PR 6003 .E6G7 1913 .^-^ f^^ ..* S^^^. ^. ^-e* *% 1^ p ^ • o- THE GREAT ADVENTURE THE GREAT ADVENTURE A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS BY ^^^^^^ ARNOLD BENNETT Author of "The Old Wives' Tales" "The Honeymoon," "Buried Alive," Co-author of "Milestones" GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1913 By George H. Doran Company (C)C1,D 32762 CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY Ilam Carve An illustrious painter. Albert Shawn Ham's valet. Dr. Pascoe Edward Horning Doctor's assistant. Cyrus Carve Ham's cousin, a city auc- tioneer. Father Looe A Catholic priest. Peter Horning A journalist. Ebag .A picture dealer. John Shawn A curate. James Shawn His brother, a curate. Lord Leonard Alcar. . . . Texel An American millionaire. A Waiter A Page A Servant Janet Cannot A widow. Mrs. Albert Shawn .... Honoria Looe Sister of Father Looe. SCENES IN THE PLAY ACT I Room in Ham Carve's house, 126 Redcliffe Gar- dens. ACT II Private Room at the Grand Babylon Hotel. ACT III Janet's Sitting-room, at Werter Road, Putney. ACT IV Lord Leonard Alcar's study. Grosvenor Gar- dens. \ • SPECIAL NOTE Each act is divided into two scenes, separated by a passage of time more or less short. The passage of time is indicated by lowering the cur- tain for a few moments. No change of scenery is involved. NOTES ON CHARACTERS IN ACT I Ilam Carve. Aged 45. One of the best known painters in Europe. Like all first-class artists, he combines marked and subtle personal distinc- tion with boyishness and impulsiveness. All his gestures are invariably distinguished, but his de- meanour varies from the very dignified to the childlike. An egoist, of course, but a persuasive one. Charming in manner ; but sometimes fretful. For everything outside his art he is always de- pending on someone else, and he takes it for granted that people will sympathise with him. Timid, confiding; and naive in unimportant mat- ters. Well but carelessly dressed. Albert Shawn. Aged 45. His valet. In appear- ance he vulgarly resembles his master. Cyrus Carve. Aged 45. His cousin. The success- ful City auctioneer of real estate. Rude. Thick- skinned. No fine perceptions whatever. As ugly as possible. Dr. Pascoe. The Redcliffe Gardens general prac- titioner. Aged 50. Overworked. Experienced. His formal politeness masks cynicism. But in a prolonged conversation the sympathetic natural human being will come out. Usually curt in de- meanour. Edward Horning. Aged 30. Dr. Pascoe's assist- ant. Somewhat dull and shabby. Janet Cannot. Aged 32. Widow. She belongs by birth and marriage to the lower-middle class. Her dress is not expensive, but is natty and shows a faint originality. Her personality and demeanour are characterised by calm, shrewd coramonsense, and great persuasive charm. Her NOTES ON CHARACTERS IN ACT I voice and her gestures cajole. She will make " dry " and even cutting remarks in a tone that robs them of offence. She is never disturbed, never afraid that she will be unequal to any sit- uation that may arise. She is usually very frank and very straightforward, despising conventional pretences. Not a cockney accent, nor a Belgravia accent; rather an honest midland accent. THE GREAT ADVENTURE ACT I Scene. — Front -room on ground -floor at 1^6 Red- cliff e Gardens. An apartment furnished richly hut in an old-fashioned way. Fine pic- tures. Large furniture {Sofa near centre). General air of neglect and dustiness. Car- pet half-laid. Trunks and hags lying about in corners, some opened. Men's wearing ap- parel exposed. Mantelpiece (r) in disor- der. At hack double doors (ajar) leading to anotlier room. Door l leading to hall and front door. Scene I : Time.- — Evening in August. Albert Shawn is reclining on the sofa, fully dressed, hut obviously ill; an overcoat has been drawn over his legs, A conspicuous object is a magnificent light purple dressing-gown thrown across a chair. Door bangs, off. Enter Ham Carve, l., in his shirt sleeves, hurriedly. Shawn feebly tries to get up. Carve. Now don't move. Remember you're a sick man, and forget you're a servant. \_Shawn 10 THE GREAT ADVENTURE sMvers. 'Ccirve, about to put on his dressing- gown, changes his mind, and wraps it round Shawn as well as he can. Carve then puts on an oldish coat.^ Shawn [feebly^. You've been very quick, sir. Carve, I found a red lamp only three doors off. He'll be along in half a minute. Shawn. Did you explain what it was, sir? Carve [genially^. How could I explain what it was, you fool, when I don't know? I simply asked to see the doctor, and I told him there was a fellow-creature suffering at No. 126, and would he come at once. "126?" he said. "126 has been shut up for years ! " ^hawn ^trying to smilel. What did you say, sir? Carve. 1 said [articulating with clearness^ a hundred and twenty-six, — and ran off. Then he yelled out after me that he'd come instantly. . . . I say, Shawn, we're discovered! I could tell that from his sudden change of tone. Moreover, there was a parlour maid sort of person lying in wait at the kitchen window next door below, and another of 'em on the area steps next door higher up. I bet the entire street knows that the celebrated ME has arrived at last. I feel like a criminal al- ready, dashed if I don't! I wish we'd gone to a hotel, now [walks about^. I say, did you make up the bed? Shawn. I was just doing it, sir. ACT I 11 Carve, But what about sheets and so on? Shawn. I bought some this morning, ready hemmed, sir. With those and the travelling rug Carve. Well, don't you think you could work your passage out to the bed? With my help? Shawn. Me in your bed, sir ! Carve [genially bullying]. Keep on in that tone — and I'll give you the sack on the spot. Now, then ! Try — before the doctor comes \hell rings]. Shawn. The bell, sir — excuse me ! Carve. Confound Exit Carve. Shawn coughs and 'puts a hand- kerchief to his mouth. Carve returns immediately with Dr. Pascoe. Pascoe [glancing round quickly]. This the patient? \_Goes to Shawn and looks at him. Then, taking a cMnical thermometer from his pocket, and wiping it; with marked respect.] Al- low me to put this under your tongue for half a minute. [Having done so, he takes Shawn's wrist, and, looking at his watch, counts the pa- tient's pulse. Then removes thermometer, and reads off it] 104? 1-2. [Turning to Carve, in a low, curt voice.] When did this begin? Carve. Just now! That is, he only began to complain about six o'clock. We arrived in Lon- don this morning, from Madrid. 12 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Pascoe. Pulse is 140 — and weak. I must have some boiling water. Carve \_at a lossl. What for? Pascoe. What for.? For a poultice. Carve [carelessly^ . But there isn't any. . . . We've nothing except this spirit-lamp [pointing to lamp on table~\. Pascoe. No women in the house? Carve [with hwrnour that the doctor declines to see']. Not one. Pascoe [controlling his exasperation]. Never mind. I'll run round to the surgery and get my hypodermic [to Shawn reassuringly and defer- entially']. I shall be back at once, Mr. Carve [to Carve^ near door]. Keep your master well cov- ered up — I suppose you can do that? [Exit.] Carve. Shawn, my poor fellow, he takes you for the illustrious Ham Carve! This is what comes of me rushing out in shirtsleeves [gesture of despair]. I can't explain it to him. . . . Look here, it'll save a lot of bother and bore if we let him go on as he's begun. You be the renowned painter, and I'll do the valet as well as I can. As soon as you're well enough, we'll hook it. Shawn. But Carve. It's all right. You'll be infinitely better looked after, you know, and I shall be saved from their infernal curiosity. Shawn, It's only this, sir. I was half expect- ACT I 13 ing a young lady to-night, sir [very jeehly'\. At least I believe she's young. Carve, Shawn, I've always suspected you were a bad lot. Now I know. I also know why you were so devilish anxious to put me to bed early. What am I to say to this young lady on your be- half? Shawn. [Worse, is too ill to answer. Pause. Re-enter Dr. Pascoe, very rapidly, with a large tumbler half full of hot liquid.^ Pascoe. You may say I've been quick \_as he bends down to Shawn, addressing Carve^. Get me a wineglass of clean cold water [to Shawnl^. Now, please. I want you to drink a little brandy and water. [Shawn makes no response.^ By Jove ! [Pascoe then pours some of the brandy and water down Shawn's throat.^ Carve [who has been wandering about vaguely']. I don't think we've got a wineglass. There's a cup, but I suppose that isn't medical enough. Pascoe [taking a syringe from his pocket and unscrewing it]. Pour some water in it. [Carve obeys.] Now, hold it. Carve [indicating syringe]. What is this de- vice ? Pascoe. This device? I'm going to get some strychnine into him, by injection. Steady with that cup, now! [Pascoe drops a tablet into the syringe and screws it up agai/n, draws a little water up into the syringe, and shakes the syringe. 14 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Then goes to Shawn to make the injection, on the top side of the patienfs forearm. Carve still holds the cup out, mechanically.'] I've done with that cup. Carve [putting the cup down]. Might I ask what's the matter with him? Pascoe. Pneumonia is the matter. [Noise of someone in the hall.] Carve [startled]. Surely that's someone in the hall! Pascoe. KJeep perfectly calm, my man. It's my assistant. I left the door open on purpose for him. He's got the poultice and things. [In a loud voice as he finishes the injection:] Come along, come along there ! This way. [Enter Ed- ward Horning, with poultice, lint, bandages, etc.] Pascoe. Found the antiphlogistine.? E. Horning. Yes. [He looks at patient, and exchanges a glance with Pascoe.] Pascoe. Where's the bedroom? Carve. There's one there [pointing to double doors]. Pascoe [to Horning]. We'll get him into bed now. [To Carve.] Bed ready? Carve. Yes. I — I think he was just making it up. Pascoe [startled]. Does he make up his own bed? ACT I 15 t Carve [Perceiving the mist alee hut resuming his calm^. Always. Pascoe [controlling his astonishment; looki/ng through double doors and opening them wider. To Horning]. Yes, this'll do. Put those things down here a minute while we lift him. [Pascoe and Horning then carry the inanimate form of Shawn into the room behind^ while Carve hovers about uselessly.] Carve. Can I do anything? Pascoe [indicating a chair furthest away from the double doors]. You see that chair? Carve. I see it. Pascoe. Go and sit on it. [Exeunt Pascoe and Horning^ bach, closing double-doors.. .After walking about. Carve sits down, on another chair. A bell rings twice. He pays no attention. Then enter Janet Cannot, i>. Carve jumps up, hut is inarticulate, though very favourably interested.] Janet [smiling sympathetically]. I rang twice. Carve. The bell must be out of order. Janet. I couldn't be sure but I don't think it's the bell that's out of order. Carve. Oh! You think I'm out of order? Janet. No. I was thinking that you'd only just come into the house — all you famous folk — and you hadn't quite got it straight yet — as it w^ere [looking vaguely at room]. Carve. All we famous folk? 16 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet. Well — I don't know myself about that sort of thing! Carve. What sort of thing? Janet. Picture-painting, isn't it? I mean real pictures ~^- done by hand, coloured Carve. Ah — yes. Janet [after a slight pause'\. It struck me all of a sudden while I was waiting at the door that it might have been left open on purpose. Carve. The front door? On purpose? What for? Janet. Oh — for some one particular to walk in without any fuss. So in I stepped. Carve. You're the young lady that Mr. Shawn's expecting [going towards passage^ . Janet [stopping him']. It's shut now. You don't want everybody walking in, do you? Carve [looking at Janet with pleasure]. So you're the young lady — Mrs. . . . Miss . . .? Janet [ignoring Ms question]. Was it a mes- sage you had for me? Carve. No, no. Not a message. . , . But The fact is, we're rather upset here for the moment. Janet. Yes. Illness. Carve. Now if it isn't an indiscreet question, how did you know that there was illness? Janet. I was standing looking at this house and wondering whether I shouldn't do better to go right back home, there and then. But " No," ACT I 17 I said, " I've begun and I'll go through with it." — Well, I was standing there when what should I see but a parlour maid pop up from the area-steps next door, and she sa3'S to me over the railings, " The doctor's just been." Just like that, ex- cited. So I said, " Thank you, miss." I hope it's nothing serious. Carve. Pneumonia. Janet. Pneumonia ! What a mercy ! Carve. Mercy ? Janet. If you look at it sensibly it's about the best illness anybody could have in hot weather like this. You've got to keep them warm. The weather does it for you. If it was typhoid, now, and you'd got to keep them cool — that would be awkward. Not but it passes me how anybody can catch pneumonia in August. Carve. Coming over from the continent. Janet. Oh! The continent! It's not Mr. Shawn that's ill? Carve [hesitating^. Mr. Shawn! Oh, no, no! It's Ham Carve. Janet [half whispering, awed^. Oh! Him! Poor thing! And nobody but men in the house! Carve. And who told you that.? Janet. Well — [waves her hand to indicate the state of the room, smilingly indulgently^ I al- ways feel sorry for gentlemen when they have to manage for themselves, even if they're well and hearty. But when it comes to illness — I can't 18 THE GREAT ADVENTURE bear to think about it. Still, everybody has their own notions of comfort. And I've no doubt he'll very soon be better. Carve. You think he will.f* Janet \hlandly cheerful]. As a general rule, you may say that people do get better. That's my experie'nce. Of course, sometimes they take a longish time. And now and then one dies — else what use would cemeteries be? But as a general rule, they're soon over it. Now am I going to see Mr. Shawn, or shall I Carve. Well, if you could call again . . . Janet. You say you hadn't a message? Carve. Not precisely a message. But if you could call again . . . Janet. When ? Carve [^rather eagerly]. Any time! Any time ! . . . Soon ! Janet. Night after to-morrow? Carve. Why not morning? Janet. Perhaps morning is safer. Thank you. Very well then. Day after to-morrow. I suppose Mr. Shawn has a rare fine sit- uation here? Carve {^shruggmg his shoulders]. Nothing to complain of, if you ask me ! Janet offers her hand, qmte simply. The double doors open. Carve looks alarmed, Janet. Thank you very much. I think I can open the front door myself. ACT I 19 Carve. I say — You won't forget ? Janet. Well, wheat do you think? \_Eccit, l. Enter Dr. Pascoe through double doors.^ Pascoe \^at double doors, to Horning invisible behind^. Then there's no reason why the nurse at Edith Grove shouldn't come along here? She's practically fresh. Horning [o^]. Yes. She'll be free in an hour. Pascoe. All right. I'll look in there before I go to bed, and send her. Nothing else you want here ? Horning [o^]. No, [^Pascoe shuts folding doors. ^ Carve. What's this about a nurse? Pascoe. I'm sending one in \_ironically'\. Do you see any objection? Carve. On the contrary. I should like him to be treated with every care. He's invaluable to me. Pascoe \^staggered~\. Of course, in my line of business I get used to meeting odd people Carve [recovering from his mistake^. But you think I carry oddness rather far? Pascoe. The idea did pass through my mind. Carve. Nervousness, nothing but nervousness ! I'm very nervous. And then — you know the say- ing — Like master, like man. Pascoe [indicating bach-room with a gesture; in a slightly more confidential tone, as Carvers per- 20 THE GREAT ADVENTURE > sonal attractiveness gains on hirri]. Mr. Carve odd? Carve. Oh, very ! Always was. Ever since I've known him. You remember his first picture at the Academy? Pascoe. No, not exactly. Carve. Either you remember it exactly, or you don't remember it at all. Life-size picture of a policeman blowing his whistle. Pascoe. Yes, it must have been odd, that must. Carve. Not a bit. The oddness of the fel- low Pascoe. What " fellow " — your governor ? Carve [nods'}. His oddness came out in this way — Although the thing had really a great suc- cess, from that day to this he's never painted an- other life-size picture of a policeman blowing his whistle. Pascoe. I don't see anything very odd there Carve. Don't you? Well, perhaps you don't go in for art much. If you did, you'd know that the usual and correct thing for a painter who has made a great success with a life-size picture of a policeman blowing his whistle is to keep on doing life-size pictures of a policeman blowing his whis- tle for ever and ever, so that the public can al- ways count on getting from him a life-size picture of a policeman blowing his whistle. ACT I 81 \ Pascoe. I observe you're one of those comic valets. Nervousness again, no doubt ! Carve [^smiling and continuing^. Seeing the way he invariably flouted the public, it's always been a mystery to me how he managed to make a name, to say nothing of money. Pascoe. Money — he must make pots ! You say I don't go in for art much, but I always read the big sales at Christie's. Why, wasn't it that policeman picture that Lord Leonard Alcar bought for 2,000 guineas last year? Carve. No, not Alcar; I think the bobby was last bought by Texel. Pascoe. Texel? Who's Texel? Carve. Collector — United States. One of their kings, I'm told. Pascoe. Oh, him! Controls all the ink in the United States. Carve. Really ! That's what I should call in- fluence. No. It was the " Pelicans Feeding Their Young " that Alcar bought. Four thousand. You're getting mixed up. Pascoe. Perhaps I am. I know I'm constantly seeing Mr. Carve's name in connection with Lord Leonard Alcar's. It's a nice question which is the best known of the two. Carve. Then the — governor really is famous in England? You see we never come to England. Pascoe. Famous — I should think he was. 22 THE GREAT ADVENTURE \ Aren't they always saying he's the finest colourist since Titian ? And look at his prices ! Carve. Yes. I've looked at his prices. Ti- tian's prices are higher, but Titian isn't what you'd call famous with the general public, is he? What I want to know is — is the governor famous among the general public? Pascoe. Yes. Carve. About how famous should you say he is? Pascoe \}iesitating~\. Well — [ahru]ptlyl^ — That's a silly question. Carve. No it isn't. Is he as famous as — er — Harry Lauder ? Pascoe [shakes his head^. You mustn't go to extremes. Carve. Is he as famous as Harry Vardon? Pascoe. Never heard of him. Carve. I only see these names- in the papers. Is he as famous as Billington? Pascoe. Yes, I should say he was. Carve. Oh, well, that's not so bad. Better than I thought. It's so difficult to judge, where one is — er — personally concerned. Especially if you're never on the spot. Pascoe. So it's true Mr. Carve never comes to England. Carve. Never, nowadays. Pascoe. Not even to see his relatives? Carve. Has none. That is to say, there's one ACT I ^ 1 relative — Cyrus Carve ; cousin. He's a biggish auctioneer. Pascoe. Cyrus Carve's his cousin, eh? Well, I never knew that. Carve. They quarrelled when they were boys. And then they quarrelled again later on — by correspondence — about this house. It was left all furnished to the governor by a mutual aunt, whereas Cousin Cyrus was expecting to get the pick of the furniture. Pascoe. So that's how Mr. Carve came into possession of the place ! And he's kept it all these years without using it? Carve. He's had it aired and cleaned pretty regularly \\ooking round] — at least, he's paid for having it aired and cleaned. His notion al- ways was that it might be useful some day. And, sure enough, now it is useful. Pascoe. But why does he never come to Eng- land [quietly] ? I'm not asking you — I'm merely stating the general attitude .of this street fdr years past. Carve. Why should he come to England? He isn't a portrait painter. Pascoe. Of course, if you look at it like that, there's no particular attractiveness in England, that I've ever seen. But that answer wouldn't satisfy Redcliffe Gardens. Redcliffe Gardens is persuaded that there must be a special reason. Carve. Well, there is. 24 THE GREAT ADVENTURE t Pascoe {interested in spite of himself^. In- deed! Carve [confidentially~\. Have a cigarette [o/- fering case^ ? Pascoe {staggered anew, hut accepting']. That's a swagger case. Carve. Ohl . . . {calml^l. He gave it me. me. Pascoe. Really ? Carve. Well, you see, we're more like brothers — been together so long. He gives me his best suits, too. Look at this waistcoat. {Motions the hypnotised Pascoe to take a chair. They light their cigarettes.] Pascoe. So there is a special reason why you keep out of England ? Carve. Yes. Shyness. Pascoe. How — Shyness ? Carve. Just simple shyness. Shyness is a dis- ease with the governor, a perfect disease. Pascoe. But everyone's shy. The more ex- perience I get the more convinced I am that we're all shy. Why, you were shy when you came to fetch me Carve. Did you notice it? Pascoe. Of course. And I was shy when I came in here. I was thinking to myself, " Now I'm going to see the great Ham Carve, actually in the flesh," and I was shy. You'd think my profes- sion would have cured me of being shy, but not a ACT I 25 bit. Ne,rvous disease, of course. Ought to be treated as such ! Almost universal ! . . . Be- sides, even if he is shy — your governor — even if he's a hundredfold shy, that's no reason for keep- ing out of England. Shyness is not one of those diseases you can cure by change of climate. Carve. Pardon me. My esteemed employer's shyness is a special shyness. He's only shy when he has to play the celebrity. So long as people take him for no one particular, he's quite all right. For instance, he's never shy with me. But in- stantly people approach him as the celebrity, in- stantly he sees in the eye of the beholder any consciousness of being in the presence of a toff — then he gets desperately shy, and his one desire is to be alone at sea, or to be buried somewhere deep In the bosom of the earth. [Pascoe laughs. What are you laughing at? [Carve also laughs. '\ Pascoe. Go on, go on. I'm enjoying it. Carve. No, but seriously ! It's true what I tell you. It amounts almost to a tragedy in the brilliant career of my esteemed. You see now that England would be impossible for him as a resi- dence. You see, don't you.? Pascoe. Quite. Carve. Why, even on the continent. In the big towns and the big hotels we often travel incognito, for safety. It's only In the country districts that he goes about under his own name. Pascoe. So that he's really got no friends .^^ 26 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 1 Carve. None, except a few Italian and Spanish peasants — and me. Pascoe. Well, well ! It's an absolute mania, then, this shyness. Carve [slightly hurt]. Oh! Not so bad as that. And then it's only fair to say he has his moments of great daring — you may say rash- ness. Pascoe. All timid people are like that. Carve. Are they [musing] ? We're here now owins: to one of his moments of rashness. Pascoe. Indeed ! Carve. Yes. We met an English lady in a village in Andalusia, and — well, of course, I can't tell you everything ! — but she flirted with 3iim and he flirted with her. Pascoe. Under his own name? Carve. Yes. And then he proposed to her. I knew all along it was a blunder. Pascoe [ironic']. Did you? Carve. Yes. She belonged to the aristocracy, and she was one of those amateurs painters that wander about the continent by themselves — you know. Pascoe. And did she accept? Carve. Oh, yes. They got as far as Madrid together, and then all of a sudden my esteemed saw that he'd made a mistake. Pascoe. And then what? Pascoe. And what then? ACT I 9n Carve. We fled the country. We hooked it. The idea of coming to London struck him — just the caprice of a man who's lost his head — and here we are ! Pascoe \_after a pause^. He doesn't seem to me, from the look of him, to be a man who'd — shall we say? — strictly avoided women. Carve [startled, with a gesture towards backl. Him? [Pasco nods.~\ Really! Confound him! Now I've always suspected that ; though he man- ages to keep his goings-on devilish quiet ! Pascoe [rising^. It occurs to me, my friend, that I'm listening to too much. But you're so persuasive. Cane. It's such a pleasure to talk freely — for once in a w^ay. Pascoe. " Freely " is the word. Carve. Oh! He won't mind. Pascoe \_in a peculiar tone^. It's quite possi- ble. [Enter Horning.'] Horning. Oh! You aren't gone. I thought I heard talking. i[To Carve] I) say ! Carve hasn't been digging or gardening or anything, I suppose, and then taken cold after? Carve. Digging ? Oh, no ! He must have got a bad chill on the steamer. Why ? Horning. Nothing. Only his hands and fingernails are so rough Carve [after thinking]. Oh, I see! All ar- 28 THE GREAT ADVENTURE tists arc like that. Messing about with paints and acids and things. Look at my hands. Pascoe. But are you an artist, too? Carve [recovering himself, calmly']. No, no! Pascoe [to Horning]. How's he going on? Horning [shrugs his shoulders], I'm sure the base of both lungs is practically solid. Pascoe. Well, we can't do more than we have done, my boy. Horning. He'll never pull through! Pascoe [calmly]. I should certainly be sur- prised if he did. What did I tell you? Carve [astounded] . But — but Pascoe. But what? Carve. You don't mean to say — why, he's a strong, healthy man! Pascoe. Precisely. Not very unusual for your strong, healthy man to die of pneumonia in twenty- four hours. You ought to know, at your age, that it's a highly dangerous thing to be strong and healthy [turning away], I'll have another look at him. Carve [extremely perturbed]. But this is ridic- ulous ! I simply don't know what I shall do with- out that man ! [Curtain falls for a few moments to indicate passage of time.] Scene //. Time. — The next morning hut one. Slightly less ACT I 29 disorder in the room. Carve and Pascoe are to- gether, the latter ready to leave. Carve. Will there have to be an inquest? Pascoe. Inquest? Of course not! Carve. It's some relief to know that. I couldn't have faced a coroner. Pascoe [staring at him~\. Perfectly ordinary case. Carve. That's what you call perfectly ordi- nar}^ is it ? A man is quite well on Tuesday after- noon, and dead at four a. m. on Thursday morn- ing [looking at his watch'] ! My watch has stopped. Pascoe. One of those cheap German watches, I suppose, that stop if you forget to wind them up. It's a singular thing that when people stay up all night they take it for granted their watches are just as excited as they are. Look here, you'll be collapsing soon. When did you have anything to eat last? Carve. Almost half an hour ago. Two sau- sages, that were sent in yesterday for the nurse. Pascoe. She's gone? V^^'\ Carve, Oh, yes ! Pascoe. Well, take my advice. Try to get some sleep. Now. You've had no reply from the fc'elatives — the cousin — what's-his-name — Cy- rus? Carve. No. I| — I didn't telegraph — I for- got 30 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Pascoe. Well, upon my soul ! I specially re- minded 3^ou yesterday afternoon. Carve. I didn't know the address Pascoe. Ever heard of the London Directory? You'd better run out and wire instantly. You don't seem to realise that the death of a man like Ham Carve will make something of a stir in the world. And you may depend on it that whether they'd quarrelled or not, Cyrus Carve will want to know why he wasn't informed of the illness at once. You've let yourself in for a fine row, and well you deserve it ! Carve [after a few paces^. See here, doctor. I'm afraid there's been some mistake [^facing him nervously^. Pascoe. What ? Carve. I — I Ibell rings.'] Pascoe \_firmly~\. Listen to me, my man. There's been no sort of mistake. Everything has been done that could be done. Don't you get ideas into your head. Lie down' and rest. You're done up, and if you aren't careful you'll be ill. ril communicate with Cyrus. I can telephone, and while I'm about it I'll ring up the registrar, too — he'll probably send a clerk round. Carve. Registrar ? Pascoe. Registrar of deaths. There'll be all kinds of things to attend to. [Moving to go out. Bell rings again.] ACT I 31 Cane [as if dazed^. Is that the front-door bell? Pascoe [drily']. Quite possibly. I'll open it. [Exit.] [Carve, alone, makes a gesture of despair. Re- enter Pascoe with Cyrus Carve.] Pascoe [as they enter]. Yes, very sudden, very sudden ! There were three of us — a nurse, my assistant, and myself. This is Mr. Shawn, the deceased's valet. Cyrus. Morning. ]My name is Cyrus Carve. I'm your late master's cousin, and his nearest rela- tive. You've possibly never heard of me. Carve [curtly]. Oh, yes, I have. You got up a great quarrel when you were aged twelve, you and he. Cyrus. Your manner isn't very respectful, my friend. However you may have treated my cousin, be good enough to remember 3^ou're not my valet. Carve. How did ou get to know about it? Cyrus. I suppose he forbade you to send for me, eh? [Pause.] Eh? Carve [jumping at this suggestion]. Yes. Pascoe. So that was it ! Cyrus [ignoring Pascoe] . Ha ! Well, since you're so curious, I saw it a quarter of an hour ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag. I was on my way to the office. [Showing paper.] Here you are ! The " Evening Courier." Quite 62 THE GREAT ADVENTURE a full account of the illness. You couldn't send for me, but you could chatter to some journalist! Carve, I've never spoken to a journalist in my life. Cyrus. Then how . . .? Pascoe. It's probably my assistant. His brother is something rather important on the " Courier," and he may have telephoned to him. It's a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve. Cyrus \_drily^. I imagine so. Where is the body ? Pascoe. Upstairs [moving towards doorl^. Cyrus. Thanks. I will go alone. Pascoe. Large room at back — first floor. \_Ea:it Cyrus, l.] I think I'd prefer to leave you to yourselves now. Of course, Mr. Carve will do all that's necessary. You might give him my card, and tell him I'm at his service as regards signing the death certificate, and so on [^handing card^. Carve [taking card 'perfunctorily']. Very well. Then j^ou're going? Pascoe. Yes. [Moves away, and then sud- denly puts out his hand, which Carve shakes.] Want a word of advice? Carve. I — I ought Pascoe. If I were you, I should try to get something better than valeting. It's not your line. You may have suited Ham Carve, but you'd never suit an ordinary employer. ... You aren't ACT I S3 a fool — not by any means. [Carve shrugs his shoulders.^ \_Eccit Pascoe, l. Door bangs off. Re-enter Cyrus, immediately after the door hangs.'] Carve [to himself]. Now for it! [To Cyrus.] Well? Cyrus. Well what? Carve. Recognise your cousin? Cyrus. Of course, a man of forty-five isn't like a boy of twelve, but I think I may say I should have recognised him anywhere. Carve [taken hack]. Should you indeed! [A pause.] And so you're Cyrus, the little boy that kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray of thirty-three years ago. Cyrus. Look here, I fancy you and I had better come to an understanding at once. What salary did my cousin pay you for your remarkable services ? Carve. What salary? Cyrus. What salary? Carve. Eighty pounds a year. Cyrus. When were you last paid? Carve. I — I Cyrus. When were you last paid? Carve. The day before yesterday. Cyrus [taking a note from his pocket-hook and pocket]. Here's seven pounds — a month's wages in lieu of notice. It's rather more than a month's a4 THE GREAT ADVENTURE wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now \liolding out money. ~\ Carve. But listen Cyrus [commandingly] . Take it. [Carve obeys.^ Pack up and be out of this house within an hour. Carve. I C3a'us. I jshall not argue. . . . Did your master keep his private papers and so on in Eng- land or somewhere on the continent.'^ . . . What bank ? Carve. What bank? He didn't keep them in any bank. Cyrus. Where did he keep them, then? Carve. He kept them himself. Cyrus. What — travelling ? Carve. Yes. Why not? Cyrus [with a '* tut-tut " noise to indicate the business man's mild scorn of the artist's methods^. Whose is this luggage? Carve. Mine. Cyrus. All of it? Carve. That is Cyrus. Come, noAV, is it his, or is it yours? Now be careful. Carve. His. [Angrily as Cyrus roughly han- dles a box.'] Now, then, mind what you're about! Those are etching things. Cyrus. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this? ACT I 35 Carve. That's a typewriter. Cyrus. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines. Carve. That was — his servant's. Cyrus. Yours, you mean? Carve. Yes, I mean mine. Cyrus. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a tpewriter for? Carve [savagely^ . What the devil has that got to do with you ? Cyrus [looking up calmly from the examination of a despatch hox~\. If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, I'll pitch you down the front- door steps and your things after you. Carve. I've got something to tell j^ou Cyrus. Silence ! And answer my questions. Are his papers in this despatch-box? Carve. Yes. Cyrus. Where are his keys? Carve [slowly drazcing bunch of keys from his pocket~\. Here. Cyrus [taking them]. So you keep his keys. Carve. Yes. Cyrus [opening despatch hoxl^. Wear his clothes, too, I should say. [Carve sits down negligently and smiles.^ Cyrus [as he is examining papers in box]. What are you laughing at? Carve. I'm not laughing — I'm smiling. [Rising and looking cuiiously at box.] There's 36 THE GREAT ADVENTURE nothing there except lists of securities and pic- tures and a few oddments — passports, and so on. Cyrus. There appears to be some money. I'm glad you've left that. Quite a lot, in fact [^show- ing notes~\. Carve. Here, steady ! There's twelve thou- sand francs there, besides some English notes. That's mine. Cyrus. Yours, eh? He kept it for you, no doubt? Carve \_hesitating~\. Yes. Cyrus. When you can furnish me with his re- ceipt for the deposit, my man, it shall be handed to you. Till then it forms a part of the estate. [Looking at a packet of letters.^ " Alice Row- fant." Carve. And those letters are mine, too. Cyrus [reading^. "My dearest boy." Were you Lady Alice Rowf ant's dearest boy? Anyhow, we'll burn them. Carve. So long as you burn them I don't mind. Cyrus. Indeed! [^Continues to examine pa- pers, cheque-foils, etc.. .Then opens a document.^ Carve. Oh! Is that still there? I thought it was destroyed. Cyrus. Do you know what it is? Carve. Yes. It's a will that was made in Venice I don't know how long ago — just after the little difficulty with you about the furniture of this house. Everything is left for the estab- ACT I 37 lishment of an International Gallery of Paintings and Sculpture in London, and you're the sole ex- ecutor, and j'^ou get a legacy of five pounds for your trouble. Cyrus. Yes ... so I see. No doubt my cousin imagined it would annoy me. Carve. He did. Cyrus. He told you so? Carve. He said it would be one in the eye for you — and he wondered whether you'd decline the executorship. Cyrus. Well my man, I may tell you at once that I shall not renounce probate. I never ex- pected a penny from my cousin. I always as- sumed he'd do something silly with his money, and I'm relieved to find it's no worse. In fact the idea of a great public institution in London being as- sociated with my family is rather pleasant. Carve. But he meant to destroy that will long since. Cyrus [as lie cons the te'i/Z]. How do you know.? Has he made a later will? Carve. No. Cyrus. Well then! . . . Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed. You come into eighty pounds a year under it. Carve. I was forgetting that. Cyrus [reading~\. "I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet courier and 38 THE GREAT ADVENTURE factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my death." [Carve laughs sliortly.^ You don't want to lose that do you? Of course if the term " thorough rascal " is offensive to you, you can always decline the money. [Folds up will and puts it in his pocket. Carve walks ahout^. Now where's the doctor? Carve. He's left his card. There it is. Cyrus. He might have waited. Carve. Yes. But he didn't. His house is only three doors off. Cyrus [looking at his watch]. I'll go in and see him about the certificate. Now you haven't begun to put your things together and you've only got a bit over half an hour. In less than that time I shall be back. I shall want to look through your luggage before you leave. Carve [lightlyl. Shall you? Cyrus. By the way you have a latchkey? [Carve nods.~\ Give it to me please [Carve sur- renders latchkey~\. Cyrus turns to go. As he is disappearing through the door i.. Carve starts forward. Carve. I say ! Cyrus. What now? Carve [subsiding, weakly~\. Nothing. Exit Cyrus. Sound of front door opening and of voices in ACT I S9 hall. Then re-enters Cyrus with Janet Cannot, Cyrus, This is Mr. Albert Shawn. Shawn, a friend of yours. \^Exit l.] Carve [pleased^ . Oh ! You ! Janet. Good morning. D'you know, I had a suspicion the other night that you must be Mr. Shawn. Carve. Had you? Well, will you sit down.? Er — I say [mth a humorous mysterious air^. What do you think of that chap? [Pointing in di- rection of hall.^ Janet. Who is it? Carve. It's Mr. Cyrus Carve. Janet. Brother ? Carve. Oh, no, thank goodness ! Only a cousin. [Front-door bangs tremendously.^ Janet. " Good morning " I said to him. " Ex- cuse me, but are you Mr. Albert Shawn ? " Be- cause I wasn't sure you know. And he looked Carve [after laughing^. The man is an ass? . .Janet. Is he? Carve. Not content with being an ass merely, he is a pompous and a stupid ass. [Laughs again, to himself.^ Now there is something very impor- tant that he ought to know, and he wouldn't let me tell him. Janet. Really ! Carve. Yes, very important. But no ! He wouldn't let me tell him. And perhaps if I'd told him he wouldn't have believed me. 40 THE GREAT ADVENTURE I Janet. What did he do to stop you from tell- ing him? Carve \^at a loss vaguely^. I don't know. . . . Wouldn't let me. . . . Janet. If you ask me, I should say the truthl is you didn't want to tell him. Carve [impress ed^. Now I wonder if you're right ! Janet. Well, I don't quite see how anybody can stop anybody from talking. But even if he did, he can't stop you from writing to him. Carve. No, I'm hanged if I write to him! Janet. Oh well, that's proof you didn't want to tell him. Carve. Perhaps it is. [After a burst of quiet laugher.^ Pardon me! [Reflective.~\ I was only thinking what a terrific lark it will be. Janet. If he never does get to know? Carve. If he never does get to know . . . [resolvedl. No! I'll keep my mouth shut. Janet. As a general rule it's the best thing to do. Carve. You advise me to keep my mouth shut? Janet. Not at all. I simply say as a general rule it's the best thing to do. But this is no busi- ness of mine, and I'm sure I'm not inquisitive. Carve [solemnly^. He shall go his own way. [pause.'] And — I'll — go — mine. Janet [calmly indifferent]. That's settled then. ACT I 41 Carve [laughs again to himself, then controls his features^. And that being settled, the first thing I have to do is to apologise for my be- haviour Tuesday night. Janet. Oh, not at all! Seeing how upset you were. . . . And then I'm not sure whether I shouldn't have done the same myself in your place. Carve. Done the same yourself.'' . .Janet. Well, I may be w ,ornbgtu hrflwdu Janet. Well, I may be wrong, but it occurred to me your idea was that you'd like to have a look at me before giving yourself away, as it were. Of course I sent you my photograph. But photo- graphs aren't much better than gravestones — for being reliable; and some folks are prejudiced against matrimonial agencies, even w^hen they make use of them. It's natural. Now I've got no such prejudice. If you want to get married you want to get married, and there you are ! It's no use pretending you don't. And there's as much chance of being happy through a matrimonial agency as any other way. At least — that's what I think. Carve [collecting his mts']. Just so. Janet. You may tell me that people who go to la matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting let in. Well, people who don't go to a matrimo- nial agency stand a chance of getting let in, too. Besides, I shouldn't give a baby a razor for a birth- day present, and I shouldn't advise a young girl 42 THE GREAT ADVENTURE to go to a matrimonial agency. But I'm not a young girl. If it's a question of the male sex, I may say that I've been there before. You un- derstand me? Carve. Quite. Janet. Well, I think I told you pretty nearly everthing imoprtant in my letter, didn't I.^^ Carve. Let me see now Janet. 1 mean the one I sent to the office of the " Matrimonial News." Carve [mechanically/ feeling in his pockets pull- ing out papers and putting them back^. Where did I put it? Oh, perhaps it's in the pocket of another coat. [Goes to a coat of Shawn s hang- ing on inner knob of double doorSy and empties all the pockets, bringing the contents, including a newspaper, to the table.^ Janet [picking up an envelope~\. Yes, that's keep things in the pockets of all your coats, it. I can feel the photograph. You seem to Carve. If you knew what I've been through this last day or two Janet \_soothinghj~\. Yes. Yes. Carve. I haven't had a quiet moment. Now — [reading letter^ . " Dear Sir, in reply to your advertisement, I write to you with particulars of my case. I am a widow aged thirty-two years Janet. And anybody that likes can see my birth certificate. That's what I call talking. ACT I 43 Carve. My dear lady! [Continuing to read.'] " Thirty-two years. My father was a small job- bing builder well known in Putney and Wands- worth, ^ly husband was a rent collector and es- tate agent. He died four years ago of appendi- citis [liesHating] caught " Janet. Caused. Carve. I beg pardon, " caused by accidentally swallowing a bristle out of his tooth-brush, the same being discovered at the operation. I am an orphan, a widow, and have no children. In con- sequence I feel very lonely, and my first expe- rience not being distasteful, indeed the reverse, I am anxious to try again, provided I can meet with a sincere helpmate of good family. I am the owner of the above house, rated at forty-five pounds a year — in one of the nicest streets of Putney, and I have private means of some three pounds a week, from Brewery shares bringing in fifteen per cent. I will say nothing about my ap- pearance but enclose latest carte-de-visite photo- graph." Janet. I had it taken on purpose. Carve. " As to my tastes, I will only say that as a general rule they are quiet. If the above seems in your line I shall be obliged if you will write and send me particulars of yourself, with photograph. Yours truly, Janet Cannot." Well, Mrs. Cannot, your letter is an absolute model. 44j the great adventure Janet. I suppose you got dozens. Carve. Well By the way, what's this typewritten thing in the envelope? Janet {looking at i^]. It looks like a copy of your answer. Carve, Oh ! Janet. If it isn't a rude question, Mr. Shawn, why do you typewrite your letters? It seems so — what shall I say ? — public ! Carve [half to himself}. So that's the expla- nation of the typewriter! Janet [puzzled}. I suppose it's because you're a private secretary. Carve [equality puzzled}. Private secretary! I Shall we just glance through my reply? [Reads.} " My dear Mrs. Cannot. Your letter in- spires me with more confidence than any of the dozens of others I have received ^^[thei/ look at each other smiling} " As regards myself. I should state at once that I am and have been for many years private secretary, indeed I may say almost companion, to the celebrated painter, Mr. Ham Carve, whose magnificent pictures you are doubtless familiar with." Janet. No, I'm not. Carve. Really ! " We have been knocking about Europe together for longer than I care to rememberl, and I personally am anxious for a change. Our present existence is very expensive. I feel the need of a home and the companionship ACT I 45 I of just such a woman as yourself. Although a bachelor I think I am not unfitted for the domes- tic hearth. My age is forty." That's a mistake — of the typewriter. Janet, Oh ! Carve. Forty-five it ought to be. . .Janet. Well, honestly, I shouldn't have thought it. Carve. " My age is forty-five. By a strange coincidence Mr. Carve has suggested to me that we set out for England to-morrow. At Dover I will telegraph you with a rendezvous. In great haste. Till then, my dear Mrs. Cannot, believe me " Etc. Janet. You didn't send a photograph. Carve. Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing you in advance. Janet [laughs^. Eh, Mr. Shawn. There's thousands of young gentlemen alive and kicking in London this minute that would give a great deal to be only half as good-looking as you are! And so you're a bachelor? Carve. Oh, quite ! Janet. Two bachelors, as you say, knocking about Europe together ! [^Carve laughs quietly hut heartily to himself.^ By the way, how is Mr. Carve? I hope he's better. Carve. Mr. Carve? . . . [suddenly stops laugh- ing.~\ Oh! [Lamely, casually.'] He's dead. Janet [shocked.] Dead? When? 46 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve. Early this morning. Janet [rising~\. And us chattering away like this Why didn't you tell me at once, Mr. Shawn? Carve. I forgot for the moment. I wasn't thinking Janet. Forgot ? Carve \^simply and sincerely, hut very upset^. Now Mrs. Cannot, I assure you I feel that man's death. I admit I had very little affection for him — certainly not much respect — but we'd been to- gether a long long time, and his death is a shock to me. Yes, really! But I've had to think so much about my own case. . . . And then a scene, a regular scene with Cyrus Carve ! And then you Janet \^sympathetically~\. The fact is, you scarcely know what you're doing, my poor Mr. Shawn. The strain of this illness and so on has been too much for you. Your nerves are all to pieces — you're on wires that's what's the matter with you. I noticed it the other night — h^^steric ! 1 know what it is as well as anybody. You'll ex- cuse me saying so — but you're no ordinary man. You're one of these highly strung people, and you ought to take care of yourself. Well, I'll go now, and if it's mutually agreeable we might perhaps meet again in a month's time — say. Carve. A month! But what am I to do with myself for a month.? Do you know you're abso- ACT I 4T lutely the only friend I've got in London — in the least idea what's going to happen to me. Janet. The very best thing that can happen to you is bed. You go to bed, and stop there for England ! We're never here. I'm an utter stranger. You can't leave me like that — for a month — four weeks — four Sundays. I haven't a couple of days. There's nothing like it. Carve. Yes, but where? Janet. Why, here, of course ! Carve. I've got to be out of this place in half an hour — less. The fact is, Cyrus Carve has been extremely — er — pert. He's paid me a month's salary, and I'm off at once. In under thirty minutes I shall be on the streets. Janet. I never liked that man. . . . Well then you must go to some nice respectable boarding- house. Carve. But I don't know any nice respectable boarding-house. Janet. Oh! There are thousands and thou- sands in London. Look in the " Telegraph." Carve. I haven't had a paper to-day. Janet. Any day will do. They're in all the papers every day. What's this [^taking up folded, dirty newspaper and opening iti ? Now let's see . . . well, what about this ? " A beauti- ful private hotel of the highest class. Luxur- iously furnished. Visitors comfort studied. Fi- nest position in London. Cuisine a specialty. 48 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Suitable for persons of superior rank. Bath- room. Electric light. Separate tables. No ir- ritating extras. Single rooms from 2^ guineas. 250 Queen's Gate." Quite close by ! [Carve says nothing.^ Perhaps that's a bit dear. Here's an- other : " Not a boarding-house. A magnificent mansion. Forty bedrooms by Waring. Superb public saloons by Maple. Parisian chef. Separ- ate tables. Four bathroomjs. Cardrooms. Bil- liard room. Vast lounge. Special sanitation. Young, cheerful, musical society. Bridge (small). Finest position in London. No irritating extras. Single rooms from two guineas." What about that.? Carve [shakes his head'\. I don't think I should fancy it. Janet. I won't say but what two guineas a week is a lot. Carve. And I was just thinking how cheap it was ! Janet \_staring~\ . Well, of course if you've got money to fling about ! Carve. Upon my soul I don't know what money I have got ! Janet. It'll be just as well to find out before you get into the street. Carve. Let's see. Well — there's seven pounds ! [Showing if.] And this [pulling silver and gold from another pocket^. Not much, is it? Six- teen shillings — and six-pence. It's true I've an ACT I 49 annuity of eighty pounds — I was forgetting that Janet [pleased] . Have you indeed ! Carve. Yes. But an annuity isn't ready cash, is it? Janet [picking up Shawn's pocket hook] . And this? This seems rather thick. Carve. I was forgetting that, too. [Opens it, takes out many notes.] Janet. My word ! And you'd forgotten that! You ought to see a doctor. Carve [counting]. Twenty-one fives and ten tens. That makes two hundred and five pounds. [Half to himself.] I alwaj^s knew I was a bad lot — but where did I collar all that from? [To Janet.] I know what I shall do. I shall go to the Grand Babylon! Janet. The Grand Babylon Hotel! But it's the dearest hotel in London! Carve. In the big towns we always went to the best hotel. It's cheapest in the end. Janet. You're very persuasive, but you'll never make me believe you'll save money by staying at the Grand Babylon. Carve [rising and he ginning to collect things; tries to fold up a pair of trousers]. Now Mrs. Cannot, will you do me a favour? Janet. You'll spoil these trousers. Give them to me. . . [She takes trousers and folds them prop- erly.] 50 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow? Janet. But I've never been in such a place in my life ! Carve. Remember. You're my only friend. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow. Janet [timidly~\. I should like to [holding out trousers^. Enter Cyrus Carve. Cyrus. Oh ! [^Curtain. 1^ NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS IN ACT II Father Looe. Aged 35; looks younger. Rather his- trionic in manner. Intensely conscious of his priestly vocation. Affects an ascetic appearance. Fond of oratorical effects in conversation. Sin- cere. No humour. Not a fool, but -his intellect is insufficient for the calls upon it. HoNORiA LooE. Aged 30. Earnest young woman, thoroughly accustomed to the most fashionable earnest official society. One of those excellent creatures who are always worrying about the seri- ousness of life and of art. Peter Horning. Aged 40. A vulgar and success- ful journalist. Gross. Rapid in movements and speech. Knows exactly what he is about. Ex- perience has taught him to have perfect faith in the influence of the vulgar press on the vulgar mind. He is a convinced person. ACT II Scene. — Private sitting-room at the GraTid Babylon Hotel, Strand; luxurious in the ho- tel-manner. Telephone. Door l, leading to corridor. Door n {iip stage) leading to bed- room. Another door (not used)leading to bathroom. Scene I. Time: — About noon on the following dg,y. Ham Carve and Janet are talking together. Carve. I'm really delighted to see yoiTi Janet [examining his features^. But surely you're not feeling very well? Carve. I'm not. Perhaps it's these sleepless nights I've had. Janet. You're shivering. Carve. I was wearing my dressing gown. I nearly always do when I'm alone. Do you think you'd mind if I put it on again? Janet. Do you mean to say you took it off because of me? [Seizing dressing gown, ■firmly.'] Mr. Shawn, will you oblige me by getting into this at once! [She helps him on with dressing gown.] What a beauty ! Carve. Yes, Cousin Cyrus thought so, too. ACT II 53 He didn't want me to bring it away. Still, I beat him — on that point. \_Janet arranges the col- lar.^ Do you know, you do me good. Janet, I should think so! I suppose when gentlemen live alone they're pretty nearly always unwell, as it were. If it isn't a cold, it's stomach, I expect. And truly I'm not surprised — the way they go on. Now will you sit down in that chair and keep your legs covered — August or no Au- gust ! If you ask me, it's influenza you're sicken- ing for \_sound of distant orchestra^ Music? Carve [nodding, and sitting down in easy-chair^ . Well, and what's the news from outside ? I haven't stirred sfnc(^ yesterday noon. Janet. Seems to me there's no news except your Mr. Carve's death. Carve. Really ! Is it so much talked about as all that.? Janet. It's on all the posters — very big. AU along Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square and the Strand the newspaper boys, and the newspaper old men, too, are wearing it like aprons, as it were. I read the " Telegraph " myself. There was nearly a page of it in the " Telegraph." Carve [staggered]. Nearly a page of it in the " Telegraph " ! Janet. Yes. Besides a leading; article. Haven't you Carve. 1 never read obituaries of artists in the ^papers. 54 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet [drily']. Neither do I. But I should have thought you Carve. Well, they make me angry. Obitu- aries of archbishops aren't so bad. Newspapers seem to understand archbishops. But when they begin about artists — you cannot imagine the as- tounding nonsense they talk. Janet [protesting against his heat]. Now. You're still all on wires. Why should that make you angry .f^ Carve. What did the " Telegraph " say? Did you look at it? Janet. Oh, yes ! It appears Mr. Carve was a very eccentric person — avoiding society, and so on. Carve [resentful]. Eccentric! There you are! He wasn't eccentric in the least. The only society he avoided was the society of gaping fools. Janet. Well, I'm just telling you what it said. Then — let me see — w^hat else did it say? Oh! It said the sole question was whether Mr. Carve was the greatest painter since Velasquez — is that how you pronounce it? or whether he was the great- est painter that ever lived. Carve [interested]. Really! It said that? Janet [nodding]. You ought to read it. Carve. Upon my soul I think I must! [At- tempts to rise.] Janet. Now please don't move. What is it you want? ACT II 55 Carve. I was only going to telephone and have the daily papers sent up. Janet, Where is the telephone? Carve [pointing']. There. Janet. So they've put a telephone in your room ? Carve. Telephone in every room. Janet [going to telephone]. Can I telephone for you? I never have telephoned, and I should like to. How do you do it? Carve. Just take that thing off the hook and talk into it. [Janet gingerly obeys.] It won't explode. Janet. What am I to say? Carve. Tell them to send me up all the daily papers at once. Janet. All ? Carve. Yes. Janet. But will they? Carve. Certainly. Janet [into telephone]. Please will you send up all the daily papers at once? Carve, Thanks very much. Now you can hang it up again. Janet. So this is the Grand Babylon Hotel! Well, it's a queer place. [Her eyes rove round the room.] Carve. What are you looking for? Janet. To speak plainly, I was looking for the bed. I must say I was rather surprised when the 56 THE GREAT ADVENTURE young man at the desk said I was to go up to your room. . . . But really, everything's so nicely ar- ranged. ... I suppose it's one of those folding beds that turn into bookcases and things. Carve [laughs]. No. This is my sitting- room. Janet. FoMr sitting-room ! [^Pointing to door R.] Then that's the bedroom? Carve. Yes. Janet [pointing to another door]. And what's that? Carve. That's my bathroom. In a big hotel I always take a^ suite, you know. It's so much more comfortable. Janet. Isn't it rather expensive? Carve. To tell the truth I didn't ask the price. [Knock at door.] Janet [charmingly tart]. I suppose it's what you call " cheapest in the end." Carve. Come in. [Enter Page with a pile of papers.] Carve. Thanks. Give them to me. [Exit Page.] Janet. Well, I never! It's like magic! Carve. Now, let's just glance at these chaps [unfolding a paper], Janet. Shall I help you? Carve. Why! Here's black borders and a heading across two columns ! " Death of England's Greatest Painter." " Irreparable loss to the ACT II 57 world's art." " Our readers will be shocked Are they all like that? [More and more aston- ished takes another paper.~\ " Sad death of a great genius." Janet \_handing him still another paper"]. And this! Carve. " London's grief." " The news will come as a personal blow to every lover of great painting." But — but — I'd no notion of this ! [Half to himself. 1 It's terrible. Janet. Well, perhaps always living with him you wouldn't realise how important he was, would you.? [Distant music begins again, a waltz tune.] Carve [reading~\ . " Although possibly some- thing of a poseur in his choice of subjects . . ." The fellow's a fool ! Poseur, indeed ! Janet. Look at this. " Europe in mourning." Carve. Well — well ! Janet. What is that music? Carve. London's grief ! — It's the luncheon orchestra downstairs. [Telephone bell rings. ~\ Carve. Never mind it. Let 'em ring. I un- derstand now, why journalists and so on have been trying all day to see me. . . . Honestly, I'm — I'm staggered. [Telephone bell continues to ring.] Janet. It's a funny notion of comfort ; having a telephone in every room. How long will it keep on like that? Carve. I'll stop it. [Rising.] 58 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet. No, no ! [Going to telephone and tak- ing receiver. 'I Yes? What's the matter? [Lis- tens, To Carve. ^ Oh! What do you think? Father Looe and his sister Miss Honoria Looe want to see you. Carve. Father Looe? Never heard of him. Janet. Oh. But you must have heard of him. He's the celebrated Roman Catholic preacher. He's a beautiful man. I heard him preach once on the Sins of Society. Carve. Would you mind saying I'm not at home ? Janet [obviously disappoint edl. Then won't you see him? Carve. Did you want to see him? Janet. I should like just to have had a look at him close to, as it were. Carve [gallantly~\ . Then you shall. Tell them to send them up, will you? Janet. And am I to stay here? Carve. Of course. Janet. Well, if anybody had told me this time last week ! [Into telephone.'] Please ask them to come up. Carve. Perhaps with your being here I shan't be quite so shy. Janet. Shy! Are you shy? It said in the " Telegraph " that Mr. Carve was painfully shy. Carve [protesting]. "Painfully." Who told them that, I should like to know. ACT II 59 Janet, Now shyness is a thing I simply can't understand. I'm never shy. And you don't strike me as shy — far from it. Carve. It's very curious. I haven't felt a bit shy with you. Janet. Nobody ever is shy with me. [Ironic ally. ~\ I must say I'd give something to see you shy. [^Enter Father Looe and Honoria Looe announced by Page.~\ Looe \_stopping near door, at a loss^. Pardon me. Mr. Shawn.? Mr. Albert Shawn.? Carve [rising, perturbed]. Yes. Looe. This is your room? Carve. Yes. Looe. I'm afraid there's some mistake — I was given to understand that you were the — er — valet of the late Mr. Ham Carve. Honoria. Yes, Mr. Cyrus Carve told us Janet [coming to Carve's rescue as he remains speechless; very calmly] . Now there's another trick of Mr. Cyrus Carve's ! Valet indeed ! Mr. Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary — and almost companion. Looe. Ten thousand apologies ! Ten thousand apologies ! I felt sure Carve. Please sit down. [With a special gal- lantry towards Honoria.] Janet. And will you sit down too, Mr. Shawn ! [To the Looes.] He's not at all well. That's why he's wearing his dressing gown. 60 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve \_introducmg'\. My friend Mrs. Janet Cannot. Looe. Now Mr. Shawn, if you know anything about me — if you have heard me preach, if you have read any of my books — you are probably aware that I am a man who goes straight to the point, hating subtleties. In connection with your late employer's death a great responsibility is laid upon me, and I have come to you for infor- mation — information which I have failed to ob- tain either from Mr. Cyrus Carve, or the doctor, or the nurse . . . was Mr. Carve a Catholic .^^ Carve. A Catholic? Looe. He came of a Catholic fai^ily, did he not? Carve. Yes — I believe so. Looe. The cousin, Mr. Cyrus Carve, I regret to say, denies the faith of his childhood — denies it, I also regret to say, with a vivacity that amounts almost to bad manners. In fact he was extremely rude to me when I tried to give him some idea of the tremendous revival of Catholicism which is the outstanding feature of intellectual life in England to-day. Carve. Ham Carve was not a Catholic. Looe. IMind, I do not ask if he died in the con- solations of the faith. I know that he did not. I have learnt that it occurred to neither you nor the doctor nor the nurse to send for a priest. ACT II 61 Strange omission ! But not the fault of the dying man! Carve. Ham Carve was not a Catholic. Looe. Then what was he? Carve. Nothing in particular. Looe. Then I claim him! Then I claim him! . . . Honoria! Carve [in a new tone~\ . Look here — what's all this about? Looe [rising^. I will tell you at once what it is about, Mr. Shawn. There is a question of Ham Carve being buried in Westminster Abbey. Carve [^thunderstruck^. Buried in Westmin- ster Abbey ! Looe. Lady Leonard Alcar has consulted me about the matter. I may say that I have the hon- our to be her spiritual director. Probably you know that Lord Leonard Alcar owns the finest col- lection of Ham Carve's pictures in Europe. Janet. I've often wondered who it is that set- tles whether people shall be buried in the Abbey or not. So it's Lady Leonard Alcar ! Looe. Not exactly ! Not exactly ! But Lady Leonard Alcar is a " great lady." She has vast influence. The most influential convert to Cathol- icism of the last thirty years ! She is aunt to no less than four dukes, and Lord Leonard is uncle to two others. Carve [ironically^. I quite see. 62 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Looe [eogerly~\. You see — don't you? Her advice on these matters carries enormous weight. A suggestion from her amounts to — to Carve. A decree absolute. Janet [simply']. Is she what they call the rul- ing classes? Looe \hows]. Lady Leonard and I have talked the matter over, and I pointed out to her that if this great genius was a Member of the Church of England, and if the sorrowing nation at large deems him worthy of the supreme honour of a national funeral, then by all means let him be buried in the Abbey. But if he was a Catholic, then I claim him for Westminster Cathedral, that magnificent fane which we have raised as a symbol of our renewed vitality. Now was he a member of the Church of England? Carve [loudly]. Decidedly not. Looe. Good ! Then I claim him — I detest casuistry, and I claim him. I have only one other question. You knew him well — intimately — for many years. On your conscience, Mr. Shawn, what interment, in your opinion, would he himself have preferred? Janet [after a pause] . It wouldn't make much difference to him either way, would it? Carve [with an outburst]. The whole thing is preposterous. Looe [ignoring the outburst]. My course seems quite clear, I shall advise Lady Leonard ACT II 63 Carve. Don't you think you're rather young to be in sole charge of this country? Looe ^smoothly]. My dear sir, I am nothing but a humble priest, who gives counsel when coun- sel is sought. And I may say that in this af- fair of the interment of our great national painter, there are other influences than mine. For in- stance my sister, Honoria, w^ho happens also to be president of the Ladies' Water Colour Society [gestures of alarm from Carve~\ — my sister has a great responsibility. She is the favourite niece of \_Whispers in Carvers ear/\ Con- sequently \^Ma}x:es an impressive pause S\ Honoria. You see my uncle is a bachelor, and I keep house for him. Anselm used to live with us too, until he left the Church Looe. Until I joined the Church, Honoria! Now Honoria wishes to be perfectly fair; she en- tirely realises her responsibility ; and that is why she has come w^ith me to see you. Janet [henignantly^. So that's how these things are decided! I see I'd got quite a wrong notion of politics and so on. Honoria Janet \_toget}ier'\ Oh Mr. Shawn My idea was Honoria. I beg your pardon. Janet. I beg yours 64> THE GREAT ADVENTURE Honoria. There's one question I should so like to ask you, Mr. Shawn. In water colours did Mr. Carve use Chinese white freely, or did he stick to transparent colour — like the old English school. I wonder if you understand me. Carve [interested]. He used Chinese white like anything. Honoria. Oh! I'm so glad. You remember that charming water colour of the Venetian gon- dolier in the Luxembourg — we had a great argu- ment after we got home last Easter as to whether the oar was put in with Chinese white — or just " left out " — you know ! Carve. Chinese white of course. My notion is that it doesn't matter a fig how you get your ef- fects so long as you do get them. Honoria. And that was his notion too.^* [Tele- phone hell rings. Janet answers it.] Carve. His ? Rather ! You bet it was ! Honoria. I'm so glad! I'm so glad. I knew I was right about Chinese white. Oh! Anselm, do let him be buried in the Abbey ! Do let me suggest to uncle Looe. My dear girl, ask your conscience! Enthusiasm for art I can comprehend ; I can even sympathise with it. But if this grave national question is to be decided by considerations of Chi- nese white [Carve turns to Janet as if for succour,] ACT II 65 Janet [c«7w/?/]. The doctor is just coming up. Carve. The Doctor! What doctor? Janet. A Dr. Horning. He says he's Dr. Pas- coe's assistant and he attended Mr. Carve, and he wants to see you. Carve. But I don't want to see him. Janet. You'll have to see a doctor. Carve. Why.? Janet. Because 3^ou're ill. So you may just as well see this one as another. They're all pretty much of a muchness. J[Enter Peter Horning, boisterously/. A page hoy opens the door hut does not announce liim.~\ P. Horning [perceiving Looe first~\. Ah, Father! You here! How d'ye do? What did you think of my special on last Sunday's sermon? [Shakes hand with Looe and hows to Miss Looe as to an acquaintance.^ Looe. Very good ! Very good. P. Horning [advancing to Carve~\ . Mr. Shawn, I presume? Carve [glancing helplessly at Janet]. But this isn't the doctor. P. Horning [voluhly~\. Admitted! Admitted! I'm only his brother — a journalist. I'm on the " Courier," and the " Mercury," and several other Worgan papers. One of our chaps failed to get in to this room this morning, so I came along to try what / could do. You see what I've done. 66 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet, Well, I never came across such a set of people in my life ! P. Horning [aside to Looe']. Is he in service here, or what? Looe. Mr. Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary and companion, not his valet. P. Horning [puzzled, but accepting the situa- tion~\. Ah! So much the better! Now, Mr. Shawn, can you tell me authoritatively whether shortly before his death Mr. Carve was engaged to be married, under romantic circumstances, to a lady of high rank? Honoria. Indeed ! Carve. Who told you that? P. Horning. Then he was ! Carve. I've nothing to say. P. Horning. You won't tell me her name? Carve. I've nothing to say. P. Horning. Secondly, I'm instructed to offer something considerable for your signature to an account of Ham Carve's eccentric life on the con- tinent. Carve. Eccentric life on the continent ! P. Horning. I shouldn't keep you half an hour — three-quarters at most. A hundred pounds. Cash down, you know. Bank notes. Carve [to Janet, exhausted but disdainful . 1 wouldn't mind signing an order for the fellow's execution. P. Horning. A hundred and fifty. ACT II 61 \ Carve. Or burning at the stake. P. Horning [to Looe~\. What does he say? Looe. Mr. Shawn is indisposed. We've just been discussing the question of the burial in the Abbey. I think I may say, if it interests you as an item of news, that Ham Carve will not be buried in the Abbey. P. Horning [Jightlyl. 0^? J^s he will, Father. There was a little doubt about it, until we got par- ticulars of his will this morning. But his will settled it. Looe. His will? P. Horning. Yes. Didn't you know? No, you wouldn't tell ! Well, his estate will come out at about a couple of hundred thousand, and he's left it practically all for an International Gallery of Modem Art in London. Very ingenious plan. None of your Chantry Bequest business. Three pictures and one piece of sculpture are to be bought each year in London. Fixed price, £400 each, large or small. Trustees are to be business men — bank directors. But they can't choose the works. The works are to be chosen by the stu- dents at South Kensington and the Academy Schools. Works by R.A.'s and A.R.A.'s are abso- lutely barred. Also works by students themselves are absolutely barred. Cute, that, eh? That's the arrangement for England. Similar arrange- ment for France, Italy and Germany. He gives the thing a start by making it a present of his own 68 THE GREAT ADVENTURE collection, stored somewhere in Paris. I don't mean his own paintings — he bars those. Un- usually modest, eh? Honoria. How perfectly splendid ! We shall haev a real live gallery at last. Surely, Anselm, after that Looe. Quite beside the point. I shall certainly oppose. P. Horning. Oppose what? Looe. The burial in the Abbey. I shall advise Lady Leonard Alcar P. Horning. No use, Father ! Take my word ! The governor's made up his mind. He's been fear- fully keen on art lately — I don't know why. We were in front of everybody else with the news of Ham Carve's death, and the governor's making a regular pet of him. He says it's quite time we buried an artist in Westminster Abbey, and he's given instructions to the whole team. Didn't you see the " Mercury " this morning? Anybody who opposes a national funeral for Ham Carve will be up against the governor Of course, I tell you that as a friend — confidentially. Looe [shaken^. Well, I shall see what Lady Leonard says. Carve \_rising in an angry, scornful outhursf]. You'd bury him in Westminster Abbey because he's a philanthropist, not because he's an artist ! That's England all over! . . . Well, I'm hanged if I'll have it ! ACT II 69 Looe. But, my dear sir Carve. And I can tell you another thing — he's not dead! [Sinks hack into his chair. ^ P. Horning [^aside to Looe^. Is he mad, Father? Nothing but a clerk, after all! And yet he takes a private room at the Grand Babylon, and then he refuses a hundred and fifty of the best, and goes on like this ! Looe. I really think we ought to leave. Honoria [to Janet]. He's upset, poor thing! But how charming he is ! Janet [prudently resenting Honoria^s interest in Carve~\. Yes, he's upset. Who wouldn't he? Honoria. But what does it mean? Janet [ciirtlyl. I expect it just means he pre- fers quiet funerals — and cremation. After all, when you're cremated you do know where you are. You are sure of not being buried alive. [She goes towards Carve. ~\ Horning. Touched, if you ask me! [Moving to leave.] Looe [moving to leave] . Honoria ! Janet [to Carve]. So this is what you call be- ing shy ! Carve [to Janet, wJw is now bending over him]. It must be stopped. Janet [as the others go out; humouring him]. Yes, yes. [Absently, in reply to bows and adieux of Looe, Honoria, and P. Horning. Good morn- ing ! [When they are gone; with a sigh of relief.] 70 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Well, it is a mighty queer place ! . . . My word, how cold your hands are ! \^Going quickly to telepJwne and speaking into telephone.~\ Please send up two hot-water bottles at once. Yes, hot-water bottles. Never heard of a hot- water bottle before? \_Curtain falls for a few minutes to indicate passage of time.~\ Scene II. Time. — Afternoon four days later. Janet is doz- ing in an easy-chair. Enter Carve, in his dressing-gown. Janet \^starting up^. Mr. Shawn, what are you doing out of bed? After such a dose of flu as you had! Carve. I'm doing nothing out of bed [^twiddles his thumbs']. Janet. But you've no right to be out of bed at all. Carve. I was afraid I hadn't. But I called and called, and there was no answer. So then I began to argue the point — Why not get up? I'd had a tremendous long sleep. I felt singularly powerful. And I thought you'd gone home. Janet. Nay — that you never did ! Carve. I did, honestly. Janet. Do you mean to say you thought for a single moment I should go home and leave you like that? Carve. Yes. But of course I thought you might be coming back sooner or later. ACT II 71 Janet. Well, I never ! Carve. You've scarcely left me for three dayg and three nights, Mrs. Cannot, so far as I remem- ber. Surely it was natural for me to suppose that you'd gone home to your own affairs. Janet \_sarcastically^. It didn't occur to you I might have dropped off to sleep? Carve. Now don't be angry. I'm only con- valescent. Janet. Will you kindly march right back to bed this instant ! Carve. No, I'm dashed if I do ! Janet. I beg pardon ! Carve. I say I'm dashed if I do ! I won't stir until I've thanked you. I've been ill. I don't know how many times, but this is the first time in my life I've ever enjoyed being ill. D'you know [witli an ingenuous air^ I'd really no idea what nursing was ! Janet [drily]. Hadn't you? Well, if you call that nursing, I don't. But it was the best I could do in this barracks, with the kitchen a mile and a half off and a pack of men that can't understand English gaping at you all day in evening dress. I daresay this is a very good hotel for reading newspapers in, but if you want anything that isn't on the menu, it's as bad as drawing money out of the post-office savings bank. You should see me nurse in my own house. Carve. I should like to. Even in " this bar- 72 THE GREAT ADVENTURE racks " \_imitating her^ you've quite altered my view of life. Janet. Yes, and it wanted altering! When I think of you and that other poor fellow wandering about all alone on that continent — without the slightest notion of what comfort is. . . . Well, I'll say this, it's a pleasure to nurse you. Now will you go to bed ! Carve. I suppose coffee's on the menu? Janet. Coffee ? Carve. I think I should like some cafe-au-lait, and a roll. Janet [rising~\. You can have hot milk if you like. Carve. All right. And then when I've had it I'll go to bed. Janet [af telephone^. Are you there? Carve \_picking up a sheet of paper from table^ . Hello ! What's this ? Hotel-bill — receipted ? Janet. I should think so, indeed ! They sent it up the second day — [into telepJione.^ Hot milk, please, and let it he hot. [^Hanging up telephone; to Carve.~\ I expect they were afraid for their money, through people saying that you were Mr. Carve's valet. Carve. And you paid it? Janet. I took the money out of your pockets and I just paid it. I never said a word. But if you hadn't been ill, I should have said something ! Of all the swindles — of all the barefaced swin- ACT II 73 dies ! Do you see what it's costing you to live here — a day ? Carve. Oh! Not much above four pounds, I hope. Janet [speechless at first^. Any woman that knew her business could keep you for a month — a month — for less than you spend here in a day — and better! And better! Look there, "Bis- cuits 1/6." Carve. Well? Janet. "Well"! [confidentially earnest^. Will you believe me when I tell you there wasn't a pennyworth of biscuits on that plate! Do you think I don't know what biscuits are a pound? Carve. Really ! Janet [ironically^ . " Cheapest in the end " — but I should say the end's a long way off. Carve [who has picked up another paper^. What? Admit Mr. Albert Shawn to Westminster Abbey, cloisters' entrance. . . . Funeral . . Tuesday. . . . That's to-day, isn't it? Janet. Yes. Carve [moved^. But you told me he wasn't go- ing to be buried in Westminster Abbey ! Janet. I know. Carve. You told me Cyrus Carve had insisted on cremation ! Janet [with vivacity']. And what did you ex- pect me to tell you? I had to soothe you some- 74 THE GREAT ADVENTURE how. You were just about delirious. I was afraid if I told you the truth you'd be doing something silly — seeing the state you were in. Then it struck me a nice plain cremation at Woking was the very thing to keep you quiet. Carve \_stiU more moved^. Then he's Janet, Yes, I should say all is over by this time. There was thousands of people for the ly- ing-in-state, it seems. Carve. But it's awful! Absolutely awful! Janet. Why is it awful? Carve. I told you — I explained the whole thing to you ! Janet [humorously remonstrating']. Mr. Shawn. Surely you've got rid of that idea! You aren't delirious now! You said you were convalescent, you know. Carve. There'll be a perfect hades of a row! I must write to the Dean at once. I must Janet [soothingly']. I shouldn't if I were you. Why not let things be ? No one would believe that tale Carve. Do you believe it? Janet [perfunctorily]. Oh, yes! Carve. No you don't. Honestly, do you, now? Janet. Well — [knock at door] , Come in. [Enter waiter with hot milk.] Janet. Here's your hot milk. Waiter. Miss Looe has called. Carve. I must see her. ACT II 75 Janet. But Carve. I must see her! \^Exit waiter.l Janet. Oh, very well. She's telephoned each day to enquire how you were. She asked if you wanted a seat for the funeral. I told her you couldn't possibly go, but I was sure you'd like to be invited — whether it was the Abbey or not. Please don't forget your milk. \_Enter Honoria (in mourning), introduced hy waiter. Honoria [coming in quickly, howing to Janet, land shaking liands with Carve~\ . Good afternoon ! Please don't rise. I've heard how ill you've been. I've only called because I simply had to ! Carve. It's very kind of you. Honoria. Oh, Mr. Shawn, I know you didn't want him to be buried in the Abbey. Fm all for quiet funerals, too. But really this was an excep- tional case, and I think if you'd seen it, you'd have been glad they did decide on the Abbey. Oh ! You've no idea how impressive it was ! The Abbey is always so fine, isn't it? And it was crammed. You never saw such a multitude of distinguished people — I mean really distinguished — all in black, except of course the uniforms ! Royalties, ambassadors ! Representatives from all the Acad- emies — all over Europe. Rodin was there ! The whole of artistic London came. I don't mean only painters, but poets, novelists, sculptors and mu- sicians. The art students had a corner to them- selves. And you should have seen the crowds out- 76 THE GREAT ADVENTURE side ! All traffic was stopped up as far as Trafal- gar Square.- I've had some difficulty in getting here. The sun was shining through the stained glass. And the music was magnificent. And then when the coffin was carried down the nave — well, there was only one wreath on the pall — just one — a white crown — all the other wreaths were piled near the screen — scores and scores of them — the effect was tremendous. I nearly cried. A lot of people did cry. [Genuinely moved.^ There was that great genius lying there ! . . . He'd never done anything except put paint on canvas ; and yet — and yet — Well, it made you feel somehow that England does care for art, after all ! Carve [after a pause^. And whom have we to thank for this beautiful national manifestation of sympathy with art? Honoria. How do you mean? Carve [with an attempt at cold irony, but yet in a voice imperfectly controlled^. Did your brother relent and graciously permit I^ady Leon- ard Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or was it due solely to the influence of the newspapers written by people of refined culture like the man who gave his opinion the other day that I was " touched " ? Or perhaps you yourself settled it with your esteemed uncle over a cup of tea. Honoria. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can see that you're artistic yourself, and artists are ACT II 77 generally very sarcastic about the British public. I know I am. . . . Now don't you paint.? Carve [shrugging his shoulders']. I used to — a little. Honorla. I was sure of it. Well, you can be as sarcastic as you like, but do you know what I was thinking during the service.'^ — I was think- ing — if only he could have seen it ? If only Ham Carve could have seen it — instead of lying cold in that coffin under that wreath — he'd \_hesi- tating] . Carve [interrupting her, in a different, resolved tone]. Miss Looe, I suppose you're on very con- fidential terms with your uncle? Honoria. Naturally ? Why ? Carve. Will you give him a message from me? — He'll do perhaps better than anybody. Honoria. With pleasure. Carve [moved] . It's something very important — very important indeed ! In fact [Janet goes into bedroom, but, keeping near the doorway, does not actually disappear,] Honoria. Yes ? Carve. I [He suddenly stands up, and then falls back into chair. Janet returns quickly^ to the room.] Honoria [alarmed], I'm afraid he isn't quite well yet. Carve. No ! I — I can't tell you ! At least, 78 THE GREAT ADVENTURE not now ! . . . Thanks very much for calling. \_Rises brusquely and walks towards bedroom door.^ Janet [^to Honoria^, He's not really strong enough to see visitors. Honoria. What is it.? IGoing to door.~\ Janet. Oh! Influenza! Sometimes it takes 'em in the head and sometimes in the stomach. It's taken him in the head. Honoria. Charming man ! I don't suppose there's the least likelihood of it — he's evidently very well off — but if he should be wanting a situa- tion similar to his last — I'm sure my uncle Janet [positively and curtly^. I don't think so. Honoria. Of course, you know him very well.? Janet. Well, it's like this. I'm his cousin. We aren't exactly engaged to be married Honoria. Oh! I see! Good afternoon. Janet. Good afternoon! [Exit Honoria.~\ Carve [who has hesitatingly wandered bach towards centre, in a quite different tone now that he is alone again with Janet^. What's this about be- ing engaged to be married ! Janet [smiling']. I was telling her we weren't engaged to be married. That's true, I suppose.? Carve. But are we cousins? Janet. Yes. I've got my reputation to think about. I don't want to coddle it, but there's no harm in just keeping an eye on it. Carve. I see [sits down]. Janet. If nothing comes of all this ACT II 79 Carve. All what? Janet. All this illness and nursing and sitting up at nights — then I'm just your cousin and no harm done. Carve. But do you mean to say you'd be ready to marry me if I asked you? Janet [after reflection^ . Not so fast. Do you mean to say you're going to ask me? Carve. But you're convinced I'm not right in my head ! Janet. If we were to let that stop us, there wouldn't be much marrying. Carve. Now seriously Janet. Well seriously — if you really believe what you told me about your being somebody else, why didn't you tell her ladj^ship? Carve. I couldn't. Janet. No, I shouldn't think not indeed ! You've been reading too much Druce case — that's what's the matter with you — that and influenza ! All you want to put you straight is a sensible, com- fortable life — and a bit less of this racketty con- tinent business [pause. She continues reflec- tively^. Do you know what struck me while her ladyship was telling us about all the grand doings at the funeral! . . . What good has it ever done him to be celebrated and make a big splash in the world? Was he any happier for it? From all I can hear he was always trying to hide just as if the police were after him. He never had the 80 THE GREAT ADVENTURE slightest notion of comfort — and so you needn't tell me ! And there's another thing — you needn't tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl or other, because I know he was. A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything else — morning, noon, and night. It stands to reason — and they can say what they like — I know! And now he's dead, — probably because he'd no notion of looking after himself — and it's been in all the papers how wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very likely sat up half the night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with fash- ionable folk — and do you know what all those fashionable folk are thinking about just now — Tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whiskey and soda. Carve. You're saying all this to cure me of my delusion Janet, I'm saying the truth. Carve. But you mustn't forget that he was really very successful indeed. Just look at the money he made, for instance. Janet. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him, he'd never have left two hundred thousand of them behind him — him with no family ! No, he was no better than a fool with money. Couldn't even spend it. Carve. He had the supreme satisfaction of do- ing w^hat he enjoyed doing better than anybody else could do it. Janet. And what was that.'' ACT II 81 Carve. Painting. Janet [casually^ . Oh ! And couldn't he have had that without running about all over Europe? He might just as well have been a commercial traveller. Take my word for It. Mr. Shawn, there's nothing like a comfortable home and a quiet life — and the less you're in the newspapers the better. Carve [thoughtfully^. D'you know — a good deal of what you say applies to me. Janet. And you now! As we're on the subject — before we go any further — you're a bachelor of forty-five, same as him. What have you been doing with yourself lately? Carve. Doing with myself? Janet. Well, I think I ought to ask because when I was stealing [with a little nervous laugh^ the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel bill, I came across a lady's photograph. I couldn't help coming across It. , . . Seeing how things are, I think I ought to ask. Carve. Oh ! That! It must be a photograph of the lady he was engaged to. He broke it off, you know. That was why we came to London In such a hurry. Janet. Then it is true — what the newspaper reporter said? [Carve nods.^ One of the aris- tocracy? [Carve nods.^ Who was she? Carve. Lady Alice Rowfant. Janet. What was it doing in your pocket? 82 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve. I don't know. Everything got mixed up. Clothes, papers, everything. Janet. Sure ? Carve. Of course. Look here, do you suppose Lady Alice Rowfant is anything to me? Janet. She isn't? Carve. No. Janet. Honestly [looMng at him closely'\ .? Carve. Honestly. Janet [with obvious relief^. Well, that's all right then. Now will you drink this milk, please ! Carve. I just wanted to tell you Janet. Will you drink this milk! [Pours out a glassful for him.'\ [Carve addresses himself to the milk. Janet begins to put on her things.'] Carve. But I say, what are you doing? Janet. I'm going home. Carve. What? Now? Janet. At once. Carve. But you can't leave me like this. I'm very ill. Janet. Oh! No you aren't. You're very much better. Anyone can see that. All you've got to do is to return to bed and stick to slops. Carve. And when shall you come back? Janet. You might come down to see me one day at Putney. Carve. I shall be delighted tol But before that, won't you come here? ACT II 8S Janet [after a pause'\. I'll try and come the day after to-morrow. Carve. Why not to-morrow? Janet. Well, a couple of days without me'll do you no harm. It's a mistake to be in a hurry when you've got all your life in front of you. Carve [after a pause^. Listen — have some tea before you go. Janet. No. [Holds out her hand, smiling.li Good afternoon. Now do go to bed. Carve. I haven't begun to thank you. Janet. No — and I hope you won't begin. Carve. You're so sudden. Janet. It's sudden or nothing. Carve [holding her hand^. 1 say — what can you see in me? Janet. Well, if it comes to that — what can 3^ou see in me [withdrawing her hand] ? Carve. I — I don't know what it is ! . . . Something. . . . Everyihingl Janet. That's too much! Good-bye! I'll come about this time the day after to-morrow. Carve. Supposing I have a relapse? Janet [at door]. You won't, if you do as I tell you. Carve. But supposing I do? Janet. Well, you can always telegraph, can't you? [Exit. After finishing milk, suddenly gets up and searches on writing table; he then goes to the telephone. '\ 84 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve [into telephone^. Please send me up a telegraph-form. \^He -finds photograph of Lady Alice Rowfant and tears it methodically to pieces. Enter Page with telegraph forms.'] Carve. Wait a moment \^after writing out tele- gram] . Send this off at once. Here — a shil- ling. Page [^taking telegram]. Yes, sir. What's this word, sir? "Relapse".? Carve. Yes. " Relapse. Carve." That's all. Here. Half a second ! " Carve " is a mistake Intakes form and corrects it]. " Mrs. Cannot, 200 Werter Road, Putney. Relapse. Shawn." S-h-a-w-n. Eight words. Off with you! Page. Yes, sir. Carve [stopping Page]. Here. Give it me back. \_Alters telegram.] " Serious relapse." That's better. Page. Yes, sir. \_Eocit. Alone^ Carve begins to execute a discreet dance.] [Curtain.] NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS IN ACT III Mr. Ebag. Aged 45. A handsome, well-dressed, well-mannered Jew. His demeanour is always quiet and modest, but he has great confidence in himself. John and James Shawn. Aged 25. Two perfectly ordinary curates. The scene in which they ap- pear must on no account be played in the vein of low comedy. They have done their best to meet in a dignified way the situation in which they find themselves. They are not equal to that situation; they are rather ridiculous in it, but they are not farcically ridiculous. Mrs. Shawn. Their mother. Aged 50. A feeble, unimportant soul, rather wornout by life. ACT III Scene. — Parlour of Janefs house in Putney. A perfectly ordinary suburban interior of a small house; but comfortable. Table in cen- tre. . .Door R up stage, leading to hall. . .Door L, down stage, leading to kitchen and back premises. Rather more than two years have elapsed. Scene I. Time. — Morning in early autumn. Carve reading newspaper at breakfast table. Janet, in an apron, is hovering busily near him. Janet [putting cigarettes and matches down be- side Carve^. Want anything else, dear? [No answer from Carve. ^ Because I must set about my morning's work. [Carve continues to read.~\ Albert, are you sure you don't want anything else.? [As he still gives no sign of attention, she snatches the paper away from him, and throws it on the floor. Carve [not having moved his eyes']. The pat- tern of this jag is really not so bad. Yes, my soul.? Janet. I've asked you I don't know how many ACT III 87 times whether you want anything else, because I must set about my morning's work. Carve, Is there any more coffee? Janet. Yes, plenty. Carve. Hot? Janet. Yes. Carve. Then I don't want any. Got any ba- con? Janet. No, but I can cook a slice in a minute. Carve [with an affectation of martyrdoTn], Doesn't matter! Janet. Oh yes I will ! [Moving away.~\ Carve [drawing her to him hy her apron^. Can't you see he's teasing you? Janet. She's got no time in the morning for being teased. [She takes a cigarette, lights it, [and immediately puts it in his mouth.'\ Carve. And now you're going to leave me? Janet. Sure you're all right? [He nods.^ Quite sure you're happy? Carve. Jane Janet. I wish you wouldn't call me Jane. Carve. But I w^ill call you Jane. Jane, why do you ask me if I'm sure I'm happy? When a man has first class food and first class love, to- gether with a genuine French bed, really water- proof boots, a constant supply of hot water in the bathroom, enough money to buy cigarettes and sixpenny editions, the freedom to do what he likes all day and every day, and — let me see, what 88 THE GREAT ADVENTURE else — a complete absence of domestic servants, — then either that man is happy or he is a silly cuckoo. Janet. You aren't getting tired Carve. My sweet child, what's the matter with you? Janet. Nothing, nothing! Only to-day's the second anniversary of our wedding — and you've — you've said nothing about it. Carve [after a shocked pause~\. And I forgot it last year, didn't I? I shall be forgetting my dinner next. Janet. Oh no you won't ! Carve. And yet all last week I was thinking about this most important day, and telling myself I must remember it. Janet. Very easy to say that. But how can you prove it? Carve. Well, it does just happen that the proof is behind the sideboard. Janet. A present? Carve. A present. It was all ready and wait- ing five days ago. Janet [drawing a framed 'picture from hehinS the sideboard; trying to hide her disappointment hut not quite succeeding'] . Oh ! A picture ! Who is it? [Examines it with her nose close to it.] Carve. No, no! You can't take a picture like snuff! Get away from it! [He jumps up. ACT III 89 snatches the picture from her, and exposes it on a chair at the other side of the room.'\ Now! [He sits down agai/n.^ Janet. Yes, it doesn't look quite so queer like that. Those are my cooking-sleeves and that seems a bit like my kitchen — that's my best copper pan ! ... Is the young woman meant to be me? Carve. Well, not to beat about the bush, yes. Janet. I don't consider it very flattering. Carve. How many times have you told me you hate flattery? Janet [running to /^^m]. Now he's hurt! Oh, he's hurt! \_Kissing him.^ It's a beautiful pic- ture, and the frame's lovely! And she's so glad he didnt forget! Carve. It is pretty good. In fact it's devilish good. It's one of the best things I ever did in my life. Old Carve would have got eight hun- dred for that like a shot. Janet [sceptically']. Would he? It's wonder- ful how wonderful people are when they're dead. Carve. And now will she let him finish reading his paper? Janet [handing him the paper; then putting her head close to his and looking at the paper.] What was it he was reading that made him so deaf he couldn't hear his wife when she spoke to him? Carve. This. 90 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet \_reading~\. "Ham Carve's princely be- quest. The International Gallery of Art. Foun- dation stone laying. Eloquent speech by Lord Rosebery." Oh ! So they've begun it at last ! Carve. Yes, they've begun it at last. Janet. Well, if you ask me, I should have thought he could have found something better to do with his money. Carve. As for example? Janet. Well. I should have thought there were more than enough picture galleries as it is. Who wants 'em? Even when they're free, people won't go into them, unless it's a wet day. I've never been in a free picture gallery yet that wasn't as empty as a church. . . . Stands to rea- son ! It isn't even a cinematograph. When I see rows of people in Trafalgar Square waiting to get into the National Gallery then I shall begin to think it's about time we had some more galleries. If I'd been Ham Carve Carve. Well, what should you have done, witch ? Janet. I should have left a bit more to you, for one thing. Carve. I don't want more. If he'd left me eight hundred a year instead of eighty, I shouldn't be any happier. That's just what I've learnt since I took lodgings in your delightful wigwam, Jane — money and fame have no connection what- ever with happiness. ACT III 91 Janet. Money has, when you haven't got enough. Carve. But I have. You won't hear of me paying more than half the household expenses, and you say they're never more than thirty shillings a week. Half thirty — fifteen. Look at the bal- ance it leaves me. Janet. And supposing I had to ask you to pay more ? Carve [in a serious sympathetic tone, startled^. Anything wrong? Janet. Well, there's nothing wrong, as it were yet, Carve. Jane, I do believe you've been hiding something from me. Janet [with difficulty pulls a letter from her pocket^ . No Carve. I've felt it for several days. Janet. You just haven't, then! Because I only got it this morning. Here, you may as well read it. [Handing him the letter. ^^ It's about the brewery. Carve [reading']. "Mrs. Albert Shawn. Sir or Madam." There it is again. Why are share- holders never supposed to have any particular sex? " Sir or Madam. Cohoon's Brewery Lim- ited, I am directed by the shareholders' provisional committee of investigation to request your attend- ance at an informal meeting of shareholders to be held in room 2009 Winchester House on Fri- 92 THE GREAT ADVENTURE day, the 20th inst., at noon. If you cannot be present will you kindly write stating whether or not you will be prepared to support the commit- tee of investigation at the Annual Meeting. In view of the probability that the directors' report will be unfavourable, and the ordinary dividend either passed entirely or much reduced, the com- mittee wishes to be thoroughly prepared and armed. Believe me, sir or madam " Oh ! So that's it, is it? Janet. Yes. My father said to me before he died, " Keep the money in beer, Janet," he said " Beer'll never fail, in this country." And there you are! [^She goes to -fireplace, opens coal-scut- tle, takes out a piece of paper ready placed mthin, and sticks it on the handle so as to keep her hands from being soiled as she replenishes the fire.'] Carve [lightly]. Oh well! We must wait and see what happens. Janet. Supposing the dividend doesn't happen.? Carve. I never worry about money. Janet. But we shall want to eat once or twice pretty nearly every day, I suppose? Carve. Personally, I am quite satisfied with a plain, but perfect table. Janet. You needn't tell me what you are sat- isfied with. You're satisfied with the very best cut at ^/e a pound. Carve. I can place eighty pounds per annum ACT III ^ at your absolute disposal. That alone will pay for over a thousand best cuts. Janet. Yes, and what about your clothes, and my clothes, and the rates and taxes, and busfares, and holidays, and your cigarettes, and doctor, and errand boys' Christmas boxes, and gas and coal, and repairs ? — Repairs ! A hundred and eighty is more like what we want. Carve. And yet you have several times taken your Bible oath that my half share of it all came to less than forty pounds. Janet. Well — er — I was thinking of food [She begins to collect the breakfast things. ~[ Carve. Jane, you have been a deceitiful thing. But never mind. I will draw a veil over this sin- ful past. Let us assume that beer goes all to pieces and that you never get another cent out of Cohoons. Well, as you need a hundred and eighty a year I will give you a hundred and eighty a year. Janet. And where shall you get the extra hun- dred .? Carve. I shall earn it. Janet. No you don't ! I won't have you tak- ing any more situations ! Carve. I shall earn it here. Janet. How.? Carve. Painting. Janet [stopping her work and coming towards 94 THE GREAT ADVENTURE himy half caressing and half chiding^. I don't mind this painting business. Don't think I ob- ject to it in the least. There's a strong smell with it now and then, but it does keep you quiet in the attic while I'm cleaning the house, and that's something. And then going out making sketches you get exercise and fresh air. Being with Ham Carve so long, I expect you picked up the habit as it were, and I'm sure / don't want you to drop it. I love to see you enjoying yourself. But you don't suppose people'll bu7/ these things \_point- ing vaguely to picture on chcCir^, do you.^ No! There's far too many amateur artists about for that. Carve. If I wanted, I could take a cab and sell that in Bond Street inside sixty minutes, at my own price. Only I don't want. Janet. Now just listen to me. You remember that picture you did at Putney Bridge, with the saloon entrance of the Roebuck public house show- ing in the corner? It was one of the first you did here. Carve. Yes. I was looking for it the other day and I couldn't find it. Janet. I'm not surprised. Because it's sold. Carve. Sold? [^Excited.^ What in the name of * Janet [soothing him~\. Now — now! Do you remember you said Ham Carve would have got £1,000 for a thing just like that. ACT III 95 r Carve. So he would! It was absolutely char- acteristic. Janet. Well I said to myself, " He seems mighty sure of himself — supposing it's me that's wrong? " So one day I quietly took that pic- ture round to Bostock's, the second-hand furniture man — you know — he was a friend of father's — and I asked him what he'd give me for it. He wouldn't take it any price. Not at any price ! Then I asked him if he'd keep it in his shop and sell it for me on commission. Well, it stuck in Bostock's shop — in his window and out of his window — for twelve months and more, and then one day the landlord of the Roebuck saw it, and he bought it for six shillings because his public house was in it. He was half-drunk. Mr. Bos- tock charged me eighteen pence commission, and I bought you two neckties with the four and six, and I said nothing because I didn't want your feelings to be hurt. And that reminds me, last week but one they took the landlord of the Roe- buck off to the lunatic asylum. ... So you see Cane ^serious, preoccupied^. And where's the picture now.** Janet. I shouldn't be surprised if it's in the private bar of the Roebuck. Carve. I must get hold of it. Janet. Albert, you aren't vexed, are you? Carve [forcing himself to adopt a light tonel. 96 THE GREAT ADVENTURE How could I be vexed with two neckties to the good ? But don't do it again, Jane. I shall go round to the Roebuck this morning and have a drink. If that picture ever found its way to a Bond Street expert's, the consequences might be awkward — devilish awkward ! Because it's dated, you see. Janet. No, I don't see. I shouldn't have said a word about it — only I wanted to save you from being disappointed later on. Carve [in a new casual tone^. Just get me my cash-box, will you? [Janet at once produces the cash-box from a drawer.^ Janet. And what now? I'm not broke yet, you great silly. [Laughs, hut is rather intimi- dated by Carve' s air.'] Carve [having unlocked box and taken a hag from it~\. You see that? [He showers gold out of it.] Well, count it. Janet. Gracious ! Ten . . . fifteeen . . . eighteen — twenty; two — four — twenty-six pounds. These your savings? Carve. That's what I've earned with painting, just at odd times. Janet. Really? [He nods.] You could knock me down with a feather ! Carve. I'll tell you. You know the frame- makers next to Salmon & Gluchstein's. I buy my colours and canvases and things there. They cost money. I owed the chap £2 once, and one morn- ACT III 97 ing in the shop when I was opening mj box to put some new tubes in, he saw one of my pictures, all wet. He offered of his own accord to take it for what I owed him. I wouldn't let him have it. But I was rather hard up, so I said I'd do him another instead, and I did him one in a different style, and not half as good, and of course he liked it even better. Since then I've done him quite a few. It isn't that I've needed the money; but it's a margin, and tubes and frames, etc., come to a dickens of a lot in a year. Janet \^stagered~\. And what ever does he do with them? Carve. With the pictures? Don't know. I've never seen one in his window. I haven't been sell- ing him any lately. Janet. Why? Carve. Oh! I didn't feel like it. And the things were getting too good. But of course I can start again any time. Janet [still staggered]. Two pounds a piece? [Carve nods.] Would he give you two pounds for that? [Pointing to portrait.] Carve. You bet he would. Janet. Why ! Two pounds would keep us for the best part of a week. How long does it take you to do one? [Noise of motor car outside.] Carve. Oh three or four hours. I work pretty quickly. Janet. Well, it's like a fairy-tale! Two 98 THE GREAT ADVENTURE pounds ! I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my heels ! [Violent ring at front door bell] Carve. There's one of your tradesmen. Janet. It isn't. They know better than come to my front-door. They know I won't have it. [Throws off apron and exit. Carve examines the portrait of his wife with evident pleasure.] Carve [to himself]. That 'ud make 'em sit up in Bond Street! [Laughs grimly. Voices off. Re-enter Janet, followed hy Ebag carrying a pic- ture.] Janet. Well, it never rains but it pours. Here's a gentleman in a motor-car wants to know if you've got any pictures for sale. [She calmly conceals her apron.] Ebag [with diplomatic caution and much defer- ence] . Good morning. Carve [whose entire demeanour has suddenly changed; with hostility]. Good morning. Ebag. I've been buying some very delightful little things of ^^curs from a man that calls him- self a " picture-dealer and frame-maker " [iron- ically] in the High Street here. I persuaded him — not without difficulty — to give me your ad- dress. And I've ventured to call, just to see if by chance you have anything for sale. Carve. By chance I haven't. Ebag. Nothing at all? Carve, Not a square inch. ACT III 99 Ebag [catching sight of Janet's portrcut~\. Pardon me. May I look? Janet. Oh do ! Ebag. A brilliant likeness ! Janet. Who of? Ebag. Why, madam — yourself ! The atti- tude is extraordinarily expressive. And if I may say so [glancing at Carvel the placing of, the high lights — those white sleevelets — what d'you call them? Janet. Why ! Those are my cooking sleeves ! Ebag [quietlijl. Yes — well — it's genuis — mere genius. Janet [looking at picture afresh^. It is rather pretty when you come to look at it. Ebag. It is a masterpiece, madam. [To Carve.~\ Then I may not make an offer for it? Carve. No. Janet. Excuse me, Albert. Why shouldn't the gentleman make an offer for it? Ebag [quickly seizing an opportunityj. If you cared to consider, say, five hundred pounds Janet. Five hundred p Ebag. I came down quite prepared to spend — and to pay cash. [Fingers his pocketbook.^ Janet [sitting doum]. And if it isn't rude ques- tion — do you generally go about London w^ith five hundred pounds in your pocket, at it were? Ebag [raising his hands~\. In my business, madam 100 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve. It's not for sale. Janet l^vivaciously~\. Oh yes it is! Somehodp in this house must think about the future. \Ca- jolingly.'\ If this gentleman can show me five hundred pounds, it's for sale. After all it's my picture. And you can do me another one. I'd much sooner be done without the cooking sleeves. . . . [^Entr eating.'] Albert! Carve [shy, nervous, and tongue-tied]. Well Janet [endearingly]. That's right! That's all right ! Ebag [putting down notes]. If you will kindly count these Janet [taking the notes]. Nay, I'm too dizzy to count them ! [As if giving up any attempt to realise the situation.] It fairly beats me, I never did understand this art business, and I never shall. . . . [To Ehag.] Why are you so interested in my portrait? You've never seen me before. Ebag. Madam, your portrait happens to be one of the very finest modern paintings I ever saw. [To Carve.] I have a picture here as to which I should like to ask your opinion. [Exposing pic- ture.] I bought it ten years ago. Carve [after seeing picture] . Janet, would you mind leaving us a minute. Janet [triumphant with her money]. Not a bit. [Exit L.] Ehag [bowing to Janet. Then to Carve.] ACT III 101 It's signed " Ham Carve." Should you say it's a genuine Carve? Carve [more and more disturbed^. Yes. Ehag. Where was it painted? Carve. Why do you ask me? Ehag [quietly dramatk^ . iBecause you painted it. [Pause. He approaches Carve. li Mas- ter Carve. What's that? Ehag. Master! [Pause.'] Carve [impulsively~\. Look here! I never could stick being called " master." It's worse even than " maifr^." Have a cigarette? How did you find out who I was? Ehag [pointing to Janefs portrait]. Isn't that proof enough? Carve. Yes, but you knew before you saw that. Ehag [after lighting cigarette]. I did. I knew from the very first picture I bought from our friend the " picture dealer and frame-maker," in the early part of last year. Carve. But I'd completely altered my style ! I altered it on purpose. Ehag [shaking his head]. My dear sir; there was once a well-known man w^ho stood six feet ten inches high. He shaved off his beard and dyed his hair, and invented a very ingenious costume, and went to a Fancy Dress Ball as Tom Thumb. Strange to say, his disguise was penetrated im- mediately. 102 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve. Who are you? Ehag. My name is Ebag — New Bond Street. Carve. What ! You're my old dealer ! Ehag. And I'm delighted at last to make your acquaintance, sir. It wasn't until I'd bought sev- eral of those small canvases from the Putney man that I began to enquire closely into their origin. As a general rule it's a mistake for a dealer to )be too curious. But my curiosity got the better of me. And when I found that the pictures were being produced week by week, fresh, then I knew I was on the edge of some mystery. Carve [awkwardly^. The fact is — perhaps I ought to explain. Ehag. Pardon me. I ask nothing. It isn't my affair. I felt certain, solely from the evidence of what I was buying, that the great painter who was supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and whose somewhat premature funeral I attended, must be alive and painting vigorously. I wanted the assurance from your lips. I have it. The rest does not concern me — at any rate, for the moment. Carve. I'll say this — You know a picture when you see it. Ehag [proudly~\ . I am an expert, nothing else. Carve. All right! Well, I'll only ask you to persevere in your discretion. As you say, it isn't your affair. Thank goodness I didn't put a date on any of those things. I won't sell any more. ACT III 103 I'd take an oath never to paint again, only I know I should go and break it next week. I shall rely on this famous discretion of yours to say nothing — nothing whatever. Ehag. I'm afraid it's too late. Carve. How too late? Ehag. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to state publicly that you are Ham Carve and that there must have been — er — some misapprehen- sion, somewhere, over that funeral. Carve [aghast^. Publicly! Why? Ehag. It's like this : I've been selling those pic- tures to Texel, in New York. You remember, he's always been one of your principal collectors. He's getting old, and he's half-blind, but he still buys. Now I rely on my judgment, and I guaranteed those pictures to be genuine Carves. Well, some- body over there must have had suspicions. Carve. What do I care for suspicions? Ehag. Just so. . . But in one of those pictures there's most distinctly a taxi cab. It isn't a pri- vate motor car. It's a taxi. Carve. And if there is ? No law against paint- ing a taxi, I hope. Ehag [again quietly dramatic^. No. But at the date of your funeral there wasn't a single taxi on the streets of London. Carve. The devil ! Ehag. Exactly ! Texel is bringing an action against me for misrepresentation. I shall have io4j the great adventure to ask you to give evidence and say who you are. Carve \^angrilif~\. But I won't give evidence. You've brought this on yourself. How much did you sell those little pictures for? Ehag. Oh! An average of between four and five hundred. Carve. And what did you pay for them? I ask you what did you pay for them? Ehag [smoothly^. Damned — possibly. Jew fact is — I did rather well out of them. Carve. Damned Jew! Ehag [smoothly . Damned — possibly. Jew — most decidedly. But in this particular instance I behaved just like a Christian. I paid a little less than I was asked, and I sold for the highest I could get. I am perfectly innocent, and my reputation is at stake. Carve. I don't care. Ehag. But I do. It's the reputation of the greatest expert in Europe. And I shall have to insist on you going into the witness-box. Carve [horrified^. Me in a witness-box! Me cross-examined ! No ! That's always been my nightmare ! Ehag. Nevertheless Carve. Please go ! \_Commandingly.~\ Please go ! [Ehag, intimidated hy Carve' s demeanour, spicks up his pictures to depart.^ Ehag [at door~\. You wife will perhaps be good enough to post me a receipt for that trifle. ACT III 105 [Very respectfully.'] Good morning. [Exit r. Carve goes to door l. and opens it. Janet is standing behind it. Enter Janet.] Carve. You've been listening? Janet [counting her banknotes]. Well, natu- rally. [Putting notes in her purse.] Carve. Here's a perfect hades of a mess ! Janet. And it all comes of this painting! Art, as it's called ! [She finds her apron and puts it on.] Carve [with an air of discovery] . Your faculty for keeping calm really is most singular ! . .Janet. Somebody has to keep calm. [Voice off: ''Butcher!''] Oh! There's the butcher's boy. You'd like some nice cutlets for your lunch, wouldnt you? [Noise of motor car departing.] Carve. Anybody would say you didn't care a cent whether I'm Ham Carve or whether I'm some- body else. Janet. What does it matter to me who you are, so long as you're you? Men are so unpractical. You can be the Shah of Persia if you like — I don't mind. Carve. But aren't you convinced now [Voice off: " Butcher.''] Janet [with an enigmatic smile at Carve~\. Coming! Coming! [Exit.] [Curtain falls to indicate the passage of several months.] 106 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Scene II. Time. — Before daylight on a morning in Febru- ary. Fire burning in grate. Also a speck of gas. Otherwise it is dark. Carve is re- posing in an easy chair. Enter Janet with a candle. Janet [^stiffly^. So you\e not been to sleep either ? Carve [stiffiy~\. Oh yes! Had an excellent night in this chair. Janet [going to fire^ . Now you're only boast- ing. If you've had such an excellent night [^imi- tating /iim], who's kept such an excellent fire? Carve [lamely^. Well of course I looked after it now and then. I didn't want to perish in my solitude. Janet. Then why didn't you come to bed, great baby. Carve [sitting up with solemnity~\. Janet, we are a pair of great babies, to have quarrelled like that, especially at bed time ! Janet [simply^. Quarrel.? Carve. Well, didn't we? Janet. I didn't. I agreed with everything you said. Carve. What did you agree with? I should like to know. Janet. You said I didn't really believe after all ACT III 107 that you are Ham Carve, and I assured you in the most soothing manner that I did believe you are Ham Carve. Carve. And do you call that agreeing with me? I know perfectly well from your tone that in spite of all my explanations you don't believe I'm Ham Carve. You only say you do in order to sooth me. I hated being soothed. You're as convinced as ever that Ebag is a rascal and that I've got a bee in my bonnet. Janet. But what does it matter? Carve. Well, I like that ! Janet. All right then ! I don't believe you're Ham Carve. Will that satisfy you? Carve [examining her as she bends over him^. And even now I'm not sure whether you aren't try- ing to humour me again ! Janet [starting hack, with tears, wounded^. It's too bad Carve [jumping up and embracing her~\ . Hush, hush! There! [Cajolingly.^ Who's being an infant now? Janet. I don't pretend to understand this art — I would if I could Carve. I hope you never will. One of the chief charms of existence in your wigwam, my child, is that I never hear any confounded chatter about art. Now — are we pals ? Janet [smiling reconciliation^. Darling, do turn the gas up. 108 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve [^obeying; struck by her attire^. Why — what are you dressed like that for? Janet. I was thinking of going away. [^Exit L. She re-enters again immediately with kettle and puts it on flre.~\ Carve. Going away? Janet. I shan't trouble to light the kitchen range. You'd like a cup, wouldn't you? Carve. But where are you going? Janet. Well, where shall we go? Carve. Oh! Then I'm included? Janet [coldly~\ . Oh ! Just as you like. Carve [upset by her tone^. Jane! And you had the dashed impudence to say just now that you hadn't quarrelled ! Janet [smiling~\. Now do listen, darling. Let's go away. We can't stop here. This Ebag case is getting more and more on your nerves, and on mine too. I'm sure that's what's the mat- ter with us. What it'll be next week when the trial comes on I don't know, upon my soul I don't. It's all very well for you to refuse to see callers, and never go out. But I can tell you one thing — we shall have those newspaper people on the roof in a day or two, and looking down the chim- ney to see how I lay the fire. Lawyers are noth- ing to them. Do you know — no you don't, be- cause I didn't want you to be upset — last night's milk was brought by a journalist — with a camera. ACT III 109 They're beginning to bribe the tradesmen. I tremble to think what will be in this morning's papers. Carve [trying to make light of if]. Oh! Nothing will upset me now. But you might let me know at once if the editor of the " Spectator " calls round with the bread. Janet. And I'll tell you another thing. That Mr. Horning — you know, the breathless man on the " Evening Courier " that came to the Grand Babylon — he's taken lodgings opposite — ar- rived last night. Carve. Oh for a machine gun — one simple lit- tle machine gun! [Exit Janet l. and immediate return with tray containing bread, etc., and a toasting fork.^ Janet. So I thought if we just — van- ished Carve. But I object to vanishing. Why should we be driven off by a pack of lawyers and journalists? We've done nothing wrong. Janet. The question is, have we done anything right ? Carve. Perhaps I ought to have killed a jour- nalist or two at the start. No doubt it was mis- taken kindness on my part not to do so. But that's no reason why I should be hounded out of this excellent wigwam. And I'm hanged if I will be! 110 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet. Now please, Albert, don't try to be funny like that. It's a sign you're getting des- perate. Will you come or won't you? Carve. Besides it's too late, I've had the sub- poena. If I hooked it, everybody would say I was an adventurer. Janet. We could come back for the trial. Carve. We should be followed. Janet. Not if we start now. Carve. Now ? Janet. Yes, now. The back way. Before it gets light. Carve. Creep away in the dark ! No. I'll go through with the thing! Janet. Well, here's my bunch of keys. I'll just explain to you where everything is. I dare say Mrs. Simpson will come in and clean up. She's not bad, as charwomen go. Carve. Jane ! Janet. Well? Carve. You're taking an unfair advantage of me. Janet [putting tea leaves in teapot^. What if I am? Carve. You're only a woman after all ! And I'd thought so highly of you ! Janet [sweetly^. Then you'll come? Better brush yourself up first. Carve. What time is it? Janet [looking at clock^. Seven o'clock. ACT III 111 Carve. Where do you mean to drag me to? Janet. Well what about this continent of yours that I've heard so much of? Carve. There's a train at Victoria at 8:30. Janet. Very well then, we'll have another breakfast at Victoria. Carve. And the cab? Janet. There isn't going to be any cab, nor luggage — rousing the whole street ! [Carve goes to window.^ For goodness' sake don't draw those curtains — with the gas flaring up ! Carve. Why not? Janet [conspiratorial^. Supposing there's some journalists on the w^atch outside ! Carve. I wanted to look at the weather. Janet. Well, go to the front door — and mind you open it quietly ! [Exit Carve r. Janet pours water on tea. Exit l. Re-enter Carve r. quicM^j.^^ Carve. I say, here's a curate pushed himself in at the front door. [Re-enter Janet, l.] Janet. No, he's come in at the back. Carve. But I tell you he's here! [Enter James Shawn, l. Then enter John Shawn, r. Pause.~\ James Shawn. Now let me entreat everybody to remain perfectly calm. Janet. Oh ! Don't worry about that. Noth- ing start\es us now. A few curates more or less Carve [sinking into a chair^. I suppose this 112 THE GREAT ADVENTURE is the very newest journalism. Would you mind me asking a question? James Shawn. What is it? [^Janet makes the tea.^ Carve. Why did you wait till the door was opened? Seems a pity to stand on Iceremony. Why not have broken a window or so and climbed right in? James Shawn. John, is mother there? John Shawn \^at door, r.]. Mother, how often shall I have to ask you to keep close to me? \_Enter Mrs. Shawn, r.] Mrs. Shawn. I'm all of a tremble. John Shawn [firmly^. Come now, you mustn't give way. This is he. [Pointing to Carve.'] Do you recognise him as our father? [Janet, who is cutting a slice of bread, stops and looks from one to the other. ~\ Mrs. Shawn [to Carve]. Albert, don't you know me? To think that next Tuesday it'll be twenty-six years since you walked out o' the house casual like and — and [Stops from emo- tion. ] Carve. Go on ! Go on ! . . . To think that I was once shy ! Janet [to Mrs. Shawn']. Here, you'd better come and sit a bit nearer the fire. [Very kindly.] Come along now ! Mrs. Shawn [obeying]. Thank you, m'm. Janet [to John]. And which of you boys was ACT III 113 it that had the idea of keeping a middle-aged woman perishing on a doorstep before daylight in February. John Shawn. How else could we James Shawn [interrupting hiTu], Excuse me, John. John Shawn [subsiding^. I beg your pardon, James. James Shawn [to Janet]. All questions should be addressed to me. My brother John is here solely to take charge of our mother. We have done our best, by careful forethought, to ensure that this painful interview shall be as brief and as dignified as possible. Janet. And you couldn't think of anything cleverer than to give your poor mother her death of cold, for a start ! James Shawn. How else could we have ar- ranged it? I myself rang at your door for a quar- ter of an hour yesterday afternoon. Janet. We never heard you. James Shawm, Strange! Janet. No it isn't. We took the bell off three days ago. James Shawn. I was told that it was impos- sible to effect an entrance in the ordinary way. Hence we had to use craft. I argued that food must come into the house and that it probably came in early. Janet. Well, it's a good thing for you I hap- 114 THE GREAT ADVENTURE pened to hear the cat mewing, or you might have had another couple of hours in my back yard. You're the eldest, I suppose. James Shawn, We are twins. Janet. Really ! Carve. As you say — really ! James Shawn. I am the elder, but the differ- ence between us is not considerable. John Shawn. Now, mother, please don't cry ! Janet [having poured out a cup of tea, holds it before Mrs. Shawn^. Sugar? [Mrs. Shawn sig- nifies an affirmative. Janet drops sugar into cup, which Mrs. Shawn takes.'] You'll drink it easier if you lift your veil. James Shawn. Now, mother, you are sure you recognise this gentleman? Mrs. Shawn [not very positively]. Yes . yes. It's a rare long while. James Shawn. He is your husband and our father ? Mrs. Shawn [more positively]. Yes. And sorry I am to say it! [Janet eyes her carefully,] James Shawn. I think that suffices. [To Ja- net.] Madam, you are in a most unfortunate posi- tion. You supposed yourself to be a married woman, whereas you are nothing of the kind. I needn't say that as the victim of a heartless big- amist you have our deepest Janet [handing him a slice of bread on toasting fork]. Just toast this for your mother, will you, ACT III 115 and mind the bars. I'll get another cup or two [goes to sideboard and gets crockery'\ . Carve. And so these are my two sons ! They show little emotion in beholding the author of their being for the first time. As for me, I hardly recog- nise them. Mrs. Shawn. And is it likely, seeing they were born six months after you deserted me, Albert? Carve. I see. If it isn't indiscreet, am I a grandfather? James Shawn [toasting~\. No, sir. Carve. I only wanted to know the worst. Silly joke about the fertility of curates — you've met with it, no doubt! James Shawn. Your tone is simply lamentable, sir. Janet [to James]. Mind! You can do the other side. Now. Take care. The fire's very hot. [In the same mild tone to Mrs. Shawn. Twenty-six years, you say? Mrs.. Shawn. Yes. Albert was twenty-two then, weren't you, Albert? Carve. Oh, undoubtedly! Janet. And how did you come to find us out at last? Mrs. Shawn. It was through an advertisement put in the paper by that Mr. Texel — him that's in this law case — offering a reward for informa- tion about a Mr. Albert Shawn, who'd been valet to that artist man that died 116 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet. Oh ! So Mr. Texel has been advertis- ing, has he? [^Gives a cup of tea to John Slia'wn.~\ Mrs. Shawn. Yes, for anybody that knew Al- bert Shawn when he was young. " Albert Shawn," I says, " that's my husband's name ! " I'd been told he'd gone off in service with a painter or something of that kind. I married him as a valet. Janet [pouring out tea']. A valet.? Mrs. Shawn. A valet, ma'am! . . . And the struggle I've had to bring up my children [whimpering] ! James Shawn. Now, mother Janet [stopping James]. That will do now! Give it me [taking toast and fork] ! Here's some tea. Now don't pretend you've never seen a cup of tea before, you a curate! [James accepts tea.] Mrs. Shawn. Yes, they would go into the Church, both of them. I don't know how we've managed it, but managed it we have, surplices and all. And very happy we were, I'm sure. And now there's this dreadful scandal. Oh! Albert! you might at least have changed your name ! I — I [Partially breaks down.] John Shawn. Mother, I beg [Mrs. Shawn breaks down entirely]. Mother, I absolutely in- sist. You know you promised not to speak at all except in answer to questions. James Shawn. 1 think, mother, you really might try ACT ni 117 John Shawn. Leave her to me. Now mother! [Loud double knock off.] Janet [to John Shawn~\. There's the post! Just go and bring me the letters in, will you? [John hesitates.] You'll find them scattered about the floor in the hall. Don't miss any. [Exit John Shawn, r. Mrs. Shawn recovers. James Shawn. And what do you propose to do, madam ? Janet [who has been soothing Mrs. Shawn]. Me? What about? James Shawn. About this — this bigamy. Janet. Oh! Nothing. What are you think- ing of doing? [Re-enter John Shawn with post, which Carte takes and begins to read.] James Shawn. Well, I suppose you're aware that bigamy is a criminal offence. Janet. There's a police-station in the Upper Richmond Road. Better call there. It'll be so nice for you two, when you're flourishing about in the pulpit, to think of your father in prison — won't it, now? James Shawn. We, of course, should not prose- cute. If you are prepared to go on living with this gentleman as though nothing had happened. Janet. Oh, / don't mind ! James Shawn. Well, I doubt if we should in- terfere. But Mr. Texel's lawyers are already in communication with the police. Janet [stifflT/], I see, [An awJcward pause. 118 THE GREAT ADVENTURE during which everybody except Carve, who is read- ing his post, looks at everybody else.~\ Well then, I think that's about all, isn't it? [A shorter pause. ^ Good morning. \^Bows to the curates. Shakes hands with Mrs. Shawn. To Mrs. Shawn. 1 Now do take care of yourself. Mrs. Shawn [weakly ~\ . Thank you ! John Shawn. Good morning. Mother, take my arm, please. James Shawn. Good morning. Janet. Albert, they're going. Carve [looking up absently, and only half-rising, perfunctorily and quickly^ . Good morning ! Good morning! [Sits down again.~\ Janet [to James Shawn, who is hovering near door L, uncertain of his way out^. This way, this time. [Exeunt the Shawns, followed by Janet. Carve rises and draws curtains of window apart. Re-enter Janet.'\ Janet [cheerfully^. Oh! It's quite light. [Turns out gas.'\ Carve [gazing at her~\. Incomparable woman! Janet. So it is true, after all ! Carve. What .? Janet. All that rigmarole that you told me when you were down with influenza at the hotel — about pretending to be your own valet, and so on and so on and so on. Carve, So you're beginning to come round at last? ACT III 119 1 Janet. Well, I think they were quite honest people — those three. There's no doubt the poor creature once had a husband who did run off. And it seems fairly clear his name was Albert Shawn, and he went away as valet to an artist. But then, on the other hand, if there is one thing certain in this world it is that you were never married before you married me. That I will swear to. Carve. And yet she identified me. She was positive. Janet. Positive? That's just what she wasn't ! And didn't you notice the queer way she looked at you as they went out.? As much as to say, " I wonder now whether it is him — after all ! " Carve. Then you really think she could be mis- taken on such a point? Janet. After twenty-six years ! Besides, all men of forty-seven look more or less alike. And so I'm the wife of Ham Carve, that's sup- posed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and roy- alty went to his funeral ! We'll have some tea ourselves. I say, why did you do it? [Pours out tea.] Carve [casually]. I don't know. It was to save worry to begin with, and then it went on by itself, and somehow I couldn't stop it. , . . I don't know ! . , . Janet [endearingly]. Well, I've always told you frankly you've got a bee in your bonnet [drink- 120 THE GREAT ADVENTURE ing tea, and turning over the postl. More letters from these newspaper people. What's this lovely crest on this envelope? Carve. It's from Lord Leonard Alcar. He says if we'll go up and see him to-morrow after- noon he'll be very much obliged indeed, and he may be able to be of assistance to us. Janet [deeply impressed^. Lord Leonard Al Where's the letter? [Searches for it hurriedly. As she reads it.^ Well, I never! [Reading.] " And Mrs. Shawn." I've got noth- ing to go in. Carve. Oh! I shan't go. Janet. Why not? Carve. Well, what about this trip to the con- tinent ? Janet. Continent fiddlesticks ! It's too late now. Do you want the police running after you? No! For the present the only thing we can do it to sit tight here in London, and wait and see if the police do come. Besides, I've never been asked to go and see a lord before. Carve. Now listen, Jane ! What earthly good can it do? I shan't go. Janet. 1 shall. So there! Six dukes in the family ! I wouldn't miss it for anything. [Curtain.] NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS IN ACT IV Lord Leonard Alcar. Aged 65. A nobleman of diplomatic and political experience. His most marked characteristic is invincible urbanity. He is innocently proud of his voice and his powers of persuasion. Texel. Aged 60. American. Excessively myopicj but obstinately jolly. A large, hearty man. ACT IV I Scene. — Lord Leonard Alcar's study. Grosvenor Gardens, Door back centre. Door i., Ja- nefs portrait is conspicuous on a wall. Scene I. Time. — The next afternoon. Lord Leonard Al- car and Mr. Texel are coming into the room from door at back. Lord Alcar [directing TexeVs hand to chair'\. Permit me, Mr. Texel. Texel. Thanks, I'm on to it [sitting down^. My eyesight's going steadily worse, but there are still a few things that I can out make pretty clearly. Lord Leonard. Motor-omnibuses, cathe- drals, English easy-chairs. Lord Alcar. Well, I'm charmed to find you in such good spirits, and really I feel very grateful to you for accepting my invitation. Texel. Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir. Two old collectors, like us — rivals at Chris- tie's ! I wonder how many times I've cabled over instructions to my agent to smash you at any cost ! Delighted to meet you. Lord Leonard. Lord Alcar \bows^. You still go on collect- ing? ACT IV 123 Texel. Well, yes. I've been amusing myself with pictures for pretty nigh forty years. Why should I deprive myself of this pleasure merely be- cause my eyesight's gone? Lord Alcar. Why, indeed ! You have the true collecting spirit. We ought to have met earlier, Mr. Texel. Now I've got you here, I must tell you I've ventured to invite one or two — er — kindred spirits to meet you. [Enter servant. ~\ Servant. Mr. Ebag. [Enter Ebag. Exit servant. '\ Lord Alcar. How d'you do, Ebag.? Ebag. My lord. Loi'd Alcar. Let me introduce you to Mr. Texel. Mr. Texel, this is Mr. Ebag. Texel [surprised; aside to Lord Leonard Alcar'\. This one of your kindred spirits ? Ebag [surprised]. Mr. Texel! Texel [also surprised, but holding out his hand towards Ebag, who takes it~\. Well, Mr. Ebag, I've made a special journey to Europe to get a verdict from an English court that you've done me up for about thirty thousand dollars, and if I get it I'll do my level best afterwards to see you safe into prison ; but in the meantime I'm very glad to meet you. I feel sure you're one of the right sort, whatever you are. Ebag. You flatter me, Mr. Texel. The glad- ness is mutual. [Enter servant.] Servant. Mr. Cyrus Carve. Mr. and Mrs. X. 124< THE GREAT ADVENTURE l^Enter Janet. She hesitates in doorway. . . Lord Leonard Alcar goes to meet her.^ Janet. You, Lord Alcar? Lord Alcar. I am Lord Leonard Alcar. Janet. My mistake. [They shake hands. ~\ But why does this young man call me Mrs. X. ? I told him Carve plain enough. Lord Alcar. Did he? A slip, a slip! You've brought your husband? Janet. Yes, but not so easily as all that. I'm afraid he's quarrelling out there with Mr. Cyrus Carve. They got across one another on the stairs. Lord Alcar. Tut-tut. Excuse me one moment. \_Exit hurriedly. Exit servant.^ Janet. Mr. Ebag! So you're here, too! Why, it's a family party. Ebag [astounded}. How do you do, Mrs. Shawn? — I beg pardon, Mrs. Carve. Janet. It seems I'm Mrs. X. now — didn't j^^ou hear ? Ebag. I expect the servant had received in- structions. His lordship has a great reputation for wit, you know. Janet \_drily~\. Has he? \_In another tone.~\ He's very nice, though. Ebag. Very. Janet, I suppose you've often met him? Ebag. Not here. ACT IV 125 Janet. And what's this room supposed to be [looking round^ ? Ebag. Oh ! The study, probably. Janet. Really! Not what you'd call " homely," is it? Rather like being on the stage. [Enter Lord Leonard Alcar leading Carve on his right and Cyrus on his left. Servant closes door ■from without.^ Lord Alcar. Now, we're all safely here, and I fancy there will be enough easy-chairs to go round. Mr. Texel, you already know Mr. Cyrus Carve, and you will be pleased to meet the talented artist who painted the pictures which you have been buy- ing from Mr. Ebag. He has most kindly con- sented to be called Mr. X, for the moment. This is Mrs. X. — Mr. Texel. [They how. Cyrus shakes hands with Texel.'\ Ebag [to Cyrus~\. How d'you do? Cyrus. How d'you do? Carve. How d'you do? Lord Alcar [observing that these three are al- ready acquainted']. Good! Excellent! Now Mrs. — er — X., will you have this chair near the fire? [Fixes chair for her.] Texel [indicating Janet aside to Ebag] . Good looking? Ebag [aside to Texel], Very agreeable little thing ! Texel. Excellent ! Excellent I Lord Alcar [interrupting a gesture from Carve]. 126 THE GREAT ADVENTURE You have all done me a signal favour by coming here. In thanking you, I wonder if I may ask an- other favour. May I.^^ Texel. Certainly ! Among kindred spirits ! Ehag. Assuredly, my lord. Lord Alcar. I would merely request you to control so far as possible any expression of your astonishment at meeting one another here. That is to say, any violent expression. Carve gaily and carelessly^ . Oh, very well ! Very well! [Lord Leonard Alcar waves the rest of the company into chairs, tactfully separating Cyrus and Carve as much as possible; he remains standing himself.^ Janet. I suppose what you really want is to stop this funny trial from coming on. Lord Alcar [slightly taken aback~\. Mrs. X, I congratulate myself on your presence here. Yes, my ambition is to be peacemaker. Of course, a peacemaker always runs the risk of a broken head, but I shall entrust my head to your good nature. As a proof that I really mean business, I need only point out that I haven't invited a single law- yer. Ehag [after slight pause^. This is exceed- ingly good of your lordship Texel. For myself, I'm rather looking forward to next week. I've spared no expense to get up a first-class show. Half the papers in New York and Chicago are sending over special correspond- ACT IV 127 dents. I've even secured your champion humorous judge, and altogether I reckon this trial will be about the greatest judicial proposition the British public's seen in years. Still, I'm always ready to oblige. And I'll shake hands right now, on terms — my terms. Lord Alcar. We are making progress. Texel. But what I don't understand is — where you come in, Lord Leonard. Lord Alcar. Where I come in? Texel. Well, I don't want to be personal, but is this Hague Conference merely your hobby, or are you standing in with somebody? Lord Alcar. I quite appreciate your delicacy. Let m€ assure you that, though it gives me the greatest pleasure to see you all, I have not se- lected you as the victim of a hobby. Nor have I anything whatever to gain by stopping the trial. The reverse. At the trial I should probably have a seat on the bench, next to a delightful actress, and I should enjoy the case very much indeed. I have no doubt that even now the learned judge is strenuously preparing his inimitable flashes of hu- mour, and that, like the rest of the world, I should allow myself to be convulsed by them. I like to think of four K.C.'s toiling hard for a miserable hundred guineas a day each. I like to think of the solicitors, good, honest fellows, striving their ^est to keep the costs as low as possible. I even like to think of the jury, with their powerful intel- 128 THE GREAT ADVENTURE lects, who, when we are dead and gone, Mr. Texel, will tell their grandchildren proudly how they de- cided the famous case of Texel v. Ebag. Above all, I like to think of the witnesses, revelling in their cross-examination. Nobody will be more sorry than I to miss this grand spectacle of the greatest possible number of the greatest possible brains employed for the greatest possible length of time in settling a question that a barber's as- sistant could settle in five minutes. I am human. But I have been approached — I have been flat- tered by the suggestion that I might persuade you two gentlemen to abandon the trial, and I may whis- per to you that the abandonment of the trial would afford satisfaction in — er — influential quarters. Texel. Are we up against the British govern- ment ? Lord Alcar. I say merely — very influential quarters. But you are " up against " nothing and nobody. My role is simply to suggest — as persuasively as I can. Texel, I suppose they came to you as the prize picture collector of this nation. Lord Alcar. Well, partly, no doubt. Ebag. His lordship has held office. If I'm right, your lordship was Master of the Horse. Janet. Really, now! Which horse was that? Lord Alcar [^sJiaking his head~\. I never knew exactly. I remember that on my first and last visit to the royal §t^bles Her Majesty's Coach- ACT IV 129 man told me that I was evidently " more of an in- doors man." However, he said he was quite used to them, and I needn't worry. So I didn't. Texel. But surely. Lord Leonard, that wasn't with the gang that's just now in charge of this island. Lord Alcor. It's all one gang, you know. Two names. One gang. Texel. Same as Washington, then ! Lord Alcar. Oh, exactly! Texel. Then you're talking to us on behalf of the British government. Well, go ahead ! Lord Alcar [protesting with a very courteous lair of extreme astonishment^. My dear Mr. Texel, how can I have been so clumsy as to convey such an idea ? On behalf of the government ? Not in the least — not in the least! On behalf of no- body whatever ! [Confidentially.'] I am merely in a position to inform you positively that an amicable settlement of the case would be viewed with satis- faction in influential quarters. Janet. Well, I can tell you it would be viewed with satisfaction in a certain street in Putney ; but influential quarters — what's it go to do witb them? Lord Alcar. I shall be quite frank with you. The dignity of Westminster Abbey is involved in this case, and nothing in all England is more sa- cred to us than Westminster Abbey. One has only to pronounce the words — " the Abbey " — 130 THE GREAT ADVENTURE to realise that. We know what a modern trial is ; we know what the modern press is ; and, un- happily, we know what the modern bench is. It is impossible to contemplate with equanim- ity the prospect of Westminster Abbey and its solemnities being given up to the tender mercy of the evening papers and a joking judge surrounded by millinery. Such an exhibition would be un- seemly. It would soil our national existence. In a word, it would have a bad effect. Carve [meditatively, blandl. How English! \_He gets up and walks unobtrusively about the room, examining the pictures. ~\ Lord Alcar. Undoubtedly. But this is Eng- land. It is perhaps a disadvantage that we are not in Russia, nor in Prussia. But we must make the best of our miserable country. [In a new tone, showing the orator skilled in changes of voice.~\ Can't we discuss our little affair in a friendly wa}'-, entirely without prejudice? We are together here, among gentlemen Janet. I'm afraid you're forgetting me. Lord Alcar [recovering himself^. Madam, I am convinced that none of us can be more gentle- manly than yourself. . . . Can we not find a way of settlement [with luxurious enjoyment of the idea~\ ? Imagine the fury of all those lawyers and journalists when they learn that we — er — if I may so express it — have done them in the eye ! Texel. If I wasn't going to come out on top, ACT IV ISl I could understand you worrying about your old Abbey. But I'm taking the part of your Abbey. When I win it wins, and I'm certain to win. Lord Alcar. I do not doubt Ebag l^with suave assurance~\ . But I do. Lord Alcar [^contmidng'\. I do not doubt your conviction, Mr. Texel. It merely proves that you have never seen a British jury exercising itself upon a question relating to the fine arts. If you had, you would not be certain, for you would know that twelve tradesmen so occupied are capable of accomplishing the most incredible marvels. Sup- posing you don't win Supposing Mr. Ebag wins Ebag. As I assuredly shall Lord Alcar. Then we should have the whole world saying : " Well, they haven't got a national funeral to a really great artist for about a cen- tury, and when at last they do try they only suc- ceed in burying a valet." Carve [looking round casually^. England all over Lord Alcar. The effect would be lamentable — utterly lamentable. You will realise that in influ- ential quarters Texel. But do you reckon this policy of hush- ing things up ever does any good? Lord Alcar. My dear sir, it is the corner- stone of England's greatness. It is the policy that has made her what she is. 1S2 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Carve [looking round agam]. True! What she is! Lord Alcar [turning sharply to Carve, behind hinf\. Mr. X, your interest in my pictures flat- ters me immensely Carve [interrupting hiin] . I see you've bought my latest portrait of my wife. Lord Alcar. Yes. Janet [starting up^. Whafs that.? [She goes to inspect picture.^ Carve, I suppose it would be abusing your hos- pitality to enquire how much you paid our excellent dealer for it? Lord Alcar. Not in the least. But the fact is, we haven't yet settled the price. The exact price is to depend on the result of our gathering. Janet. Well, if anj^body had told me I should find my own portrait — cooking sleeves and all [Inarticulate, she returns to her chair. ^ Lord Alcar. And now that we have got so far, Mr. X, I should like to centralise the attention of this quite friendly gathering on yourself. Carve [approaching airily']. Really! [He sits.~\ Lord Alcar. There are several questions we .might discuss. For example, we might argue the artistic value of the pictures admittedly the work of Mr. X. That would probably occupy us for about ten years. Or, we might ask ourselves how it happened that that exceedingly astute dealer, ACT IV 133 Mr. Ebag, came to sell as a genuine Ham Carve, without offering any explanation, a picture which on the face of it was painted some time after that great painter had received a national funeral in Westminster Abbey. Ebag. Sheer carelessness, my lord. Lord Alcar. Or we might ask ourselves why a valet should try to pass himself off as a world-re- nowned artist. Or, on the other hand, why a world-renowned artist should pass himself off as a valet. Carve. Sheer carelessness, my lord. Culpable negligence ! Lord Alcar. But these details of psychology are beside the main point. And the main point is [to Carvel : Are you Ham Carve or are you Al- bert Shawn? [To the others.~\ Surely, with a lit- tle good-will, and unembarrassed by the assistance of experts, lawyers, and wigs generally, we can settle that ! And once it is settled, the need for a trial ceases. [Carve assumes an elaborately un- interested air.l The main point does not seem to interest you, Mr. X. Carve [seeming to start^. I beg your pardon. No, not profoundly ! Why should it ? Lord Alcar. Yet you claim Carve. Excuse me. I claim nothing, except to be let alone. Certainly I do not ask to be ac- cepted as Ram Carve. I was leading a placid and agreeable existence, in a place called Putney, an 184 THE GREAT ADVENTURE ideal existence with a pearl among women, when my tranquillity was disturbed and my life trans- formed into a perfect nightmare by a quarrel be- tween a retail tradesman [^indicating Ebag'] and a wholesale ink dealer [indicating Teccel^ about one of my pictures. It does not concern me. My role is and will be passive. If I am forced into the witness box, I shall answer questions to the worst of my ability, and I shall do no more. I am not cross ; I am not sulking ; but I consider that I have a grievance. If I am here, it is solely be- cause my wife does what she likes with me. Texel. Bravo ! This is as good as the trial. Lord Alcar [good-humour edly~\. Will you an- swer questions here? Carve [good-humour edly~\. It depends. Lord Alcar. Do you assert that you are Ham. Carve ? Carve. I assert nothing. Lord Alcar. Are you Ham Carve? Carve. Yes — but I don't want to be. Lord Alcar. Might I enquire why you allowed your servant to be buried in your name? Carve. Well, he always did everything for me — a most useful man ! . . . But I didn't "allow " him to be buried in my name. On the contrary, I told various people that I was not dead — but, strange to say, nobody would believe me. My handsome, fascinating cousin here wouldn't even let me begin to tell him. Even my wife wouldn't ACT IV 135 believe me. So I gave it up. [Texel does not con- ceal his enjoyment of the scene. '\ Cyrus [grimly'\. Which wife? [^Carve twid- dles his thumbs.^ Lord Alcar. But do you mean Texel. May I interrupt, Lord Leonard? I could listen for hours to this absolutely stupendous gentleman. A circus is nothing to it. But aren't we jumping the track? I've got two witnesses. Mr. Cyrus Carve will swear that your Mr. X is not his cousin. And the original Mrs. Albert Shawn will swear that he is her husband. That's my case. How is my esteemed opponent going to answer it? Ehag. In the first place, have you cross-exam- ined this very original Mrs. Albert Shawn? Texel. Come ! You don't mean to argue that a woman could mistake another man for her own husband — even after twenty years or so? Ehag. According to the divorce reports they're constantly doing it — after one year, to say noth- ing of twenty. Texel [appreciative^. Good! That's good! Well I may tell you right here that I had an in- terview with this gentleman's [indicating Carve^ ecclesiastical tw^ins only yesterday afternoon, and they assure me that their mother is positive on the point. Janet [meditatively^. Simpletons! Lord Alcar. I beg pardon. 136 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Janet. I dare say they preach very nicely, but out of the pulpit they don't what I should call shine, poor boys ! Anybody could see she wasn't posi- tive. Why, it wasn't until the old lady dropped in to have a cup of tea with us that I felt sure my husband's name really was Carve. Lord Alcar. Then you hadn't credited his story before? Janet, Well, it wanted some crediting, didn't it.? Cyrus {with intention^. You only began to credit it after Mr. Ebag had called and paid you the sum of £500 in cash. Janet [after a slight pause, calmly^. Oh! So you know about that, do you? Carve [to Cyrus, genially^. Cousin, if you continue in that strain, I shall have to take you out on to the doormat and assault you. Ebag. I should like to say Cyrus [interrupting, grimly^. Lord Leonard, isn't it time that this ceased? Texel [heartily amused^. But why? I'm en- joying every minute of it. Lord Alcar. I should be sorry to interfere with Mr. Texel's amusement, but I think the mo- ment has now come for me to make a disclosure. When I was approached as to this affair I con- sulted Mr. Cyrus Carve first, he being the sole surviving relative of his cousin. That seemed to me to be the natural and proper course to adopt. ACT IV 1$7 ]\Ir. Cyrus Carve gave me a very important piece of information, and it is solely on the strength of that information that I have invited you all to come here this afternoon. \_He looks at Cyrus.^ Cyrus [clearing his throat; to Ebag and Carvel. Of course you'll argue that after thirty- five years' absence it's a wise man that can recog- nise his own cousin. I'm absolutely convinced in my own mind that you [scornfully, to Carve^ are not my cousin. But then you'll tell me that men have been hung before now on the strength) of sworn identification that proved afterwards to be mistaken. I admit it. I admit that in theory I may be wrong. [With increased grim sarcasm.^ I admit that in theory the original Mrs. Shawn may be wrong. Everything is possible, especially with a bully of a K. C. cross-examining you and a judge turning you into copy for " Punch." But I've got something up my sleeve that will set- tle the whole affair instantly, to the absolute sat- isfaction of both plaintiff and defendant. Carve. My dear fellow, why not have told us this exciting news earlier? Cyrus. Why not [glowering at Carve'\ ? Because I wanted you to commit yourself com- pletely, beyond any w^ithdrawing. I decided what sort of a man you were the moment I first set eyes on you, and when I heard of this law case I said to myself that I'd come forward as a witness but I wouldn't give my evidence away in advance. 1S8 THE GREAT ADVENTURE I said to myself I'd show you up once for all in full court. However, his lordship prevailed on me. Carve. Well? Cyrus. When my cousin and I were boys I've seen him with his shirt off. Carve. True. And he's seen you with yours off. Cyrus. Now just here [pointing to left front of neck, below collar^ just below his collar, my cousin Ham Carve had two moles close together — one was hairy, and the other wasn't. My cousin was very proud of them. Carve. Oh ! Cyrus [ferociously sarcasticl. I suppose you'll say you've had them removed? Carve [casuallyl. No. Not precisely. Cyrus. Can you show them? Carve [very casually^. Of course! Teooel [slapping his knee}. Great! Great! Cyrus [staggered but obstinately. Well, let's have a look at them. Lord Alcar [to Janef]. Then doubtless you are familiar with this double phenomenon, Mrs. X? Janet. Yes. But he isn't so proud of his moles now as he used to be when he was a boy. Lord Alcar. Now, gentlemen, you see how beautifully clear the situation is. By one simple act, we shall arrive at a definite and final result, and we shall have avoided all the noise and scan- ACT IV 139 dal of a public trial. Mr. X, will you oblige us very much by taking your collar off? Janet \_jumping up]. Please! There is just one little thing [^o Carve]. Wait a moment, dear. [To Ebag.~\ Mr. Ebag, how many of those pictures did you sell to Mr. Texel? Ebag. Fifteen. Janet. And you made a profit of over four hundred pounds on each. Tearl [boisterously]. [Laughing to Ebag.] You did.? Janet. Fifteen times four hundred, that makes — how much does it make ? Texel. Six thousand, madam. Thirty thou- sand dollars. Great ! Janet [to Ebag]. Don't you think we deserve some of that, as it were? Ebag. Madam, I shall be delighted to pay you £5,400. That will be equivalent to charging you a nominal commission of ten per cent. Janet. Thank you. Carve. I won't touch a penny of their wretched money. Janet [sweetly]. I wouldn't dream of asking you to, dearest. I shall touch it. Goodness knows what street we shall be in after this affair — and with my Brewery shares gone simply all to pieces ! Now, dearest, you can take it off. [She resumes her seat.] Carve [lightly] . I'm hanged if I do ! 140 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Lord Alcar, But, my dear Mr. X. Carve [lightly~\. I'm dashed if I take my col- lar off! Cyrus \_triumphant^. Ha! I knew it! Carve. Why should I offer my skin to the in- spection of two individuals in whom I haven't the slightest interest? They've quarrelled about me, but is that a reason why I should undress myself? Let me say again — I've no desire whatever to prove that I am Ham Carve. Lord Alcar. But surely to oblige us immensely, Mr. X, you will consent to give just one extra performance of an operation which in fact you accomplish 365 times every year without any dis- astrous results ! Carve. I don't look at it like that. Already my fellow-citizens, expressing their conviction that I was a great artist, have buried me in West- minster Abbey, not because I was a great artist, but because I left a couple of hundred thousand pounds for a public object. And now my fellow- citizens, here assembled, want me to convince them that I am a great artist by taking my collar off. I won't do it. I simply will not do it. It's too English. If any person wishes to be convinced that I'm an artist and not a mountebank, let himi look at my work [pointing vaguely to picture^ because that's all the proof that / mean to offer. If he is blind or short-sighted, I regret it, but my neck isn't going to help him. ACT IV 141 Texel. Brilliant! Then we shall have the trial, after all ! . . Cyrus. Yes, but your " brilliant " friend will be on his way to South America before then. Janet [sweetly to Cyrus^. I assure you it's quite true about those moles. That's why he wears high collars. Cyrus [grimly]. No doubt! . . . [Re- peating.] Nevertheless he'll be on his way to South America. Carve [gaily]. Or Timbuctoo. Cyrus [significantly]. Unless you're stopped. Carve. And who's going to stop me? All the laws of this country added together can't make me take my collar off if I don't want to. Cyrus. What about arresting you for bigamy? What about Holloway? I fancy at Holloway they have a short method with people who won't take their collars off. Carve, Well, that will only be another proof that the name of this island is England. It will be telegraphed to the continent that in order to prove to herself that she possessed a great artist, England had to arrest him for bigamy and shove him into prison. . . . Characteristic ! Char- acteristic ! Lord Alcar [who has moved across to Janet]. Mrs. X, can you Janet [rising to Carve winningly]. Now — Ham. You're only laying up trouble for yourself, 142 THE GREAT ADVENTURE and for me too! Do please think of the trial. You know how shy you are, and how you tremble at the mere thought of a witness-box. Cyrus. I can believe it. Carve [smiling at Janet^. I've got past shy- ness. I think it was the visit of my fine stalwart sons yesterday that cured me of shyness. I doubt if I shall ever be shy any more. Janet [appeaUngly~\ . Dearest, to please me ! Carve [curt now for the first time, with a flash of resentment^. No! Janet [after a slight pause; hurt, and startled; with absolute conviction, to Lord Leonard Alcar^. It's no use. He's made up his mind! Ebag. I have an idea that I can persuade Janet [hotly}. Excuse me. You can't. Ebag. I have an idea I can. But — [hesi- tates} the fact is, not in the presence of ladies. Janet. Oh! If that's all. [Walks away in a huff.] Ebag [to Janet~\. My deepest apologies! [Lord Leonard Alcar shows Janet out through door L.] Texel. Well, well ! What now? Ebag [to Carve~\. You remember Lady Alice Rowf ant ? Carve [taken aback~\. That doesn't concern you. Ebag [ignoring this answer}. Pardon me if I speak plainly. You were once engaged to marry ACT IV 143 Lady Alice Rowfant. But, a few days before your valet died, you changed your mind and left her in the lurch, in Spain. Lady Alice Rowfant is now in England. She has been served with a subpoena to give evidence at the trial. And if the trial comes on she will have to identify you and tell her story in court. [Pause.'l Are you go- ing to put her to this humiliation.^ [Carve walks about. Then he gives a gesture of surrender. ~\ Carve. The artist is always beaten! [^With an abrupt movement he pulls undone the bow of his necJitie.~\ [The Curtain falls for a few seconds.^ SCEXE 11. Carve is attempting to re-tie his necktie. Lord Leonard Alcar is coming away from door^ back. Janet enters from door l. Janet [under emotion to Carve~\. Then you've done it! [Carve ignores her.^ Lord Alcar. Yes, and I feel like a dentist. Janet. You've sent them all away. Lord Alcar. I thought you'd like me to. Mr. Ebag took charge of Mr. Texel. Your cousin Cyrus was extremely upset. Janet. What did she say.? Lord Alcar. Who say.? ..Janet. Lady Alice Rowfant of course. Oh! You needn't pretend ! As soon as ]\Ir. Ebag asked me to go out I knew he'd got her up his sleeve. [Weeps slightly. ~\ 144 THE GREAT ADVENTURE Lord Alcar [very sympatheticallyl. My dear young lady, what is the matter? Janet [her utterance disturbed hy sobs, indi- cating Carve~\. He'd do it for her, but he wouldn't do it for me ! Lord Alcar. I assure you Lady Alice Rowfant has not been here. Janet. Honest ? Lord Alcar. No ! The mere mention of her name was sufficient. Janet. That's even worse! [Rushing across to Carve and pettishly seizing his necktie. Carve submits.^ Here! Let me do it — for goodness' sake! Great clumsy! [Lord Leonard Alcar ap- proaches. Janet is still tearful. To Lord Leon- ard Alcar, as she ties the necktie.^ Somehow I don't mind crying in front of you, because you're so nice and fatherly. Lord Alcar. Well, if I'm so fatherly,' may I venture on a little advice to you two? [To Carve.'] You said you didn't want to be Ham Carve. DonH be Mr. Ham Carve. Let Ham Carve continue his theoretical repose in the Abbey, and you continue to be somebody else. It will save a vast amount of trouble and nobody will be a penny the worse. Leave England — unob- trusively. If you feel homesick arrange to come back during a general election and you will be {absolutely unnoticed. You have money. If you ACT IV 14f6 need more, I can dispose of as many new pictures las you like to send. Janet. I don't want him to paint any more pictures. Lord Alcar. But he will. Janet. I suppose he will. Why is it.? As if we hadn't had enough bother already through this art business ! Lord Alcar. Yes. But artists are like that, you know. Janet [affectionately reproachful, to Carver~\. Child! Look how nicely I've tied it for you [shakes hirn^. Whatever are you dreaming about.? Carve [after glancing in mirror; reflectively~\. There's only one question. Last time they buried me in the Abbey. 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