Chapter VII: Part 7

MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we _could_ have that second car and the house in Curzon Street?

CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the income-tax--and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just now--

MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery it would count as _earned_ income.

CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even if it is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in recognition of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But Parliament takes a different view. I do not for a moment say that fifty thousand pounds would not be welcome. Fifty thousand pounds is certainly not to be sneezed at--

MARGARET. I should think not, indeed!

CRAWSHAW [_unconsciously rising from his chair_]. And without this preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this trust, and I would endeavor, Mr. Speaker--[_He sits down again suddenly._] I would endeavor, Margaret, to carry it out to the best of my poor ability. But--Wurzel-Flummery!

MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used to the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five years. It is surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only signed my name Margaret Debenham once after I was married.

CRAWSHAW [_kindly_]. The cases are rather different, Margaret. Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day when she will change her name, cannot have this feeling for the--ah--honor of his name, which every man--ah--feels. Such a feeling is naturally more present in my own case since I have been privileged to make the name of Crawshaw in some degree--ah--well-known, I might almost say famous.

MARGARET [_wistfully_]. I used to be called "the beautiful Miss Debenham of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw.

CRAWSHAW [_getting up and walking over to the fireplace_]. In a way it would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in politics to get your name before the public. "Whoever is this man Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say.

MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty thousand pounds is fifty thousand pounds.

CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it. But--well, all I say is that a _gentleman_ would have left it without any conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed his _wish_ that I should take the name, without going so far as to enforce it. Then I could have looked at the matter all round in an impartial spirit.

MARGARET [_pursuing her thoughts_]. The linen is marked R. M. C. now. Of course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F. would do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.?

CRAWSHAW. What? Oh--yes, there will be a good deal of that to attend to. [_Going up to her._] I think, Margaret, I had better talk to Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the money, but--well, I should like to have his opinion.

MARGARET [_getting up_]. Do you think he would be very sympathetic, dear? He makes jokes about serious things--like bishops and hunting--just as if they weren't at all serious.

CRAWSHAW. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new--ah--point of view. I do not hold myself in the least bound to act on anything he says. I regard him as a constituent, Margaret.

MARGARET. Then I will send him to you.

CRAWSHAW [_putting his hands on her shoulders_]. Margaret, what do you really feel about it?

MARGARET. Just whatever _you_ feel, Robert.

CRAWSHAW [_kissing her_]. Thank you, Margaret; you are a good wife to me. [_She goes out. CRAWSHAW goes to his desk and selects a "Who's Who" from a little pile of reference-books on it. He walks round to his chair, sits down in it and begins to turn the pages, murmuring names beginning with "C" to himself as he gets near the place. When he finds it, he murmurs "Clifton--that's funny" and closes the book. Evidently the publishers have failed him._]

_Enter RICHARD._

RICHARD. Well, what's the news? [_He goes to his old seat on the fender._] Been left a fortune?

CRAWSHAW [_simply_]. Yes.... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. I never met him and I know nothing about him.

RICHARD [_surprised_]. Not really? Well, I congratulate you. [_He sighs._] To them that hath--But what on earth do you want my advice about?

CRAWSHAW. There is a slight condition attached.

RICHARD. Oho!

CRAWSHAW. The condition is that with this money--fifty thousand pounds--I take the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery.

RICHARD [_jumping up_]. What!

CRAWSHAW [_sulkily_]. I said it quite distinctly--Wurzel-Flummery. [_RICHARD in an awed silence walks over to the desk and stands looking down at the unhappy CRAWSHAW. He throws out his left hand as if introducing him._]

RICHARD [_reverently_]. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., one of the most prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. Oh, you ... oh!... oh, how too heavenly! [_He goes back to his seat, looks up and catches CRAWSHAW's eye, and breaks down altogether._]

CRAWSHAW [_rising with dignity_]. Shall we discuss it seriously, or shall we leave it?

RICHARD. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery seriously? "Mr. Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen words seconded the motion." ... "'Sir,' went on Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"--Oh, poor Robert!

CRAWSHAW [_sitting down sulkily_]. You seem quite certain that I shall take the money.

RICHARD. I am quite certain.

CRAWSHAW. Would _you_ take it?

RICHARD [_hesitating_]. Well--I wonder.

CRAWSHAW. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's in a name?"

RICHARD. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare--_William_ Shakespeare--said. [_Dramatically rising._] Who steals my purse with fifty thousand in it--steals trash. [_In his natural voice._] Trash, Robert. [_Dramatically again._] But he who filches from me my good name of Crawshaw [_lightly_] and substitutes the rotten one of Wurzel--

CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery is a very good old name. I seem to remember some--ah--Hampshire Wurzel-Flummeries. It is a very laudable spirit on the part of a dying man to wish to--ah--perpetuate these old English names. It all seems to me quite natural and straightforward. If I take this money I shall have nothing to be ashamed of.

RICHARD. I see.... Look here, may I ask you a few questions? I should like to know just how you feel about the whole business?

CRAWSHAW [_complacently folding his hands_]. Go ahead.

RICHARD. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you and said, "My poor man, here's five pounds for you," what would you do? Tell him to go to the devil, I suppose, wouldn't you?

CRAWSHAW [_humorously_]. In more parliamentary language, perhaps, Richard. I should tell him I never took money from strangers.

RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you would take it?

CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't.

RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, _then_ you would?

CRAWSHAW [_blandly_]. Ah, I thought you were leading up to that. That, of course, is entirely different.

RICHARD. Why?

CRAWSHAW. Well--ah--wouldn't _you_ take ten thousand pounds if it were left to you by a stranger?

RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would seem different.

CRAWSHAW [_professionally_]. Ha--hum! Well--in the first place, when a man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be certain that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot spare. And in the next place, it is the man's dying wish that you should have the money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To accept becomes almost a sacred duty.

RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it from him when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently refuse him a little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter a damn to him what happens to his money after he's dead, and therefore you can take it without feeling any gratitude at all.

CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that.

RICHARD [_smiling_]. I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert.

CRAWSHAW. No doubt you can twist it about so that--

RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point. Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your hair down the middle, shave off your mustache, and wear only one whisker--if he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike your appearance, took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and alter yourself--of course you'd pocket the money and go straight to your barber's?

CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive.

RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left you five pounds in his will?--well, then twenty pounds?--a hundred pounds?--a thousand pounds?--fifty thousand pounds?--[_Jumping up excitedly._] It's only a question of price--fifty thousand pounds, Robert--a pink tie with purple spots, hair parted across the back, trousers with a patch in the seat, call myself Wurzel-Flummery--any old thing you like, you can't insult me--anything you like, gentlemen, for fifty thousand pounds. [_Lowering his voice._] Only you must leave it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty--a sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. [_He sinks back into the sofa and relights his pipe._]

CRAWSHAW [_rising with dignity_]. It is evidently useless to prolong this conversation.

RICHARD [_waving him down again_]. No, no, Robert; I've finished. I just took the other side--and I got carried away. I ought to have been at the Bar.

CRAWSHAW. You take such extraordinary views of things. You must look facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern world, and we are modern people living in it. Take the matter-of-fact view. You may like or dislike the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery, but you can't get away from the fact that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at.

RICHARD [_wistfully_]. I don't know why people shouldn't sneeze at money sometimes. I should like to start a society for sneezing at fifty thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in a small way, of course; we'd begin by sneezing at five pounds--and work up.... The trouble is that we're all inoculated in our cradles against that kind of cold.

CRAWSHAW [_pleasantly_]. You will have your little joke. But you know as well as I do that it is only a joke. There can be no serious reason why I should not take this money. And I--ah--gather that you don't think it will affect my career?

RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get you into all the comic papers.

MARGARET _comes in at this moment, to the relief of CRAWSHAW, who is not quite certain if he is being flattered or insulted again._

MARGARET. Well, have you told him?

RICHARD [_making way for her on the sofa_]. I have heard the news, Mrs. Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion that he should have no difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery as famous as he has already made that of Crawshaw. At any rate I hope he will.

MARGARET. How nice of you!

CRAWSHAW. Well, it's settled then. [_Looking at his watch._] This solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after all, we can manage something about--Ah, Viola, did you want your mother?

_Enter VIOLA._

VIOLA. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's Richard, so it can't be very serious.

RICHARD. What a reputation!

CRAWSHAW. Well, it's over now.

MARGARET. Viola had better know, hadn't she?

CRAWSHAW. She'll have to know some time, of course.

VIOLA [_sitting down firmly on the sofa_]. Of course she will. So you'd better tell her now. I knew there was something exciting going on this morning.

CRAWSHAW [_embarrassed_]. Hum--ha--[_To MARGARET._] Perhaps you'd better tell her, dear.

MARGARET [_simply and naturally_]. Father has come into some property, Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. But your father doesn't think it will matter.

VIOLA. How thrilling! What is the name, mother?

MARGARET. Your father says it is--dear me, I shall never remember it.

CRAWSHAW [_mumbling_]. Wurzel-Flummery.

VIOLA [_after a pause_]. Dick, _you_ tell me, if nobody else will.

RICHARD. Robert said it just now.

VIOLA. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just a--do say it again, father.

CRAWSHAW [_sulkily but plainly_]. Wurzel-Flummery.

VIOLA [_surprised_]. Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel and like flummery?

RICHARD. Exactly, I believe.

VIOLA [_to herself_]. Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery--I mean they'd have to look at you, wouldn't they? [_Bubbling over._] Oh, Dick, what a heavenly name! Who had it first?

RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family--that is so, isn't it, Robert?

CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. I said I thought that I remembered--Margaret, can you find Burke there? [_She finds it, and he buries himself in the families of the great._]

MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss Wurzel-Flummery.

VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand in front of my glass and tell myself who I am.

RICHARD. It's all right for _you_. You know you'll change your name one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before.

VIOLA [_secretly_]. H'sh! [_She smiles lovingly at him, and then says aloud._] Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery ..." and everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl."

MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. Have you found it, dear?

CRAWSHAW [_resentfully_]. This is the 1912 edition.

MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in by then.

VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick, what fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman throwing open the door and saying--

MAID [_announcing_]. Mr. Denis Clifton. [_There is a little natural confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in his summer suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW goes towards him and shakes hands._]

CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. [_Looking doubtfully at his clothes._] Er--it is Mr. Denis Clifton, the solicitor?

CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. It is. I must apologize for not looking the part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions.

CRAWSHAW [_bewildered_]. Ah yes, quite so. But you have--ah--full legal authority to act in this matter?

CLIFTON. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that.

CRAWSHAW [_introducing_]. My wife--and daughter. [_CLIFTON bows gracefully._] My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton.

CLIFTON [_happily_]. Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a situation, as we say in the profession.

RICHARD [_amused by him_]. In the legal profession?

CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession. [_Turning to MARGARET._] I am a writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have thanked me for submitting my work to them.

CRAWSHAW [_firmly_]. I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony Clifton.

CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced the profession of a solicitor--[_Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW._] But you know what these official embraces are.

MARGARET. I'm afraid--[_She turns to her husband for assistance._]

CLIFTON [_to RICHARD_]. Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the Muses.

VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely?

CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to produce a play, the case would be different.

CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor for as long as you wish. [_He puts his hat down on a chair with the papers in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily._] Mr. Denis Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent make-up, his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into his hat--[_He does so._]

MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. I think, perhaps, Viola and I--

RICHARD [_making a move too_]. We'll leave you to your business, Robert.

CLIFTON [_holding up his hand_]. Just one moment if I may. I have a letter for you, Mr. Meriton.

RICHARD [_surprised_]. For me?

CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity--oh, but I said that before--he took it round to your rooms this morning, but found only painters and decorators there. [_He is feeling in his pockets and now brings the letter out._] I brought it along, hoping that Mr. Crawshaw--but of course I never expected anything so delightful as this. [_He hands over the letter with a bow._]

RICHARD. Thanks. [_He puts it in his pocket._]

CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? [_To MRS. CRAWSHAW._] One so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own letters are read. I think the habit they have on the stage of reading letters aloud to each other is such a very delightful one. [_RICHARD, with a smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while CLIFTON is talking._]

RICHARD. Good Lord!

VIOLA. Dick, what is it?

RICHARD [_reading_]. "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of L50,000."

VIOLA. Dick!

RICHARD. "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." [_CLIFTON, with his hand on his heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them._]

CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. Impossible! Why should he leave any money to you?

VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful!

MARGARET [_mildly_]. I don't remember ever having had a morning quite like this.

RICHARD [_angrily_]. Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton?

CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the utmost--

RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't even argue about it. [_Tearing the letter into bits._] That's what I think of your money. [_He stalks indignantly from the room._]

VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him--[_She hurries after him._]

MARGARET [_with dignity_]. Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you. [_She goes out too._]

CLIFTON [_looking round the room_]. And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are alone.

CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to explain--

CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning dressing for it. [_He takes papers from his hat and moves to the sofa._] Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning.

CRAWSHAW [_interested, indicating the papers_]. The documents in the case?

CLIFTON. Oh dear, no--just something to carry in the hand. It makes one look more like a solicitor. [_Reading the title._] "Watherston v. Towser--_in re_ Great Missenden Canal Company." My clerk invents the titles; it keeps him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is always coming in. [_Frankly._] You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first real case, and I only got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My efforts to introduce a little picturesqueness into the dull formalities of the law do not meet with that response that one would have expected.

CRAWSHAW [_looking at his watch_]. Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if you could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged to you.

CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being entirely frank with you. It will be a pleasure.

CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may say that I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as I am to accept this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr. Antony Clifton has seen fit--[_modestly_] one cannot say why--to bequeath to me, yet the use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be excessively awkward.

CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. Excessively.

CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was absolutely essential that the name should go with the money.

CLIFTON. Well [_thoughtfully_], you may have the name _without_ the money if you like. But you must have the name.

CRAWSHAW [_disappointed_]. Ah! [_Bravely._] Of course, I have nothing against the name, a good old Hampshire name--

CLIFTON [_shocked_]. My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think--you didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the founders of the clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran--

CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not a real name at all?

CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because--er--_I_ made it up.

CRAWSHAW [_outraged_]. And you have the impudence to propose, sir, that I should take a made-up name?

CLIFTON [_soothingly_]. Well, all names are made up some time or other. Somebody had to think of--Adam.

CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this trifling with serious subjects.

CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really.... You see, my Uncle Antony was a rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to put it in its proper place. The place he put it in was--er--a little below golf and a little above classical concerts. If a man said to him, "Would you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?" he would say--well, it would depend what he was doing. If he were going to have a round at Walton Heath--

CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way.

CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find many to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was nothing, however contemptible, that a man would not do for money. One day I suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently foolish name attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it. He laughed at the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I said; "leave the same silly name to two people, two well-known people, rival politicians, say, men whose own names are already public property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said. "Upon what vile bodies shall we experiment?" We decided on you and Mr. Meriton. The next thing was to choose the name. I started on the wrong lines. I began by suggesting names like Porker, Tosh, Bugge, Spiffkins--the obvious sort. My uncle--

CRAWSHAW [_boiling with indignation_]. How _dare_ you discuss me with your uncle, sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way whether I am to be called--ah--Tosh--or-ah--Porker!

CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't hear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a humorous name--a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue--a name expressing a sort of humorous contempt--Wurzel-Flummery! I can see now the happy ruminating smile which came so often on my Uncle Antony's face in those latter months. He was thinking of his two Wurzel-Flummeries. I remember him saying once--it was at the Zoo--what a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole Cabinet. A whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummeries; it would have been rather jolly.

CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if _that_ was the way you and your uncle used to talk together at the Zoo, his death can only be described as a merciful intervention of Providence.

CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere, you know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was his one regret that from the necessities of the case he could not live to enjoy his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it would reach him wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I fancy, that toward the end he became interested in spiritualism.

CRAWSHAW [_rising solemnly_]. Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if, as you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like him to hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified solicitor at all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole story of the will and the ridiculous condition attached to it is just the tomfool joke of a man who, by his own admission, wastes most of his time writing unsuccessful farces. And I propose--

CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces, comedies--of a whimsical nature.

CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole matter to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir.

CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr. Crawshaw?

CRAWSHAW [_startled_]. What's that?

CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand pounds?

CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not refuse it.

CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there--and the name. Both waiting for you.

CRAWSHAW [_thumping the table_]. Then, sir, I accept them. I feel it my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that you have suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show what I think of your story by accepting the trust which he has bequeathed to me. You will arrange further matters with my solicitor. Good-morning, sir.

CLIFTON [_to himself as he rises_]. Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass of water. [_To CRAWSHAW._] Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I express the parting wish that your future career will add fresh luster to--my name. [_To himself as he goes out._] Exit Mr. Denis Clifton with dignity. [_But he has left his papers behind him. CRAWSHAW, walking indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers and picks them up._]

CRAWSHAW [_contemptuously_]. "Watherston v. Towser--_in re_ Great Missenden Canal Company." Bah! [_He tears them up and throws them into the fire. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated there as VIOLA, followed by MERITON, comes in._]

VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he?

RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola.

CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummeries in the House of Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In any case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola.

VIOLA [_surprised_]. But how can we get married if he doesn't take the money?

CRAWSHAW [_hardly understanding_]. Married? What does this mean, Richard?

RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told you before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or two. Viola and I want to get married.

CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on?

RICHARD [_with a smile_]. Not very much, I'm afraid.

VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty thousand pounds.

RICHARD [_sadly_]. Oh, Viola, Viola!

CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on matters.

VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father?

CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to entrust my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself that he throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful objection to the name which goes with it.

RICHARD [_in despair_]. You don't understand, Robert.

CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good enough for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind asking Viola to take _your_ name, but you consider it an insult if you are asked to take _my_ name.

RICHARD [_miserably to VIOLA_]. Do you want to be Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery?

VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling.

RICHARD [_beaten_]. Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But you'll never understand.

CRAWSHAW [_stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out_]. Come, come, Richard. [_Patting him on the shoulder._] I understand perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while ago--it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice our ideals for--ah--others. I shall be very proud to have you for a son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in Parliament together upholding the honor of the--ah--name. And perhaps now that we are to be so closely related, you may come to feel some day that your views could be--ah--more adequately put forward from _my_ side of the House.

RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it.

CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And you must send that solicitor a line--or perhaps a telephone message would be better. [_He goes to the door and turns round just as he is going out._] Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer. [_Exit._]

RICHARD [_holding out his hands to VIOLA_]. Come here, Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery.

VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please, darling. [_She comes to him._]

RICHARD [_shaking his head sadly at her_]. I don't know what I've done, Viola. [_Suddenly._] But you're worth it. [_He kisses her, and then says in a low voice._] And God help me if I ever stop thinking so!

_Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very tactfully with his back towards them, humming to himself._

RICHARD. Hullo!

CLIFTON [_to himself_]. Now where did I put those papers? [_He hums to himself again._] Now where--oh, I beg your pardon! I left some papers behind.

VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. [_As she goes out, she says to CLIFTON._] Good-by, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice letters.

CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Crawshaw.

VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds.

CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Wurzel-Flummery.

VIOLA [_smiling happily_]. No, not Miss, Mrs. [_She goes out._]

CLIFTON [_looking in surprise from her to him_]. You don't mean--

RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton.

CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! [_Thoughtfully to himself._] I wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers.

RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton!

CLIFTON. Why poor?

RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said to Crawshaw about money before you came.

CLIFTON [_thoughtfully_]. Oh! was it very--[_Brightening up._] But I expect Uncle Antony heard. [_After a pause._] Well, I must be getting on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company--a most intricate case, in which my clerk and I--[_He has murmured himself across to the fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch his eye. He picks up one of the fragments._] Ah, yes. Well, I shall tell my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had got quite fond of that canal. [_He turns to go, but first says to MERITON._] So you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton?

RICHARD. Yes.

CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too?

RICHARD. Yes.

CLIFTON [_to himself as he goes out_]. They are both taking it. [_He stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile._] Good old Uncle Antony--_he_ knew--_he_ knew! [_MERITON stands watching him as he goes._]

[THE CURTAIN.]

MAID OF FRANCE[35]

By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE

[Footnote 35: Copyright, 1918, by Gowans and Gray. All rights
reserved. Reprinted by permission of and by special
arrangement with Harold Brighouse. Also printed in the United
States by Leroy Phillips, Boston. _Maid of France_ is fully
protected by copyright. It must not be performed by either
amateurs or professionals, without written permission. For
such permission apply to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38 Street,
New York City.]

Miss Horniman could hardly have foreseen the development of a Manchester school of dramatists as the outcome of her experiment with repertory at the Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, because her purpose was to produce good plays irrespective of geographical limitations. But the fact is that the project was a source of real inspiration to a group of young Lancashire writers among whom may be mentioned Allan Broome, Stanley Houghton, and Harold Brighouse. There is no plainer illustration of the relations between the audience and the play, or between the theatre and the play, or between the actor and the play than the dramatic activity that followed the establishment of the Abbey Theatre in Dublin and the setting up of Miss Horniman's experiment in Manchester.

Although in this collection, Brighouse is represented by _Maid of France_, a play with no local Lancashire coloring, first given on July 16, 1917, in London, not Manchester (it was later produced at the Greenwich Village Theatre in New York, beginning April 18, 1918), he has up to the present time written seven plays about Lancashire. He has been particularly successful in one-act drama; _Lonesome Like_, _The Price of Coal_, and _Spring in Bloomsbury_ have been popular here and in England. B. Iden Payne, who directed productions at the Gaiety Theatre for some time, says: "In all Harold Brighouse's plays there is in the acting more laughter than one would expect from the reading." A number of Brighouse's plays have been published; in the introduction to the latest volume,[36] he writes: "In another age than ours play-books were a favorite, if not the only form of light reading.... The reader mentally producing a play from the book in his hand looks through a magic casement at what he gloriously will instead of through a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a mere human producer." This playwright's attitude toward the reading of plays, with its appeal to the imagination, is one justification for a collection like the present one.

[Footnote 36: Harold Brighouse, _Three Lancashire Plays_,
London and New York, 1920. There is a bibliographical note at
the end.]

Brighouse is himself a Manchester man, having been born in Eccles, a suburb, on July 26, 1882. He was educated at the Manchester Grammar School. Until 1913 he was engaged in business, carrying on his literary work at the same time, but in that year he gave himself up exclusively to writing. Besides plays, he has written fiction and criticism. During the Great War, he was attached to the Intelligence Staff of the Air Ministry.

MAID OF FRANCE

CHARACTERS

JEANNE D'ARC.
BLANCHE, _a flower-girl._
PAUL, _a French Poilu._
FRED, _an English Tommy._
GERALD SOAMES, _an English lieutenant._

_THE SCENE represents one side of a square in a French town on Christmas Eve, 1916. The buildings shown have suffered from German shells, except the church in the center which stands immune, protected, as it were, by the statue of Jeanne d'Arc which stands on a pedestal, surrounded by steps in front of it. The church is lighted up within for the midnight mass, but it is its side which presents itself to one's view, so that the ingoing worshipers are not seen. The statue is of the Maid in her armor. It is nearly midnight on Christmas Eve and the lighting, which should not be too realistically obscure, suggests faint moonlight._

_PAUL, a French private in war-worn uniform, stands by the steps, gazing adoringly at the statue. He is a charmingly simple, credulous man, in peace a peasant. To him there enters from the right, BLANCHE, a flower-girl, in a cloak, with a basket of flowers. In face and figure, BLANCHE must resemble the statue. She is a pert, impudent, extremely self-possessed saleswoman, burning, however, with the fierce light of French patriotism which, almost in spite of herself, is apt to get the better of her. Ready as she is to trade upon PAUL's mystic reverence for the Maid, familiarity with the statue has not bred contempt in her. She stops by PAUL, offering her flowers with a cajoling smile._

BLANCHE. Will you buy a flower, monsieur?

PAUL. Flower, mademoiselle? You can sell flowers at this hour when it is nearly midnight?

BLANCHE. There is moonlight, and I have a smile, monsieur. It is my smile which sells the flowers. Does not monsieur agree that it is irresistible?

PAUL [_uneasily_]. Mademoiselle has charm.

BLANCHE. And I have charms for you. My flowers. Will you not buy a flower, monsieur, and I will pin it to your uniform where it will draw all the ladies' eyes to you when you promenade on the boulevard?

PAUL. I do not promenade. I stay here.

BLANCHE. Here in the Square where it is dull and lonely? But on the boulevards are lights, monsieur, and gaiety, and people promenade because to-night is Christmas Eve.

PAUL. Mademoiselle, you're kind. Will you be kind to me and tell me something?

BLANCHE. What can I tell?

PAUL. I am only a peasant and I do not know many things. But you live in the town and you must know. They say, mademoiselle, they have told me, that there are miracles on Christmas Eve.

BLANCHE. Did you believe them?

PAUL. I did not know. I only hoped.

BLANCHE. What did you hope?

PAUL [_very earnestly_]. I have been told that stone can speak on Christmas Eve. And I want, oh, mademoiselle, I want to hear the blessed voice of our glorious Maid.

BLANCHE. Monsieur has sentiment.

PAUL [_pleadingly_]. You think that she will speak to me?

BLANCHE [_dropping all banter_]. Monsieur, she speaks in stone to all of us. She stands erect, serene, like the unconquerable spirit of France and cries defiance at the Boche. They sent their shells like hail and ground our homes to powder and made a desolation of our streets, but they could not touch the statue of the Maid nor the church she guards.

PAUL. And she speaks! She speaks!

BLANCHE. She is the soul of France, monsieur, defying tyranny, invincible and unafraid. She is a message to each one of us. As the shells fell all around and could not harm her, so must we stand unshaken for the France we love. She speaks of freedom and deliverance.

PAUL. And she will speak to me?

BLANCHE [_pityingly as she sees how literally he has taken her_]. Perhaps.

PAUL. What must I do, mademoiselle, to hear her voice?

BLANCHE [_seeing in this too good an opportunity for selling a flower_]. Will you not buy a flower for the Maid? They come from far away, from the South where there is always sun, and so they are not cheap. But, for a franc, you may have one lily of Lorraine to put upon the statue of the Maid.

PAUL. A lily of Lorraine!

BLANCHE [_showing a flower, then taking it back tantalizingly_]. See, monsieur! How could she refuse to speak to you if you gave her that?

PAUL. It is the way to make her speak! [_Puts out hand for the flower and then draws back._ ] But a franc! And I have nothing but one sou.

BLANCHE. One sou! When flowers are so dear, and have to come so far! Mon dieu, monsieur, but you have had a thirsty day if a sou is all that you have left from the wineshops.

PAUL. I did not spend it there, mademoiselle. I gave it to the church, this church where is the statue of our Maid.

BLANCHE [_only half scoffing_]. Monsieur is devout.

PAUL. Not always, mademoiselle. But I was born at Domremy where she was born and I have always adored our sainted Maid who died for France. Perhaps because of that, perhaps without the flower, Jeanne will speak to me at midnight when they say the statues come to life.

BLANCHE [_touched_]. Monsieur, I do not know. Perhaps she will. But see, here is a lily of Lorraine which I give you for the Maid. Put it upon her statue and perhaps it will awaken her to speech.

PAUL. Mademoiselle! [_Taking the flower._] How can I thank you?

BLANCHE. I also am a maid of France, monsieur. You are a soldier and you fight for France. But I must sell my flowers now. Perhaps, when I have sold them, I will come again to see if Jeanne has spoken.

PAUL. You think she will?

BLANCHE. Monsieur, have faith. All things are possible on Christmas Eve. [_She moves L. PAUL goes to the statue and puts the lily on its breast._]

BLANCHE. Holy Virgin, the lies I've told! What simplicity! But Jeanne might. She might. [_Exit BLANCHE L. PAUL stands, watching. An English lieutenant, GERALD SOAMES, enters R., carrying a small wreath of evergreens. He is awkward and self-conscious and stops short when he sees PAUL, annoyed in the English way at being found out in an act of sentiment. By consequence, the little ceremony he had proposed falls short of the impressiveness he designed for it._]

GERALD. O Lord, there's a fellow there. Er--[_PAUL salutes._] Oh--er--c'est ici la statue de Jeanne d'Arc, n'est-ce pas?

PAUL. Mais oui, monsieur.

GERALD. And that's about as far as my French will go. I say, you're not on duty, are you? Vous n'etes pas de garde?

PAUL. Non, monsieur.

GERALD. No, of course you're not. Damned silly question to ask. All the same, I wish he'd take a hint. I say. Lord, I've forgotten the French for "have a drink." Besides, he couldn't. It's too late. I'll just do what I came for and go. [_Puts back into pocket the coin he had taken out._] After all, the fellow's as good a right to be here as I have. I'll have one more shot. N'avez-vous pas des affaires?

PAUL. Mais non, monsieur. Pas ce soir. Je suis en conge.

GERALD. Heaven knows what that means, except that he's a fixture. Oh well, I don't care if he does see me. He'll not know what to make of it, anyhow. [_Up to statue._] Jeanne d'Arc, I'm putting this wreath on your statue. It's an English wreath and it came from England. It's English holly and English ivy and it's supposed to mean that England's sorry for the awful things she did to you and I hope you've forgiven us all. [_He has cap off. Now puts cap on._] I think that's all. [_Places wreath at statue's feet. Stands erect, salutes, turns._] Hang that French fellow. I suppose he'll think I'm mad. [_GERALD goes down steps and off R. PAUL salutes, then goes up steps to look at the wreath. FRED COLLEDGE, an English private, enters L. Without noticing PAUL, he sits on the steps and lights a cigarette. In the light of his match he sees PAUL, gives a little amused laugh and lies back making himself comfortable, turning up coat-collar, etc. PAUL sees him, and is shocked. Comes down steps._]

PAUL. Monsieur!

FRED. Hullo, cockey. How are you getting on?

PAUL. Monsieur! This place. These steps. One does not rest upon these steps.

FRED. Ho yes, one does. I'm doing it, so I ought to know.

PAUL. But here, monsieur. Outside the church.

FRED. That's all right. The better the place the better the seat. It ain't a feather-bed in the old house at home, but I've sort of lost the feather-bed 'abit lately.

PAUL. One should not sit on these steps, monsieur.

FRED. You must like that tune, old son, the way you stick to it. And, if you ask me, one should not do a pile of things that one's been doing over here. Take me, now. By rights, I ought to be eating roast beef and plum-pudding to-morrow in Every Street. Third turn on the left below the Mile End Pavilion, but I suppose I'm the same way as you. Going back on the train at 2 A.M. to eat my Christmas dinner in the blooming trenches. That's you, ain't it? And it's me, too. So let's sit down together and do an entente for an hour. Don't talk and I'll race you to where the dreams come from. [_He pulls PAUL down genially beside him._]

PAUL [_sitting_]. I ought not to sit here.

FRED. Ain't these steps soft enough for you?

PAUL. Monsieur, you do not understand. I come from Domremy.

FRED. Do you? I'm Mile End myself. What about it?

PAUL. But Domremy.

FRED. Can't say I'm much the wiser.

PAUL. But here, monsieur. This statue. It is our glorious maid. C'est Jeanne d'Arc.

FRED. Ark, eh? Is that old Noah? [_Gets up to look at statue._]

PAUL [_rising_]. Jeanne d'Arc, monsieur. She--

FRED. Oh, it's a lady, is it? Dressed like that for riding, I reckon. So that's old Noah's wife, is it? Well, the old cock had a bit of taste.

PAUL. It is Jeanne d'Arc. You call her--what do you call her?--Joan of--

FRED. Not guilty. I ain't so forward with the ladies. I don't call them in their Christian names till I've been introduced.

PAUL. You English call her Joan of Arc. The great Jeanne d'Arc. She--

FRED. Wait a bit. Now don't excite me for a moment. I'm thinking. I've heard that name before.

PAUL. But yes, monsieur. In history.

FRED. That's done it. I take you, cockey. I knew it was a way back. Well, she's nothing in my life. [_Returns to steps and sits._]

PAUL. She is of my life. I come from Domremy.

FRED. So you said.

PAUL. It was her birthplace.

FRED [_clapping him on the shoulder_]. Cockey, I'm with you now. I know the feeling. Why, we'd a man born in our street that played center-forward for the Arsenal. Makes you proud of the place where you were born. Na pooed now, poor devil. Got his head blown off last month. He was a sergeant in our lot. 'Ave a woodbine?

PAUL. Not here, monsieur.

FRED. Please yourself. Smoke your own. Them black things are no use to me. It's a rum country yours, old son. Light beer and black tobacco. But you fight on it all right. Oh yes, you fight all right. 'Ere, 'ave a piece of chocolate to keep the cold out. My missus sent me that.

PAUL [_accepting_]. Merci. I hope madame is well.

FRED. Eh? Who's madame? Oh, you mean old Sally. She's all right. In bed. That's where she is. And I'm here. But I could do with a bit of a snooze myself. Come on, let's do a doss together.

PAUL. A doss?

FRED. Yus. Wait a bit. I speak French when I'm 'appy. Je vais dormir. Vous likewise dormir.

PAUL. I did not come to sleep, monsieur. I came to watch.

FRED. Watch? What do you want to watch for here? No Germans here.

PAUL. C'est la nuit de Noel, monsieur. They say the statues come to life on Christmas Eve, and I am watching here to see if Jeanne will breathe and move and speak to a piou-piou from Domremy.

FRED. You know, old son, you could have scared me once with a tale like that. But not to-day. I've been seeing life lately. If old Nelson got down off his perch, and I met him walking in Trafalgar Square, I'd just salute and think no more about it. You can't raise my hair now.

PAUL. Then you believe that she will speak?

FRED. You go to sleep, cockey, and there's no knowing what you'll hear. Come on, old sport. Je dormir and vous dormir, and we'll be a blooming dormitory. [_PAUL hesitates, looks at statue, then lies by FRED._] That's right. Lie close. Two can keep warmer than one. Oh well, good-night all. Merry Christmas, and to hell with the Kaiser. [_They sleep. The statue is darkened, and the lay figure of the statue is replaced by the living JEANNE. Bells chime midnight. As they begin, JEANNE awakes. With the first chime, light shines dimly on the statue. By the last chime, the statue is in brilliant light and JEANNE stirs on the pedestal and bends to the wreath. She lifts it, wondering._]

JEANNE. The wreath is here. I did not dream it, then. I saw him come and lay the wreath at my feet. I saw his uniform, and the uniform was not of France. I saw his face, and it was not a Frenchman's face. I heard his voice, and the voice was an English voice. I do not understand. Why should the English bring a wreath to me? I do not want their wreath. I want no favors from an Englishman. I am Jeanne d'Arc. I am your enemy, you English, whom I made to bite the dust at Orleans and vanquished at Patay. It was I who bore the standard into the cathedral at Rheims when we crowned my Dauphin the anointed King of France, and English Bedford trembled at my name. Burgundians took me at Compiegne. Your English money bought me from them, and your English hatred gave me up to mocking priests to try for sorcery. You called me "Heretic," "Relapsed," "Apostate," and "Idolater," and burnt me for a witch in Rouen market-place. And now do you lay a wreath at Jeanne's feet? And do you think she thanks you? I scorn your wreath. This wreath an English soldier set at Jeanne's feet. I tear it, and I trample on it. [_FRED and PAUL have awakened during this speech. Both are bewildered at first, like men who dream. But as JEANNE is about to tear the wreath FRED interposes._]

FRED. I dunno if I'm awake or asleep, but that there wreath, lady--I say, don't tear it. I don't know nothing about it bar what you've just said, but if any of our blokes put it there, you can take it from me it was kindly meant.

JEANNE. You? Who are you? You're--You're English.

FRED [_apologetically_]. Yus. I'm English. I don't see that I can help it, though. I just happen to be English same as a dawg. I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I'm English all right. And--No. Blimey, I won't apologize for it. I'm English. I'm English, and proud of it. So there!

JEANNE. Why are the English here in France? Why do I see so many of them?

PAUL. Maid--Jeanne--

JEANNE. You! You are not English. You are a soldier of France.

PAUL. I am of France.

JEANNE. Then shame to you, soldier of France! Shame on a Frenchman who can forget his pride of race and make a comrade of an Englishman!

PAUL. Maid, you do not understand.

JEANNE. No. I do not understand. I do not understand treachery. I do not understand baseness, dishonor, and the perfidy of one who has forgotten he is French. The English are the foes of France, and you consort with them. You--

FRED. 'Ere, 'ere, 'alf a mo'. Steady on, lady. You've got to learn something. All that stuff you've just been talking about the Battle of Waterloo. It's a wash-out now. We've cut it out. This 'ere bloke you're grousing at 'e's a friend of mine, and I'll pipe up for a friend when 'e's being reprimanded undeserving.

JEANNE. It is for that I blame a son of France, that he makes friends with you.

FRED. Well, it's your mistake. That's the worst of coming out of history. You're out of date. If I took my great-grandmother on a motor-bus to a picture-show, she'd have the same sort of fit that you've got, only it's worse with you. You're further back. And I'll tell you something. That old French froggy business is dead and gorn. We've given it up. Time's passed when an Englishman thought he could lick two Frenchmen with one hand tied behind his back. It's a back number, lady. Carpentier put the lid on that. You ask Billy Wells. Us blokes and the French, we're feeding out of one another's hands to-day.

JEANNE. I have seen the English and the French together in the streets. They do not fight.

FRED. Lord bless you, no. Provost-marshal wouldn't let 'em, if they wanted a friendly scrap.

JEANNE. They fraternize. I have seen them walking arm-in-arm.

FRED. That's natural enough.

JEANNE. Natural, for French and English!

FRED. Yes, lady, natural. If you'd seen the Frenchies fighting, same as I have, you'd want to walk arm-in-arm with them yourself, and be proud to do it, too.

PAUL. The English, are our brothers, Maid.

FRED. Gorlummy, we're more than that. I've known brothers do the dirty on each other. Us and the French, we're--why, we're _pals_. So that's all right, lady. Just let me put that wreath back where you got it from. I'm sure you'll 'urt someone's feelings if you trample on it. [_He tries to take wreath, she prevents him._]

JEANNE. When you have shown me why I should accept an English wreath, perhaps I will. So far I've yet to learn why a soldier of France is friendly with an Englishman.

FRED. I can't show you more than this, can I? [_Links arms with PAUL._]

JEANNE. That is not reason.