting up_). It is very kind of you to have seen me, sir. I mustn’t let you get tired of me.
BLAYDS (_very tired_). Good-bye, Mr. Royce. He liked the 1863 volume, Isobel.
ISOBEL. Yes, Father.
ROYCE. Good-bye, sir, and thank you; I shall always remember.
ISOBEL (_in a whisper to ROYCE_). You can find your way out, can’t you? I don’t like to leave him.
ROYCE. Of course. I may see you again?
ISOBEL (_her tragedy_). I am always here.
ROYCE. Good-bye.
[_He goes._
BLAYDS. Isobel, where are you?
ISOBEL (_at his side again_). Here I am, dear.
BLAYDS. How old did you say I was?
ISOBEL. Ninety.
BLAYDS. Ninety.... I’m tired.
ISOBEL. It has been too much for you, dear. I oughtn’t to have let him stay so long. You’d like to go to bed now, wouldn’t you? (_She walks away to ring the bell._)
BLAYDS (_a frightened child_). Where are you going? Don’t leave me.
ISOBEL (_stopping_). Only to ring the bell, dear.
BLAYDS. Don’t leave me. I want you to hold my hand.
ISOBEL. Yes, dear. (_She holds it._)
BLAYDS. Did you say I was ninety? There’s no going back at ninety. Only forward—into the grave that’s waiting for you. So cold and lonely there, Isobel.
ISOBEL. I am always with you, dear.
BLAYDS. Hold me tight. I’m frightened.... Did I tell you about the boy—who carried it off?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear, you told us.
BLAYDS. No, not that boy—the other one. Are we alone, Isobel?
ISOBEL. Yes, dear.
BLAYDS. Listen, Isobel. I want to tell you——
ISOBEL. Tell me to-morrow, dear.
BLAYDS (_in weak anger, because he is frightened_). There are no to-morrows when you are ninety ... when you are ninety ... and they have all left you ... alone.
ISOBEL. Very well, dear. Tell me now.
BLAYDS (_eagerly_). Yes, yes, come closer.... Listen, Isobel. (_He draws her still closer and begins._) Isobel....
(_But we do not hear it until afterwards._)