Scene: the stage of a theatre in a Midlands town. The lights are out on the rise of the curtain. They come on gradually to reveal the graceful figure of ARTHUR GOSPORT as he enters. He is dressed in doublet and tights.
ARTHUR (shouting over his shoulder). He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
The lights now reveal enough for us to see that he has found himself in an unmistakable, if rather severely functional, fifteenth-century Italian garden, with, at one side, the balcony of a house, from the window of which is shining a light.
But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
Juliet, in the person of EDNA SELBY, appears at the balcony above.
It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
EDNA emits a melodious sigh and gives a sad shake of the head.
She speaks, yet she says nothing; and what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.
He comes forward, then leaps back.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
EDNA emits another melodious sigh, and rests her cheek thoughtfully upon her hand.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
EDNA. Ah me!
ARTHUR. She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
EDNA. O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
ARTHUR (aside). Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
In the intense excitement of his passion he gives a boyish leap onto a garden stool. EDNA ’s glance momentarily wavers from the upper regions of the theatre, on which her eyes have been sentimentally fixed since the beginning of the scene.
EDNA. ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
What’s Montague?
Darling, are you going to do that tonight?
ARTHUR. What?
ARTHUR. Well – yes – I thought I would. Why? Does it bother you?
EDNA. No, darling. Just so long as I know, that’s all.
ARTHUR. Sorry, darling. That’s quite all right. Let’s go back. (To prompt corner.) Yes?
JOHNNY (from prompt corner). ’Tis but thy name –
EDNA (sharply). No. Before that. I want to give Mr Gosport the cue for his little jump.
JOHNNY (off). What little jump, Miss Selby?
EDNA. The little jump he does onto that stool.
Enter JOHNNY.
JOHNNY. Mr Gosport doesn’t do a little jump, Miss Selby.
EDNA. Yes, he does do a little jump. He’s just done a little jump.
JOHNNY. He’s never done a little jump before.
EDNA. I know he’s never done a little jump before. But he’s doing a little jump now. He’s just put a little jump in.
ARTHUR. Look – I don’t think I’ll do the little jump, after all.
EDNA. Yes, you shall, my darling. You shall do the little jump. It looked very charming – very youthful. (To prompt corner.) When Mr Gosport says: ‘Shall I speak at this?’ he does a little jump onto a stool. Now what’s my line before that?
JOHNNY (going off). And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
EDNA (resuming her pose).
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
ARTHUR does his leap again, only this time it is, perhaps, not quite so boyish as before.
ARTHUR. Shall I hear more or shall I speak at this?
EDNA. ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
What’s Montague?
While speaking she has appeared to be struggling to keep her composure. She now loses the battle and laughs outright.
Sorry, darling.
ARTHUR. Does it look awfully silly? I won’t do it, then.
EDNA. Oh no – you must do it. Come on. Let’s try again.
ARTHUR. No. I won’t do it if it’s as funny as all that. I only thought it might help the boyishness of the line, that’s all.
EDNA. And it does. It looks very boyish. (To prompt corner.) Doesn’t it look boyish, Johnny?
JOHNNY (off). Very boyish, Miss Selby.
EDNA. I was only laughing at your suddenly putting in a thing like that, after our having done this play so many hundreds of times together and never a little jump in fifteen years until now – just before a first night.
ARTHUR. All right. All right. Let’s forget the whole thing. I’ll say the line standing as still as the Rock of Ages, and looking just about twice as old – let’s go on.
EDNA. It’s silly to say that, Arthur. If you feel you’re too old for the part you’ll only get a complex about it.
ARTHUR. I am much too old for the part. I’m not seventeen.
EDNA. Well, if it comes to that, darling, I’m not thirteen, but I shan’t let that worry me tonight. It’s all up here – (Taps her forehead.) it’s not just a question of doing little jumps –
ARTHUR. I am not doing any little jump. That’s dead, once and for all. Now, for God’s sake, let’s go on.
EDNA. Besides, it’s silly to think you don’t look young. That wig is very, very becoming. (Shields her eyes and looks over the footlights at the audience.) Auntie Maud! Are you in front, dear?
DAME MAUD GOSPORT appears from the wings. She is an imposing old lady dressed as the Nurse.
DAME MAUD. I’ve just come from in front, dear. What is it?
EDNA. How did you think Arthur looked?
DAME MAUD. Far too old.
EDNA. Oh. Too much light on him?
DAME MAUD. Far too much.
ARTHUR. What about Edna, Auntie Maud? How did she look?
DAME MAUD. Far too old, too.
ARTHUR. Too much light on her too?
DAME MAUD. Yes. Far too much.
EDNA. I don’t think Auntie Maud sees very well. Do you, Auntie Maud, dear? (To ARTHUR, in an undertone.) She’s getting so shortsighted, you know, Arthur –
DAME MAUD (firmly). Yes, I do. I see very well. I had my specs on, and I was right at the back, and you both looked far too old.
She goes off.
ARTHUR (calling). Jack! Jack! Where’s the stage manager?
JACK WAKEFIELD, the stage manager, comes on from the prompt corner. He is a grave-faced young man in the late twenties.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR. The lighting for this scene has gone mad. This isn’t our plot. There’s far too much light. What’s gone wrong with it?
JACK. I think the trouble is they’ve crept in numbers two and three too early. (Calling up to the flies.) Will – check your plot, please. Number two and three spots should be down to a quarter instead of full.
VOICE (from above). Okay.
JACK. And you’ve got your floats too high, too. You’re burning Mr Gosport up –
EDNA. What about me? I’ve got an enormous searchlight on me from somewhere out there.
JACK (looking). That’s the front-of-house, Miss Selby. It’s in the plot.
EDNA. Well, take it out –
ARTHUR. No, you can’t. You’ve got to have some light on this scene. We can’t have it played as just our two voices coming out of pitch darkness, much as we both might like to.
EDNA. Well, I don’t see why you should skulk about in romantic moonlight while I’m on my balcony, being burnt to a cinder by Eddystone Lighthouse.
ARTHUR. Let me see that plot.
DAME MAUD comes on to join EDNA on balcony.
DAME MAUD. As you’ve stopped, dear, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I gave you one or two teeny little hints about this scene. It’s the first time I’ve seen it from the front. You don’t mind an old lady’s interference, do you, dear?
EDNA (rather too sweetly). No, of course not, Auntie Maud. You know how delighted I always am to have your teeny hints.
JACK and ARTHUR pay no attention to DAME MAUD, continuing to rearrange the lighting.
JACK. Take it right down, Will… That’s it.
DAME MAUD (to EDNA). Now when I played Juliet I used to rest my hand on my cheek, like this – (Demonstrates.) using just the very tips of my fingers. Now as you do it you look just a little like Rodin’s Thinker.
EDNA. Oh. Do I?
ARTHUR (lighting). That’s too low. Now bring it up a bit.
JACK. Bring it up, Will.
EDNA. Well, you know, Auntie Maud, dear, tastes have changed a little since you played Juliet with Arthur’s father.
DAME MAUD. I know they have, dear, and more’s the pity.
EDNA. The theatre’s gone through a revolution since 1900.
DAME MAUD. It was 1914 I played Juliet, dear. I remember the date well, because the declaration of war damaged our business so terribly.
EDNA There’s been another war since then, Auntie Maud, and I don’t think you quite understand the immense change that has come over the theatre in the last few years. You see, dear – I know it’s difficult for you to grasp, but the theatre of today has at last acquired a social conscience, and a social purpose. Why else do you think we’re opening at this rathole of a theatre instead of the Opera House, Manchester?
DAME MAUD. Oh, I didn’t know it was social purpose that brought us here. I thought it was CEMA.
EDNA. CEMA is social purpose.
DAME MAUD. Is it, dear? Fancy!
ARTHUR (still lighting). Take it down. That’s too high.
JACK (calling). Too high, Will.
An old actor, GEORGE CHUDLEIGH, comes on to the stage. He is dressed as a fifteenth-century Italian peasant, and carries a flute.
GEORGE (loudly and with clear articulation). Faith, we may put up our pipes and begone.
ARTHUR. What?
GEORGE. Oh, am I wrong? I heard my cue, so I came on.
ARTHUR. Well, kindly go off.
GEORGE. Yes. Still, you gave me my cue, you know. You can’t say you didn’t.
ARTHUR. What is your cue?
GEORGE. Well, it’s really a pause, when everyone’s stopped speaking.
ARTHUR. My dear Mr –
GEORGE. Chudleigh. George Chudleigh.
ARTHUR. My dear Mr Chudleigh, if every time there’s a pause in the play you’re going to come on to the stage and speak that line, it’s going to make the plot rather difficult to follow –
GEORGE. I meant that’s just my cue to come on. My real cue is ‘High will’ –
JACK (unruffled). ‘Move them no more by crossing their high will.’ He’s quite right, Mr Gosport. (To GEORGE.) That is your cue, but your line doesn’t come till the next act and you ought to have been paying more attention. Now will you please get off the stage as we’re rather busy.
GEORGE. Well – that’s all very well, but you said it, you know. I heard it quite distinctly. So of course I thought you’d cut a bit out and so I counted five and on I came.
ARTHUR (in a fury of impatience). Get off the stage, you silly old man –
GEORGE (stolidly indignant). Here. Don’t you talk to me like that, young chap. I acted with your father.
ARTHUR. I don’t care if you acted with Garrick’s father. Get off the stage!
GEORGE. You’d better be careful, young feller, talking to people like that. It’s not right.
DAME MAUD now intervenes. EDNA, on her balcony, is sitting down, her back to the commotion, reading a newspaper.
DAME MAUD. You say you acted with my brother?
GEORGE. That’s right. In this play I was, too. I played Peter.
DAME MAUD. Yes, I remember now. I remember you well. You were just as incompetent then as you are now.
GEORGE (under his breath). That’s enough from you, you old bag!
DAME MAUD (triumphantly). There you are! That shows exactly why you’ve never got on in the theatre. If you have a line like that to say, you don’t mouth it and throw it away, you say it right out. It’s a glorious word to say –
(Enunciating.) bag. Form the word with your lips, like that. BAG. B-A-G. B – A – G.
ARTHUR. All right, Auntie Maud. All right. (To GEORGE.) Look, my dear chap, just go to the wings – there’s a good fellow – and wait for your scene, which doesn’t come for hours yet, while we get on with our work.
GEORGE. I certainly won’t. I’ve been insulted and I’m leaving.
ARTHUR. Nonsense. You can’t leave.
GEORGE. Oh yes, I can. I know my rights. What’s more, I’m not just leaving, I’m retiring. I’m sixty-seven and I’d have been fifty years on the stage, come April.
DAME MAUD. My dear Mr – er – you really mustn’t take on like this just because –
GEORGE (brushing her aside). I’ve never been a good actor, and when I look at some that are, I thank God for it. What’s more I’ve never liked the life – and I’ve never needed the money. Why I’ve gone on all these years mucking about with never more than a line or two to say, sharing dressing rooms with chaps I detest, is more than I can fathom. Well, I’m finished with it all now, anyway. Finished with it for good, and you don’t know how happy that makes me feel. Goodbye, all.
He goes off. There is a silence after he has gone, broken by DAME MAUD.
DAME MAUD (scornfully). Can’t even make an exit properly.
EDNA. Must have a film job.
ARTHUR. Oh. All right. One of the supers can do the pipes line. Break for an hour for tea, but don’t strike this set. I want to rehearse the farewell scene before the show.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport. (Calling.) Break for an hour for tea, everyone! Back at 5.30, please! Curtain up at 7.30.
ARTHUR. Then I’ll rehearse the duel.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. And I could see those girls for The Winter’s Tale.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. And then, if there’s time, I can rehearse the jig.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport. (Goes towards wings.)
DAME MAUD. Oh, Jack – send someone out for some sandwiches for me – and a bottle of Guinness, would you?
JACK. Yes, Dame Maud.
DAME MAUD. Better make it a couple of bottles. It’s so good for my back.
JACK. Yes, Dame Maud.
JACK goes off.
DAME MAUD. Goodbye, my children. I’m sure from what I’ve seen it’s all going to be splendid.
She exits.
JOHNNY comes on with sandwiches for ARTHUR, and then goes out.
ARTHUR. Sandwich, dear?
EDNA (to ARTHUR). No thank you, darling. I’ll have a proper tea for us in our room, my darling.
ARTHUR. Thank you, darling.
EDNA. Don’t worry, my precious. That wig is a dream. And you can do your little jump if you want to.
ARTHUR. No, thank you, darling. Edna – I’m not too old for the part, am I?
EDNA. No; of course not, my angel. Or, if you are, then I am.
ARTHUR. But you’re three years younger, aren’t you?
EDNA. What’s three among so many?
She goes out through her bedroom window.
Enter JOHNNY.
Two young men, dressed as HALBERDIERS and trailing spears, cross the stage at back, chatting to each other in confidential whispers.
ARTHUR. Johnny, draw the tabs and rehearse some of the lighting cues during the break, will you. (Over the footlights.) Miss Fishlock? Would you come to my room for a moment? I want you to take some notes on The Winter’s Tale. (Turns and sees the young men.) Would you come here, you two?
They both obey with alacrity.
(To one of them.) Just say – Faith, we may put up our pipes and begone.
FIRST HALBERDIER (in a flat, faintly Cockney accent). Faith, we may put up our pipes and begone.
ARTHUR (to the other). Now you.
SECOND HALBERDIER (going much too far, vocally and in gesture). Faith, we may put up our pipes and begone.
ARTHUR (pointing to FIRST HALBERDIER). Right. You’ll do it.
FIRST HALBERDIER (transported). You mean – I’m going to have a line to say, Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR. Yes. (Hands him the script.) I’ll rehearse you in a few minutes.
MISS FISHLOCK comes on.
Ah, Miss Fishlock. Would you get in touch with the London Office at once and inform Mr Wilmot that the six girls he sent up specially for The Winter’s Tale are quite out of the question.
MISS FISHLOCK. Yes, Mr Gosport.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Oh, Mr Gosport! (To SECOND HALBERDIER.) Oh bad luck, Cyril.
Exit MISS FISHLOCK and ARTHUR.
SECOND HALBERDIER (they drift away, peering at the script together). I bet it was because you picked up his gloves at the station on Friday.
He disappears.
FIRST HALBERDIER looks round the stage cautiously, and, finding himself alone, goes down to the footlights.
FIRST HALBERDIER (in a hoarse whisper, across the footlights). Mum! Mum!
JACK appears, unseen by the FIRST HALBERDIER.
I’ve got a part. It’s only a line, but it’s awfully important… Yes, isn’t it wonderful?
JACK (approaching him). Who are you talking to?
FIRST HALBERDIER (confused). Oh, Mr Wakefield. I didn’t see you. It’s only my mother. She’s up there. (Waves towards the upper circle.)
JACK. Then I’m afraid you must ask her to go. You know the rule about strangers in front at rehearsal.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Oh, but can’t she stay and hear me speak my line?
JACK. No, I’m afraid not. She’ll have to come back at 7.30 when we start.
FIRST HALBERDIER. But she has to get back to Birmingham tonight. She only came for the day –
JACK (firmly). I’m extremely sorry, but rules are rules and Mr and Mrs Gosport are very strict about this particular one. She shouldn’t be here at all.
He turns away as a man in the costume of Tybalt (FREDERICK INGRAM) comes on to the stage with a cup of tea and a sausage roll.
INGRAM (to JACK). What the hell does he want me for?
JACK. The duel.
INGRAM. Oh, my God! Not again!
The FIRST HALBERDIER has meanwhile been gesticulating across the footlights to his mother, making uncomplimentary and furtive gestures towards JACK. When he has conveyed his meaning he goes off.
I’m slipping across to The Feathers for a quick one. Do you think I’ve got time?
JACK. Yes, Mr Ingram. I’ll warn you.
INGRAM goes off. The assistant stage manager (JOHNNY) puts his head on.
JOHNNY. ’Ere – there’s a baby in a pram in the wings. Is that a prop in the play?
JACK. Not unless they’ve considerably rewritten it. Is it alive?
JOHNNY. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll just see.
His head momentarily disappears. We hear, faintly, a baby’s gurgle. JOHNNY ’s head reappears.
Yes. It’s alive. What shall I do with it?
JACK. I suppose you’d better leave it there. Presumably it belongs to someone. My God! What with mums in front and babies in the wings it’s not so much a dress rehearsal as old home week.
A nondescript, rather shabbily dressed girl of about twenty (MURIEL), accompanied by a soldier (TOM), about ten years older, have come timidly on to the stage and are staring about them. JOHNNY’s head has meanwhile disappeared.
Yes? What do you want?
MURIEL (in a strong Midland accent). Could I speak to my dad, please?
JACK. And who may your dad be?
MURIEL. He’s an actor.
JACK. Then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong theatre. Try The Palace of Varieties across the street.
MR BURTON, the theatre manager, has come on.
BURTON. Good evening, Mr Wakefield.
JACK. Good evening, Mr Burton.
BURTON. I hope you find our theatre to your satisfaction.
JACK. How are our bookings?
BURTON. Not bad. Not half bad, considering what the show is. Of course, we’ve never had these two up here before, you know, but it’s a big help that feller Fred Ingram being in that picture at the Super.
MURIEL (to JACK). Look – I’m sure it is this theatre –
JACK. No, my dear. They’ve got a sort of circus here this week. The Palace is what you want. Through that door there, up the stairs and into the street.
He moves away again. MURIEL and TOM go off slowly.
BURTON. Funny for them to choose to open up here, I must say –
JACK. Social purpose, Mr Burton.
BURTON. Social purpose? Now what the blazes is that when it’s at home?
JACK. As far as I can see it means playing Shakespeare to audiences who’d rather go to the films; while audiences who’d rather go to Shakespeare are driven to the films because they haven’t got Shakespeare to go to. It’s all got something to do with the new Britain and apparently it’s an absolutely splendid idea.
ARTHUR comes on, now in a dressing gown.
Here’s Mr Gosport. He can tell you all about it. This is Mr Burton, sir. The theatre manager.
ARTHUR. Oh, how do you do? My wife and I are simply thrilled to be opening in your beautiful theatre and this delightful town.
BURTON. Thank you, Mr Gosport, and I can assure you it’s a great honour for us all to have you both up here.
ARTHUR. Thank you. As a matter of fact you’ve always been very kind to us here in Sheffield –
BURTON. But it’s next week you’re playing Sheffield, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. Oh! What’s this town, then?
BURTON. Brackley.
ARTHUR. Oh yes, of course. They added a week, didn’t they? How idiotic of them!
BURTON. That’s all right, Mr Gosport. Great men are always a bit absent-minded.
ARTHUR. Brackley. Of course it is. (With a sudden change of expression.) Brackley! Good Lord!
JACK. What’s the matter?
ARTHUR. I was just remembering something. Brackley! Good heavens!
JACK. Is anything wrong, Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR is lost in a reverie. BURTON looks at JACK, a trifle bewildered. JACK touches his forehead. BURTON nods.
ARTHUR. Tell me, Mr – er – hrrhm – , is there a square place in your town with a perfectly repulsive building in glazed brick with a ridiculous dome on top?
BURTON (doubtfully). The Civic Centre?
ARTHUR (impatiently). Yes, yes. And then, dead opposite, is there an enormous white concrete-and-glass object that looks just like a public lavatory?
BURTON (too hurt even to protest). The Civic Library, Mr Gosport.
JACK (hastily). Do you know this town, then, Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR. Yes. Only too well.
JACK manages to get in a nudge.
Only too well. I was here as a boy in repertory.
BURTON. When exactly were you here, Mr Gosport? (Getting out notebook and pencil.) Could you pin it to a definite date? I ought to ring up the Argus about this.
ARTHUR. Well, let me see now. (Ponders deeply.) Yes, I can tell you exactly. It was the year Gladys Cooper opened in The Sign of the Door.
BURTON. 1’m afraid I don’t remember that, Mr Gosport. (To JACK.) Do you?
JACK. No. (To ARTHUR.) I suppose you couldn’t remember anything else that happened that year? A war, or something like that?
ARTHUR. No, I don’t think there was a war. Wait a moment – I do remember something that happened that year. There was some sort of commotion –
JACK. A commotion? An earthquake?
ARTHUR. No, no. Something to do with trains. They didn’t run. And newspapers too. There weren’t any notices. And then I was made to drive a tram, for some reason –
JACK. 1926. The general strike.
ARTHUR. Thank you. That’s right. That’s what it was called. The general strike.
BURTON (writing down the date). 1926.
ARTHUR. Excuse me… I must get a cup of tea before I look at six girls…
He goes off.
BURTON. Bit scatterbrained, isn’t he?
JACK. I doubt if you can scatter a void.
BURTON. I thought he was supposed to be an intellectual sort of chap.
JACK. He’s an actor, Mr Burton.
BURTON. Now perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a bit more dope on the Gosports for the Argus.
JACK. All right, but very quickly. I’ve got a hundred things to do.
BURTON. How long have they been married?
JACK. Fifteen years.
BURTON. Any children?
JACK. One – little Basil –
BURTON. Oh. And how old is little Basil?
JACK. Thirteen.
BURTON. Up here?
JACK. No. At school –
BURTON. Going to be an actor too?
JACK. Judging by his behaviour, yes. Besides – he’s a Gosport.
BURTON. I see. Now how would you describe these Gosports? Would we offend anyone if we called them the most famous married couple in the theatre?
JACK. You wouldn’t offend the Gosports, Mr Burton, which is the main thing. Besides it’s reasonably true.
BURTON. Always act together, don’t they?
JACK. Yes.
BURTON. Always as husband and wife?
JACK. No. Usually as lover and mistress. The audience prefers that – it gives them such a cosy feeling to know they’re really married after all.
BURTON. Now, about this tour. How long is it?
JACK. Sixteen weeks out, then London –
BURTON. Oh. They are going to London, then?
JACK. Only for four weeks. If you play in the West End for longer than that you become commercial.
BURTON. I see. What after that?
JACK. Belgrade, Bucharest, Warsaw, Riga, and Moscow.
BURTON. Oh. What about the Iron Curtain?
JACK. The Gosports could make any curtain rise.
BURTON. What plays are they taking?
ARTHUR, tea in hand, wanders on and begins fussing mildly in the background, removing a pot of artificial flowers from one place on the stage and putting it in another; then changing his mind and putting it back again.
JACK. Romeo, The Winter’s Tale, Macbeth, and a modern play in verse called Follow the Leviathan to My Father’s Grave.
BURTON. What’s that about?
JACK. Here’s Mr Gosport, he’ll tell you.
BURTON. What’s the new play about, Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR. Death. My wife’s got the best part in it. I only play the pencil-sharpener in the last act.
He replaces the pot once more and wanders off.
BURTON Well, perhaps he’ll tell more about it to the Argus critic.
JACK. I doubt it.
ARTHUR reappears.
ARTHUR. There’s a baby here, in the wings. It looks exactly like someone I know. Who is it?
JACK. I’ve no idea, I’m afraid.
ARTHUR. It’s very careless of people, leaving babies in the wings. There might be a very nasty accident. Somebody might easily trip over it and ruin their exit. See that it’s removed before rehearsal.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. And in future, if people bring babies to the theatre, see that they’re kept in the proper place.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport. Where’s that?
ARTHUR. I don’t know.
He goes off again.
JACK. Well, is there any more help I can give you, Mr Burton?
BURTON. No, thanks. I think that’s all. It only remains for me to wish you a very successful opening, which I’m sure you’ll have.
JACK. Thank you very much.
They shake hands. MURIEL and TOM appear suddenly on Juliet’s balcony.
MURIEL (attacked with vertigo). Oo – Tom! Look where we’ve got ourselves to!
JACK. Madam – will you and your friend kindly leave this theatre?
MURIEL. No, I won’t. I’ve told you. I want to see my dad.
JACK. And I’ve told you your dad isn’t here.
MURIEL. Oh, yes, he is. He’s not at The Palace, like you said. He’s here. I’ve seen his name on the posters.
JACK. Well, you can’t see him now, anyway. Anyway, who is your dad?
MURIEL. Gosport’s the name.
JACK. Gosport?
MURIEL. Yes. Arthur Gosport. He’s an actor.
JACK. Oh. I see.
He signs urgently to the prompt corner. JOHNNY appears.
So you’re the daughter of Arthur Gosport, are you?
MURIEL. Yes, that’s right. And this is my husband.
TOM. How do?
JACK. I’m most delighted to meet you both. I simply can’t apologise enough for having been so very rude. (To JOHNNY.) Oh, Johnny. This lady is Mr Gosport’s daughter, and this is her husband. Would you be so kind as to – er – look after them both? Just – er – show them around, would you?
He makes a quick, violent gesture of his thumb, unseen by the two on the balcony. JOHNNY nods.
JOHNNY. Okay, Mr Wakefield.
He goes off.
JACK. Now, Miss Gosport –
MURIEL (giggling). Mrs Palmer.
JACK. I do beg your pardon, Mrs Palmer. Now, if you and your husband would be so very kind as to step through that window there and down the steps, you’ll find such a nice gentleman who’s going to take such very good care of you both.
MURIEL. Oh. Thanks – you’re a pal. Come on, Tom.
She disappears from view. TOM waves cheerfully to JACK and follows her.
BURTON. Lor’ love us! What will they think up next?
JACK. Amazing, isn’t it?
BURTON (shaking his head, sadly). It’s a funny world ours, isn’t it?
JACK. Side-splitting.
The FIRST HALBERDIER comes on mouthing and muttering anxiously to himself.
BURTON exits.
JACK shakes his head wearily. Then looks at his watch. JOHNNY reappears.
All right?
JOHNNY. I’ll lock ’em in one of the downstairs rooms. I’d better not shove ’em out as the doorman’s off and they might get in again.
JACK. Quite right. Which room will you put them in?
JOHNNY. I’ll put them in number three. There are six other girls there waiting for someone.
JACK (wearily). I wonder whose daughters they are. Okay, Johnny. Thanks.
He goes off as the FIRST HALBERDIER approaches JACK.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Mr Wakefield, do you think it ought to be: Faith, we may put up our PIPES and begone, or FAITH, we may put UP our pipes and begone?
JACK What about, Faith, we may put up our pipes and – (Roaring.) BEGONE?
FIRST HALBERDIER. That doesn’t sound quite right to me.
JACK. It sounds awfully right to me. What’s happened to your mum?
FIRST HALBERDIER. Oh, she’s gone.
JACK (grimly). That’s very lucky for her.
A very good-looking, smartly dressed girl (JOYCE LANGLAND) appears on the stage and stands, evidently a little awed by her surroundings.
The FIRST HALBERDIER wanders off, still muttering.
JOYCE. Jack –
JACK (surprised). Joyce! (Approaches her and kisses her warmly.) Why on earth didn’t you let me know you were coming up?
JOYCE. I didn’t have time.
JACK. What do you mean, you didn’t have time?
JOYCE. I’ve got some news for you which I had to tell you myself, so I just jumped on the first train.
JACK. Oh, darling! How wonderful!
JOYCE (disappointed). You’ve guessed.
JACK. Your father’s changed his mind. Darling, you’re a magician. How did you work it?
JOYCE. You worked it. He was terribly impressed with your letter.
JACK. So he should be.
JOYCE. Then I told him your war record.
JACK. That was a mistake, wasn’t it?
JOYCE. You got the DFC.
JACK. Only because the CO liked the pantomime I produced for the chaps. I say, darling, are we rich?
JOYCE. We’ll pay super-tax, anyway.
JACK. Oh, darling, how marvellous! I don’t have to work any more?
JOYCE. Not in the theatre, anyway.
JACK. Oh. But I do have to work?
JOYCE. He’s going to take you into the firm.
JACK. Oh. I thought there was a catch.
JOYCE. Darling, it’s not a catch. Jack – it’s not that you don’t want to give up the theatre, is it?
JACK. Good Lord, no! I’d give up the theatre tomorrow if I could.
JOYCE. Well, now you can.
There is a pause, broken by the FIRST HALBERDIER, who has wandered on to the stage a few seconds before.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Faith, we may put up OUR pipes and begone.
JACK. Look, old chap – do you mind awfully going and doing that somewhere else? I’ve got things on my mind.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Sorry, Mr Wakefield. This is my great chance, you know – and I don’t want to muck it up. (Muttering.) That’s it. I know. Faith, we may put up OUR pipes and begone.
He goes off.
JACK. Darling, I think I’d better finish the tour.
JOYCE (horrified). The whole tour – forty-six weeks?
JACK. No, no. Only England. After London they’ll have to get someone else. But I can’t let them down without fair warning.
JOYCE. No. I see that. There’s only one thing I’m frightened of though, Jack. Shall I tell you what it is?
JACK. That I haven’t the guts to leave them at all?
JOYCE. It’s not only the Gosports I’m worrying about. It’s the theatre.
JACK. The Gosports are the theatre. There is no theatre apart from the Gosports.
JOYCE. Darling, don’t exaggerate.
JACK. I’m not. I mean the Gosports are eternal. They’re the theatre at its worst and its best. They’re true theatre, because they’re entirely self-centred, entirely exhibitionist, and entirely dotty, and because they make no compromise whatever with the outside world.
JOYCE. Then what about this idea of theirs of theatre with a social purpose?
JACK. Theatre with a social purpose, indeed! It’s a contradiction in terms. Good citizenship and good theatre don’t go together. They never have and they never will. All through the ages, from Burbage downwards, the theatre – the true theatre – has consisted of blind, antisocial, self-sufficient, certifiable Gosports. The point is that if I have the courage to leave the Gosports, I have the courage to leave the theatre.
JOYCE. And have you?
JACK. Yes. I hate the theatre. I shall leave the theatre without the faintest regret, and for a week afterwards I shall barely draw a sober breath in celebration.
JOYCE (with a sigh of relief). And I’ll be at your side in that. Good. Will you go and tell them now, then?
JACK. Now?
JOYCE. Yes. There’s a break on, isn’t there?
JACK (slowly). Yes. Is this a test of my courage?
JOYCE. That’s it.
JACK. All right. I might as well get it over with. Besides, I’m giving them plenty of notice, aren’t I?
JOYCE (smiling). Yes. Plenty.
JACK (annoyed). I’m not in the least afraid of them, you know, if that’s what you think.
EDNA, in dressing gown and chewing a sandwich, wanders on from the wings.
EDNA. I’m a bit worried about the balcony, Jack. It seems very wobbly to me.
JACK. It’s being seen to, Miss Selby. Er – Miss Selby –
EDNA (turning). Yes?
JACK. Could I introduce Miss Langland?
EDNA. Oh yes. How do you do? (Shakes hands.) You’re a serving wench, aren’t you?
JACK. Er – no. She’s not in the company at all. As a matter of fact, Miss Selby – she’s the girl I’m going to marry.
EDNA. Marry! My dear, how wonderful! How simply wonderful! Oh, Jack, darling, I’m so glad. (Embraces him warmly. To JOYCE.) And you too, my dear. (Kisses her.) So pretty you are, and so young and what an enchanting little frock! Oh, I’m so happy for you both, I feel I want to cry and ruin my make-up. Arthur must be your best man, and I’ll be godmother to your first. When’s the wedding to be?
JACK (exchanging glances with JOYCE). After the provincial tour – when we come to London.
EDNA. Oh, good! (To JOYCE.) It would have been far too long a time to wait for him, wouldn’t it – forty-six weeks?
JOYCE (surprised). Yes. I did feel that, I’m afraid.
EDNA. Don’t be afraid, dear. You’re quite right to be impatient. I was, when I married Arthur. (Strokes JOYCE’s face.) Dear little child. I’m so happy for you. So you’ll be coming to Europe with us, will you?
JOYCE. Er – no, Miss Selby. I won’t.
EDNA. No? Well, perhaps you’re wise. It’s going to be rather uncomfortable for all of us, I expect. Still, won’t you miss him, being gone all that time?
JACK. Well – the fact is, Miss Selby – you see – I – er – well – this is the point – I’m not sure that I’m going to Europe myself.
EDNA. Not going to Europe? (Looks mildly surprised then appears to see daylight.) Oh, I know what you mean. Some nasty creature must have sneaked to you about what Arthur was saying the other day about Ronnie Williams coming to stage-manage for us. But you mustn’t worry, my darling. It was only because Ronnie Williams stage-managed for us for so long – practically before you were born, my darling – and Arthur heard he was out of a job, and you know how tactless he is, the poor old thing – but he really didn’t mean it, I know he didn’t –
JACK (desperately). Look, Miss Selby – it’s got nothing to do with Ronnie Williams –
EDNA. You’re hurt, my precious. I’m so sorry. But I can promise you most faithfully that there was never, never any question of our not taking you to Europe. We all love you and admire you far too much –
JACK. Thank you very much, Miss Selby, but –
EDNA. Now I don’t want to hear anything more about it. Just forget the whole thing and pretend it never happened. You’re coming with us to Europe. I promise you. Goodbye, you dear things. (Blows them a fond kiss.) You look so pretty, the two of you, standing there together.
She goes off.
JACK (to JOYCE). Look, darling, perhaps a dress rehearsal isn’t the best moment to break it to them. What about tomorrow – or after the first night?
JOYCE. Or after Sheffield, or after London, or after the European tour? No, Jack, darling, something tells me that if you don’t do it now, during this break, you never will –
JACK. I could write them a letter –
JOYCE. I thought you said you weren’t afraid of them?
ARTHUR wanders on and makes straight for the flower pot, removing it, in the background, to another spot.
JACK. I know. I’ll tell him. He’s really much easier to deal with than she is.
JOYCE (indicating ARTHUR). Well, now’s your chance, then.
JACK starts violently; then braces himself and takes JOYCE by the hand up to ARTHUR.
JACK. Oh, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. Yes.
JACK. Could I introduce Miss Langland?
ARTHUR. Oh. How do you do. Have you read The Winter’s Tale?
JOYCE. Er – no. I’m afraid I haven’t.
ARTHUR. Well, it’s not a difficult part. It’s about a girl who’s abandoned by her father when she’s a baby, and then many years later they meet –
JACK. Er – Miss Langland isn’t here about The Winter’s Tale, Mr Gosport. (In a firm, measured voice.) She’s my fiancée, we’re getting married after the provincial tour, and I’m not coming with you to Europe.
ARTHUR. Yes. I see, my dear fellow. Now what about those girls for Winter’s Tale? Are they here?
JACK. Yes, I think so. Did you hear what I said, Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR. Yes, of course. I think I’d better see those girls straight away. Have them in, one by one, would you? (Puts the pot in another place.)
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport. (Calling.) Johnny. Are the girls here for Winter’s Tale?
JOHNNY (off). Yes. Seven of them.
JACK. That’s right. Mr Gosport will see them now, separately.
JOHNNY (off). Okay.
ARTHUR (indicating pot). How do you like it here, Jack?
JACK. Much better.
ARTHUR (to JOYCE). What do you think, Miss – er – Hrrhm?
JOYCE. I think it’s charming, there.
ARTHUR. No. I don’t think I like it there very much. (Removes it.)
JACK. Mr Gosport, I don’t think you quite grasped what I said just now.
ARTHUR (annoyed at the implication). Of course I did, my dear fellow. You said you thought the pot looked better there, but I don’t agree –
JACK. No. Before that. I told you I was getting married –
ARTHUR. Getting married? I’m absolutely delighted, my dear chap. (Shakes hands.) Who to?
EDNA comes on.
ARTHUR. Edna, I’ve thought of an entirely new way of dying.
EDNA. Have you darling? How exciting.
ARTHUR. Bring on the tomb, someone.
JACK. Yes, Mr Gosport. (Calling.) Johnny, give me a hand with the tomb.
JOHNNY (coming on). Yes, Mr Wakefield.
He and JACK bring forward the tomb and JOHNNY goes off.
ARTHUR (going over to JOYCE). Now, young lady, perhaps you would be kind enough to take up a position there – thank you. (To EDNA.) The beauty of it is in its simplicity. Now I must get you something to lie on.
He takes a mackintosh from JOYCE and spreads it over the tomb. EDNA lies on it.
Thank you.
JACK. Look, Mr Gosport, there’s something I’ve got to tell you before you die.
ARTHUR. Well, if she can’t do the quick-change in time, she’ll just have to wear the black velvet all through.
JACK. But Mr Gos–
ARTHUR That’s all there is to it. I don’t want to hear another word about it. (Adopting his dying pose.)
Now. Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on,
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here’s to my love! (Drinks.) – Oh true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. – Thus with a kiss I die.
And a very spectacular death it is. JOYCE, despite her prejudice, is thrilled.
JOYCE (to JACK). That was wonderful!
ARTHUR (overhearing). Oh, did you like it, Miss – Hrrhm? I’m so glad. You didn’t think it was too much?
JOYCE. Oh no. Not a bit – I thought it was thrilling.
EDNA (sitting up). Jack, darling, don’t you think your little friend must be feeling awfully cold, standing on this draughty stage in that thin little frock? Wouldn’t she be much better off in a nice warm dressing room?
JACK (resignedly). Yes, Miss Selby. (To JOYCE.) Darling, run along to my room, would you? It’s number fourteen on the second floor. I’ll join you when I can.
JOYCE. All right. (As she goes.) Now, don’t let me down, Jack. Before the break is up.
EDNA. Such a sweet little face.
JACK. Before the break is up. I promise.
JOYCE goes out.
EDNA. Arthur, it’s a lovely death, but I’m not absolutely sure it doesn’t go on perhaps a hair too long. I don’t think we’ll put it in tonight.
ARTHUR (knowing he has lost). All right, darling. I just thought it was worth trying – that was all.
The FIRST HALBERDIER comes on, still muttering.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Oh, Mr Gosport. Are you ready for me yet?
ARTHUR. No. In a minute. I’m seeing some girls first. Just wait there.
He motions him to a corner of the stage, where the FIRST HALBERDIER sits, mouthing intermittently.
All right, Jack. Ready for The Winter’s Tale.
JACK (calling). All right, Johnny. Send the first lady on, will you?
JOHNNY (off). Okay.
JACK (calling). What is the lady’s name, please?
Whispers off.
JOHNNY (off). Muriel Palmer.
JACK (writing it down). Muriel Palmer.
And MURIEL PALMER comes on, followed at a few yards’ interval by TOM. JACK, busy with his notebook, does not immediately look up.
MURIEL (with a joyous cry, pointing at ARTHUR). There he is! That’s my dad! Daddy, I’m your daughter, and you’re my dad.
ARTHUR. Er – what text are you using, Miss, er – hrrhm?
JACK (interposing quickly). Excuse me, Mr Gosport, but I know about this young lady. She’s been annoying us all the evening. (To MURIEL.) How did you get out of that room?
MURIEL. A young man came and unlocked us and told me and six other girls to come on the stage separately as Mr Gosport was waiting for us –
JACK. Oh God! All right. Well, now, are you going to go quietly or shall I have to ring up for the police?
MURIEL. Ring up the police? Go ahead. I don’t mind. I haven’t done anything wrong. I just want a few words with my dad, that’s all. That’s my dad, all right. I recognise him from Mum’s picture on the piano.
TOM. Even in this country you can’t arrest a girl for talking to her dad, you know.
MURIEL. You can’t scare me, young man.
JACK. All right. (Calling.) Johnny! Ring up the police station and ask them to send a man round. We’re having trouble.
ARTHUR (to JACK). Do I understand that this lady claims that I’m her father?
MURIEL. Your name is Gosport, isn’t it?
ARTHUR. Arthur Gosport. Yes.
MURIEL (chattily). Well, I’m your daughter, Muriel. You’ve never seen me, because I was born after you left Mum. This is my husband, Tom – he’s your son-in-law.
TOM. How do?
MURIEL. And I’ve brought someone else along that I thought you’d like to meet. Tom! (Signs to him to go to the wings.)
TOM. Okay, Mu.
ARTHUR. Just a minute. (To MURIEL.) You mentioned just now a character called Mum. Could you be more explicit, please? Where does this Mum person live?
MURIEL. Same old place. Number twenty-one Upper Brecon Road.
ARTHUR. Opposite a puce, rectangular building – with a notice board outside, saying Thy Days are Numbered?
MURIEL. That’s right. The Baptist Chapel.
ARTHUR. And is Mum’s name – Florence?
MURIEL. Flossie. That’s right.
ARTHUR (whimpering). Flossie! (With a wail.) Oh, no, no. It can’t be!
MURIEL. Oh yes, it is, Dad.
EDNA. Arthur! You can’t mean –
ARTHUR. Yes, yes, oh yes! It’s true. I know it now. (Pointing tragically.) You’ve only to look at her face to see it. The living image of her dreadful mother.
MURIEL. Well, really! That’s a nice way to talk, I must say –
JACK (taking charge). Look, Mr Gosport – as we’ve never seen the lady’s dreadful mother, perhaps there’s some other way we could test her story. (To MURIEL.) When were you born?
MURIEL. January 15th, 1927.
JACK (to ARTHUR). When did you last see Flossie?
ARTHUR. Don’t cross-examine me! I don’t know. I can only tell you that I am absolutely convinced of the truth of this girl’s statement. This is my daughter, Mabel –
MURIEL. Muriel. Mu for short.
ARTHUR. My daughter, Muriel. Mu for short.
He sinks down on to a stool, his head in his hands. EDNA loyally goes to his side to comfort him.
(To MURIEL.) Why are you here? What do you want?
MURIEL. Want? I don’t want anything. Just to say hullo, that’s all. It seemed silly being in the same town, and for us not even to meet each other. Mum didn’t want me to come, but I thought Dad’ll be interested to see what I look like, and to meet his son-in-law. Besides I’ve got such a nice little surprise for you. (Calling.) Come on, Tom. I want to introduce you to your grandson.
TOM appears, wheeling a pram tenderly towards the group, who are too frozen with horror to move.
ARTHUR (at length). My – grandson?
MURIEL. That’s right, Dad. Come and look.
Very slowly ARTHUR rises and, with EDNA on one side and JACK on the other, gazes down on the pram. MURIEL and TOM complete the group. There is a long pause.
ARTHUR (slowly, at length). It looks – (With a sob.) like Beerbohm Tree –
EDNA (hopelessly). No, darling. The terrible thing is – it looks awfully like you.
ARTHUR. Don’t say that, Edna!
MURIEL. Yes, he’s the image of his grandpa, isn’t he? The ickle, chicka-widdy-biddy woo. Go on, Grandpa, tickle his little tummy.
ARTHUR. I refuse to tickle his little tummy.
EDNA (to TOM). How old is it?
TOM. Five months. You’re Edna Selby, aren’t you?
EDNA. Yes.
TOM. I saw you in Shakespeare once, in Birmingham. You were the Queen, weren’t you, when Mr Gosport was Hamlet?
EDNA. I have played it – yes.
TOM (cheerfully). Well then in a sort of way, that makes you our little Ted’s great-grandmama, doesn’t it?
EDNA. No, it doesn’t. Not in any sort of way, and please, don’t say it does. (Reproachfully.) Arthur – how could you!
ARTHUR (pointing to the pram). I am not responsible for Ted.
EDNA (pointing to MURIEL). But you are responsible for Mu.
ARTHUR (tragically). I was a mere boy – a wild, hotheaded, irresponsible, passionate boy – a Romeo of seventeen –
EDNA. And your Juliet was Flossie.
ARTHUR. She was my landlady’s daughter. I loved her, for a time, with all my heart and mind. She loved me too, in her way – but not enough. She never even came to the theatre to see me act. Of course it had to end, as all such mad, youthful follies must.
EDNA (pointing to the pram). It didn’t have to end in this.
ARTHUR. And I say unto you, the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the third and fourth generation. You know the line –
EDNA. It seems to have got up to the fourth generation far too quick. (Pointing to the pram.) Oh, Arthur, it’s not in my nature to reproach you for what is past and done, but I do think you’ve been terribly, terribly foolhardy. (To TOM.) Please remove this.
TOM. Okay. If that’s the way you feel –
MURIEL (to baby). Didn’t they appreciate him, then? Come along, then, my ickywicky-chick-a-boo! (Begins to wheel the pram out.) Come along, then! Say ta-ta for now, Granddaddy –
ARTHUR (sinking again into an attitude of tragic despair). Oh, my God! Edna! What am I to do?
Once more EDNA takes his hand in silent but loyal sympathy.
The PALMERS wheel their baby out.
There is a pause, broken by the FIRST HALBERDIER, who, throughout the preceding scene, has been mouthing intermittently in the background, more or less oblivious of what has been going on.
FIRST HALBERDIER (attempting a new reading). Faith, we may put UP our PIPES and begone.
ARTHUR. Jack, what am I to do?
JACK (reassuringly). Well, Mr Gosport, they haven’t bothered you at all for twenty years. I don’t see any reason why they should in the future.
ARTHUR. Yes – but that child! (With a shudder.) That horrifying child!
JACK. No one need know about that. Ask your dau– Mrs Palmer, to keep the whole thing secret; and if I might venture to suggest it, send an occasional little present to them for the baby.
EDNA. A nice little box of jujubes, flavoured with prussic acid.
ARTHUR. I don’t think it’s in quite the best of taste to make a joke of that sort, Edna. After all, the creature is my grandson. (In agony again.) Oh, God! My grandson!
EDNA. Never mind, my darling. These things can happen to any of us.
ARTHUR. But why, when I’m playing Romeo of all parts? Why couldn’t it have turned up when I was playing Lear?
EDNA. That’s life, my darling.
ARTHUR. Of course we shall have to cancel the performance now.
JACK. Look, Mr Gosport – I really don’t think you’ll find it necessary to do that –
ARTHUR. How can I play a boy of seventeen with a grandson in the wings, mocking me with that repulsive leer of his, every time I go on?
JACK. Because it won’t be in the wings. First thing tomorrow morning I shall go and see – er – Mrs Palmer’s mother. I’d better have her address again.
ARTHUR. Twenty-one Upper Brecon Road.
JACK (writing it down). Thank you. And what is her name?
EDNA. Flossie.
JACK. I know. I meant her surname.
ARTHUR. Gosport, I suppose.
JACK. Gosport?
EDNA. What an odd coincidence!
JACK. Mr Gosport – did you – did you marry Flossie?
ARTHUR. Oh yes. She made rather a point of it, I remember.
EDNA. Arthur! You mean your daughter isn’t illegitimate?
ARTHUR. Oh no. She’s perfectly legitimate, I think.
EDNA (annoyed). Well, really? Of course that puts an entirely different complexion on the whole thing. It’s going to make me look very silly – if that gets out.
ARTHUR. It all happened such a long time ago, darling, and I really didn’t see why I should bother you with the whole, rather sordid, story.
JACK (quietly). Mr Gosport – when did you divorce your first wife?
ARTHUR Let me see, now. I left her to take a part in a revival of The Passing of the Third Floor Back at Barnes.
JACK. I said, when did you divorce her? This is rather important. You did divorce her, didn’t you?
ARTHUR. Yes, of course I did, my dear fellow. I remember perfectly.
JACK. Did you divorce her or did she divorce you?
ARTHUR. We divorced each other, my dear chap.
JACK. In law that isn’t quite possible, Mr Gosport. Who was awarded the decree nisi – you or your wife?
ARTHUR. Decree nisi? What’s that?
JACK. It’s the decision awarded by the judge in a divorce action.
ARTHUR. A judge? I don’t remember a judge. I’m sure if there’d been a judge, I’d have remembered. There was a solicitor – I know that – and a lot of documents to sign –
JACK (voice becoming gradually edged with horror as the truth becomes clearer). Mr Gosport – one solicitor and a lot of documents don’t make a divorce, you know.
ARTHUR. My dear fellow, don’t fuss! Everything was perfectly legal and in order, I assure you.
JACK. You don’t think it might just have been a deed of separation that you signed, and not a divorce at all?
ARTHUR. Of course it was a divorce. It must have been a divorce. The solicitor’s name was Jenkins. He had Commissioner of Oaths on his glass door, I remember.
MURIEL and TOM wander on.
MURIEL. Hullo, Dad. Just been having a look round the stage. Don’t mind, do you?
JACK (urgently). Mrs Palmer, if I ask you a straight question, will you please give me a straight answer?
MURIEL. All right. Fire away.
JACK. Is your mother divorced?
MURIEL. Divorced? Mum? Of course not.
JACK (quietly). Thank you. That was what I had already gathered.
MURIEL. Mind you, she’s often thought of divorcing Dad, but somehow never got round to doing it. Not that she’s got a good word to say for him, mind you. She says he was the laziest, pottiest, most selfish chap she’s ever come across in all her life. ‘He’ll come to a sticky end,’ she used to say to me, when I was a little girl. ‘You mark my words, Mu,’ she used to say, ‘if your dad doesn’t end his days in jail my name’s not Flossie Gosport.’
JACK. Your mother, Mrs Palmer, is plainly a remarkable prophetess. Would you and your husband mind returning to number twenty-one Upper Brecon Road as I have a rather important little matter to discuss with your dad, who will be getting in touch with you in due course.
MURIEL. Okay. Well, ta-ta for now, Dad.
ARTHUR. Ta-ta and I will arrange for three complimentary seats to be left in your name for the Thursday matinée.
TOM. Thanks a million, Dad.
ARTHUR. I’m not your dad, you know.
TOM. In law, old cock, in law.
MURIEL and TOM go off.
There is a pause, after they have gone.
EDNA (to ARTHUR). Darling, I must say it looks as if you’ve been very, very careless.
ARTHUR. Darling, there must be some hideous mistake. The whole thing is absolutely ridiculous. Jack, you must fix it.
JACK. Mr Gosport and Miss Selby – I’m afraid this is something that not even I can fix. You must face, both of you, a very unpleasant fact. You are bigamously married.
There is another pause.
ARTHUR (calling). Miss Fishlock!
MISS FISHLOCK (off). Yes, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. Come here a moment, would you?
MISS FISHLOCK comes in, notebook and pencil at the ready.
Miss Fishlock, it appears that my wife and I have committed bigamy. You’d better ring up the London Office at once and inform Mr Wilmot.
MISS FISHLOCK (faintly). Yes, Mr Gosport. What – did you say – you and your wife have committed?
ARTHUR. Bigamy.
MISS FISHLOCK sways slightly and is supported by JACK. Then clutching her pencil firmly, she bravely writes down the fatal word – or its shorthand equivalent.
MISS FISHLOCK. Yes, Mr Gosport.
EDNA. Silly word, isn’t it? It sounds almost as if Arthur and I had committed a serious crime –
JACK. I hate to alarm you, Miss Selby, but that that is exactly what Mr Gosport has committed.
ARTHUR. You mean, I might have to pay a fine – or something like that?
JACK (gently). Miss Fishlock, do you happen to know the maximum penalty for bigamy?
MISS FISHLOCK nods, biting her quivering lower lip.
ARTHUR. What is it, Miss Fishlock?
MISS FISHLOCK (in a whisper). Imprisonment – for life.
There is a stunned silence.
EDNA. And – does that apply to me too, Miss Fishlock?
MISS FISHLOCK. No, Miss Selby. You haven’t committed any crime – (Nearly in tears.) only Mr Gosport.
EDNA (aghast). They wouldn’t separate us?
JACK. I’m afraid they would, Miss Selby.
EDNA. Oh, no, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. If Arthur has to go to prison, I shall go too.
JACK. I doubt if that is allowed, Miss Selby. Is it, Miss Fishlock?
MISS FISHLOCK. No, Mr Wakefield. I don’t know of any – prison – where – convicts – are allowed to take their wives with them –
The thought is too much for her. She bursts frankly into tears and runs into the wings.
ARTHUR (calling after her). Miss Fishlock! Miss Fishlock! What an idiotic woman, to get so hysterical!
EDNA (approaching him and hugging him). Oh, my darling, I won’t let them take you from me. I won’t! I won’t!
ARTHUR. Darling, there’s nothing at all to get so worked up about. I’ll make a public apology, divorce Flossie properly, and marry you again.
EDNA. But that would be such horrible publicity –
ARTHUR. The Arts Council will fix that. (Suddenly galvanised into life.) Now don’t let’s waste any more time. We’ve got to get to work.
His eye lights on the FIRST HALBERDIER who, all this time, has been patiently sitting in the background waiting to be called for rehearsal.
You! I’ll do your line now. (To EDNA.) Darling, do you mind taking up your position in the potion scene, after you’ve drunk the potion.
While ARTHUR is placing EDNA where he wants her for the scene, JACK goes up to the FIRST HALBERDIER.
JACK. My God! How much did you hear of all that?
FIRST HALBERDIER. Oh, that’s all right, Mr Wakefield, I’m not a tattle-tale. Wish me luck, Mr Wakefield. This is my great chance –
ARTHUR (turning). All right, Mr – Hrrhm. We’re ready for you. Now, I’ll give you your cue.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Thanks, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. Leave a five-second pause, come on, look down at the bed and see what you take to be a dead body. Now I want to get from your expression that you realise that this girl, at whose wedding you have been hired to play, has taken her own life, presumably because she couldn’t face her marriage with Paris, and that she has died for love of another. Your face should express understanding of the undying conflict between spiritual love and this gross, mundane world.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Gracious!
ARTHUR. Well, if you can’t do it, just look sad. Then turn and say your line to your fellow musicians who we presume to be offstage, there. (Points.) Understand?
FIRST HALBERDIER. Yes, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR. All right. Go off. Jack, music.
The FIRST HALBERDIER runs off.
JACK. Panatrope.
ARTHUR. The heavens do lower upon us for some ill. Move them no more by crossing their high will.
After the correct time interval, the FIRST HALBERDIER comes on, acting hard. He gazes down at EDNA, and contrives to look very sad, sighing deeply and shaking his head. Then he turns slowly and faces GEORGE CHUDLEIGH, who has come on silently behind him.
FIRST HALBERDIER (simultaneously). Faith we may put up our pipes and begone.
GEORGE (simultaneously). Faith we may put up our pipes and begone.
ARTHUR What? Oh Mr Hrrhm – you’ve come back.
GEORGE. I just felt I couldn’t desert you both in the hour of your great affliction.
ARTHUR Our great affliction?
JACK. Oh, my God! How did you hear?
GEORGE. I was in The Feathers, and a chap in the company came in and told us all how Mr and Mrs Gosport were likely to get a life sentence for bigamy –
JACK. Oh, God! The news must be half over Brackley by now –
He runs off.
EDNA (calling after him). Don’t worry, Jack. The company, I know, will stand by us. (To GEORGE.) Mr Chudleigh, it was naughty of you to leave us so suddenly, but I think I know what was the matter – we all of us suffer from an occasional crise de nerfs.
CHUDLEIGH. Crise de what!
EDNA. Nerves, Mr Chudleigh, nerves. Now come with me and I’ll give you a nice strong cup of tea.
They go off together.
ARTHUR, during this, has been staring, chin in hand, fixedly at the set. The FIRST HALBERDIER has been staring fixedly, and despairingly, at him.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR. Yes?
FIRST HALBERDIER. Do you want me any more?
ARTHUR. What? Oh, no, thank you.
FIRST HALBERDIER. You couldn’t – let me have another line to say – some time – could you?
ARTHUR (abstractedly). I’ll keep you in mind.
FIRST HALBERDIER (sadly). Thanks, Mr Gosport.
ARTHUR goes off. JACK comes back.
JACK. Too late! It’s out of The Feathers and into The Green Horse, now. They’ve all heard it.
JACK wearily subsides on the stool. The FIRST HALBERDIER approaches him timidly.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Mr Wakefield?
JACK. Yes?
FIRST HALBERDIER. Do you think I should give up the theatre?
JACK. Why ask me?
FIRST HALBERDIER. You know so much about life.
JACK. What has life got to do with the theatre?
FIRST HALBERDIER (wanders to the wings). It’s an awful shame about that line. It came at such an important time, with Miss Selby and Dame Maud on, and after a pause and with a chance for face-acting. The London critics might have noticed me –
JACK (sympathetically). I rather doubt that. The potion scene comes very soon after the interval.
FIRST HALBERDIER. Well, cheeribye.
JACK. Cheeribye.
The FIRST HALBERDIER goes out sadly.
JOHNNY (off). Mr Wakefield!
JACK (calling). Yes, Johnny?
JOHNNY (off). The lady in your dressing room says I’m to tell you time is getting on and you’re not to forget your promise.
JACK (calling). All right. Thank you.
Enter DAME MAUD.
DAME MAUD. What is this terrible news?
JACK. Oh, Dame Maud, have you been to The Feathers!
DAME MAUD. I just looked in for a little refreshment and heard this abominable slander. Jack, have some pity on an old lady and tell me it isn’t true.
JACK. I’m afraid it is true, Dame Maud.
DAME MAUD. I see. Well of course I suppose you know who’s at the bottom of it all, don’t you?
JACK. No. Who?
DAME MAUD. The Old Vic.
JACK. Oh, I don’t think so, Dame Maud.
DAME MAUD. Why dear Jack, are you quite blind? It’s as clear as daylight to me. They stick at nothing, that lot, absolutely nothing. I’m going to ring them up this moment and tell them exactly what I think of them.
JACK. No, Dame Maud, you mustn’t. You really mustn’t.
DAME MAUD. And Sadler’s Wells.
DAME MAUD goes off, followed by JACK.
The stage is empty a moment, and then a uniformed POLICEMAN walks on from the wings with firm measured tread. He looks round him. JOHNNY, still busy on the balcony, comes on.
POLICEMAN. Who’s in charge here, please?
JOHNNY. Mr Wakefield. He’ll be back in a minute.
After shaking the balcony once more, JOHNNY goes off. JACK comes on and stops dead at sight of the POLICEMAN.
JACK (murmuring). Oh God!
POLICEMAN. You Mr Wakefield?
JACK. That’s right, yes. Yes, I’m Mr Wakefield, officer. Yes, that’s quite correct.
POLICEMAN. I understand you want assistance.
POLICEMAN. One of your chaps rang up to say you were having bother at the theatre.
JACK (infinitely relieved). Oh, that! Oh yes. Of course, I’d forgotten. (Laughs, rather hysterically.) Well, well, well! Just fancy your taking all that trouble to come round here. I do think that’s good of you, officer – but as a matter of fact it was all a mistake – an utter misunderstanding –
POLICEMAN. You’re not having any bother?
JACK. Oh, no, no, no! No bother in the world. Not a trace of bother. Everything’s quite, quite perfect.
POLICEMAN. Then I don’t know what you’re doing wasting our time –
JACK. Oh, my dear old chap – I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that. It’s awful to think of you walking all that way from the police station on a wild-goose chase. Look, sit down, my dear fellow, do. (Brings up a stool.) Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you a nice drink. A nice large drink. What would you like? Whisky?
The POLICEMAN nods.
Yes. I thought you would. Now just stay there. Don’t move, will you? There are all sorts of dangerous contraptions in a theatre and you might hurt yourself and that’d be dreadful. Just sit there and relax and I’ll dash and get you an enormous zonk of whisky –
He goes off, still burbling.
The POLICEMAN, sitting patiently on the stool, is evidently rather surprised at the extreme affability of his reception. There is a pause, then DAME MAUD crosses the stage, another glass of Guinness clutched in her hand. She does not at first see the POLICEMAN. When she does she utters one single hoarse and strangled scream, and sinks slowly to the floor in a dead faint. The POLICEMAN rises, startled, as JACK comes back with a whisky.
POLICEMAN. Here, quick! There’s an old lady having a fit –
JACK. What? Oh, it’s Dame Maud. Oh Lord! I suppose she saw you – I mean – she goes off at the slightest thing, you know. (Calling.) Johnny, Johnny! Come here, quick!
JOHNNY comes on.
Give me a hand with Dame Maud.
JOHNNY. Took queer, is she?
JACK. Just one of her dizzy spells –
POLICEMAN. I’d better lend a hand – I know my first aid.
JACK. Oh no. Please don’t bother. You really mustn’t trouble yourself, officer. It’s nothing at all. She’s always doing this. She’s over a hundred, you know – poor old thing. Just sit down and be comfortable, and pay no attention at all.
DAME MAUD (as she is carried off). Get me a drink, for God’s sake!
JACK and JOHNNY carry her into the wings.
The POLICEMAN settles down once more on his stool. There is another pause and EDNA comes on quickly.
EDNA. Jack – are we doing the farewell –
She sees the POLICEMAN and stands quite motionless looking at him as he rises politely. Then, very slowly, she walks towards him.
(Sadly, resignedly, and melodiously.) Ah, well. There is no purpose to be served, I suppose, in kicking against the pricks.
POLICEMAN. Beg pardon, ma’am?
EDNA. Constable – I only want to say one thing. In fifteen years my husband and I have never spent a single night apart –
POLICEMAN (politely). Is that so, ma’am? Just fancy!
EDNA. Not one. If we were separated, I think we would die.
POLICEMAN. Would you indeed, ma’am?
EDNA. I want you to know that nothing can keep us apart. Nothing; and no one – not even you, constable – can come between us now. If you take him, you must take me too.
POLICEMAN (after a pause, stunned with bewilderment). I see, ma’am. I’ll bear that in mind.
JACK comes back and gasps as he sees EDNA with the POLICEMAN.
JACK. Oh, Miss Selby, Dame Maud has been taken a bit faint. She’s calling for you urgently.
EDNA (tragically). What can that matter now? I’ve been telling the constable –
JACK (hastily). Isn’t it nice of the constable to come dashing round just because he heard we were having a little trouble in the theatre – especially when we’re not having any trouble at all – are we?
EDNA (understanding slowly). Oh. Oh, I see. Constable, dear constable, perhaps you’d better forget what I said just now –
POLICEMAN. I’ll try to, ma’am, I’m sure.
EDNA. Just a little secret between the two of us, eh? (To JACK.) What a beautiful line of the neck the constable has, hasn’t he, Jack?
JACK. Beautiful.
POLICEMAN. Here, I say!
EDNA. Goodbye, constable, and thank you for your great, great kindness to us all. I shall never forget it.
She goes off.
POLICEMAN. That was Edna Selby, wasn’t it?
JACK. Yes, officer. You mustn’t, you know, pay too much attention to anything she might have said to you. She’s suffering from the most terrible first-night nerves.
POLICEMAN. Oh, is that the way it takes them?
JACK. Nearly always. Now, if you’ve quite finished your drink, I’d better escort you out –
POLICEMAN. Thanks. I can find my own way out –
JACK. Oh. Well, it’s rather complicated and I wouldn’t like you to be bothered by any of the other actors.
POLICEMAN. Are they all suffering from first-night nerves, then?
JACK. Nearly all of them. Come along, officer. I’ll just clear a way for you –
He and the POLICEMAN move to the wings. JACK goes out.
The POLICEMAN goes back for his helmet, which, in his confusion, he has left by the stool. ARTHUR comes in.
ARTHUR (explosively). Well, really, inspector. This is too much! I do think you might have waited until after the performance.
POLICEMAN. Well – Mr Gosport, sir, I’ve got my work to do – you see –
ARTHUR. But, my dear inspector, you mustn’t listen to a word my wife says. I can assure you we’re divorced. There’s no doubt at all about it.
POLICEMAN. Is that so, sir? I’d no idea.
ARTHUR. And anyway, we haven’t spoken a single word to each other since the general strike.
POLICEMAN. That’s too bad, sir. Your wife gave me to understand quite different –
ARTHUR. Of course she would, my dear fellow. She’s out for publicity, I suppose. But I’ll tell you something else, my dear chap. (Confidentially.) I’m not at all sure that my child is really mine –
POLICEMAN. Good gracious!
JACK comes back in a hurry. ARTHUR goes up to balcony.
JACK. My God! Mr Gosport, Miss Selby’s ready for the farewell. Officer, come this way, please! Please come this way! (Drags the POLICEMAN away from ARTHUR. In a low voice.) You mustn’t pay any attention to him either. Least of all to him.
POLICEMAN. First-night nerves too?
JACK. Far worse than that. He’s completely and utterly off his rocker. It’s terribly, terribly sad –
POLICEMAN. Lor’ love us! But he can still act?
JACK. Yes, he can still act. That’s all he can do. Come along, officer, please.
He gets him off the stage.
JOHNNY has come on to the balcony and is attaching a rope ladder to it. ARTHUR and EDNA appear on the balcony.
JOHNNY goes off, shaking his head.
ARTHUR. Give me the lighting for the farewell, please.
The light comes down to give a rosy dawn effect.
All right. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,
’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is ’t, my soul? Let’s talk; it is not day.
EDNA. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us;
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O! Now I would they had chang’d voices too,
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O! now be gone; more light and light it grows.
ARTHUR. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes.
MISS FISHLOCK suddenly flies on from the wings, and her countenance, transported with joy, is suffused with the rosy gleams of the sun now rising on Verona.
MISS FISHLOCK (in great excitement). Mr Gosport – Miss Selby – I know you’ll forgive me for interrupting you. I have important news.
ARTHUR. Yes, Miss Fishlock?
MISS FISHLOCK. I got through to Mr Wilmot and gave him your message. He was most calm, most kind, most helpful, and most reassuring. He is coming down to Brackley tomorrow morning by an early train in person.
EDNA. How very good of him!
MISS FISHLOCK. What is more he gave me a message to pass on to you both. He says you are on no account to worry yourselves about this matter. He says he happens to know there can be no danger whatever of – of – what we feared –
ARTHUR (triumphantly). I knew it!
MISS FISHLOCK. He says it will probably be necessary for Miss Selby to sign a document saying that at the time she married you, Mr Gosport, she was aware that you were already married. That, of course, would have the effect of making your second marriage null and void.
ARTHUR. Oh. That’s splendid!
MISS FISHLOCK. There can therefore be no question of your having committed an offence in law. Oh, Mr Gosport, he was so wonderfully brave. He went on to say that there should be little difficulty in your getting a divorce from this – this other person. Then, afterwards, should you and Miss Selby still wish it, you could get married again. Only no publicity, of course. And that, of course, would settle the entire problem once and for all. (Beams gladly at the balcony, conscious of a duty well performed.)
EDNA. How brilliant he is, isn’t he, Arthur? I really don’t know why anybody ever works for another management.
ARTHUR. Thank you, Miss Fishlock. You’ve done extremely well. I’m very grateful.
MISS FISHLOCK. I knew you’d both be pleased. Oh, Mr Gosport – I’m so glad – I really am. I do congratulate you. And you too, Miss Selby.
EDNA and ARTHUR (murmuring). Thank you, Miss Fishlock.
MISS FISHLOCK goes off, again in tears, but this time, of joy.
EDNA. Arthur, don’t you think you ought to say a few words to the company? I know they’ll all be overjoyed at the news.
ARTHUR Oh. Very well. (Calling.) Jack, assemble the company, would you?
JACK appears.
JACK. They’re mostly in front already, Mr Gosport. (Looking at front-of-house.) Remain in your seats down there – everyone else on, please.
ARTHUR. Oh, right. (To the house.) Ladies and gentlemen. With regard to this subject of bigamy – the danger point is past. I am sure you will be delighted to hear that Mr Wilmot has discovered a way by which my marriage to Miss Selby can be rendered entirely illegal –
There is a little flutter of handclapping from the wings.
Thank you very much. Nor would it be right to let this occasion pass without extending on your behalf, on Miss Selby’s and on mine, our most grateful thanks to Mr Wilmot, without whose cooperation and – ingenuity – and savoir faire – this very happy result would barely have been possible.
Another outburst of applause, louder than the first. Mr Wilmot’s spies, one feels, are everywhere.
Also to Miss Fishlock, who, as usual, has had to do most of the donkey work, and has done it, as always, far better than anyone would ever expect.
One solitary clap for MISS FISHLOCK.
And lastly, ladies and gentlemen, to yourselves for the great loyalty you have shown in this moment of crisis to my wife, that is to say, Miss Selby, and myself. A thousand thanks. And one other thing. I’m not a difficult man in the theatre, as you know, but I would like to have it perfectly clear that I consider a very great deal of time has been wasted during this break for tea. Please see that it doesn’t occur again. And now – back to work.
ARTHUR goes off.
EDNA. Just a moment, everyone. I also have an announcement to make. I know you will all be overjoyed to hear that Miss Fishlock with characteristic ingenuity has at last successfully completed the National Insurance forms for the entire company.
Enter ARTHUR.
ARTHUR. Bravo. (To EDNA.) Let’s just finish the climb down, my dear.
EDNA. Yes.
ARTHUR climbs onto ladder.
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O! now be gone; more light and light it grows.
ARTHUR. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes.
EDNA. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
ARTHUR. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll descend.
He begins to climb down.
EDNA. Art thou gone so? Oh Arthur – I’ve just thought of something quite, quite dreadful.
ARTHUR. What?
EDNA. Little Basil.
ARTHUR. Little Basil? (Calling.) Miss Fishlock!
MISS FISHLOCK flies on again.
MISS FISHLOCK. Yes, Mr Gosport?
ARTHUR. Ring up Mr Wilmot immediately and inform him that he appears to have made little Basil into a little bastard –
MISS FISHLOCK. Yes, Mr Gosport.
She goes off.
ARTHUR. What’s more there’s far too much light on this scene – don’t you agree, dear?
EDNA. Yes, dear, I do. Especially on the balcony.
ARTHUR (calling). Jack!
JACK comes on.
There’s too much from here and too much from there. (Waving his arms to left and right.) Now is everyone ready?
JACK. You can’t get the lights much lower than this, Mr Gosport, or they’ll go out altogether –
ARTHUR. Nonsense, my dear fellow.
The tabs draw, revealing the Verona scene with the TWO HALBERDIERS, GEORGE CHUDLEIGH, and INGRAM grouped.
Now – are we all here? I just want to do the duel.
DAME MAUD comes onto the balcony.
DAME MAUD. As you’ve stopped, dear, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I gave you another teeny little hint –
EDNA. Not just now, Auntie Maud. Do you mind? Perhaps tomorrow –
DAME MAUD. Tomorrow will be far too late.
EDNA (paying no attention). There’s still too much on the balcony, Jack.
JACK (shouting). Bring it down more, Will! It’ll never stand it, Miss Selby.
EDNA. I’m sure it will – the lights never let us down.
ARTHUR (in Verona). Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again
That late thou gav’st me; for Mercutio’s soul
Is but a little way above our heads,
Staying for thine to keep him company;
Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
INGRAM. Thou wretched boy, that didst consort him here. Shalt with him hence.
ARTHUR. This shall determine that.
INGRAM. What! Art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee – look upon thy death!
JOYCE (shouting above the din). Jack! Jack! Time’s up.
JACK. What? Oh, clear the stage, will you, darling? We’re extremely busy.
JOYCE. No. I won’t. Have you told them yet?
JACK. Told them what? Oh that. No, I haven’t. Look, darling, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for me, that’s all. I can’t leave these two now. I realise that. How can I let them go behind the Iron Curtain without one sane man to look after them?
JOYCE. Sane? You’re not sane! You’re as mad as they are. This madhouse has infected you too.
JACK. Madhouse? This isn’t a madhouse. It’s just an ordinary dress rehearsal, that’s all – now clear the stage, darling.
EDNA. Jack, dear, there’s still too much light on this balcony.
JACK. If you take the lights down more than this, Miss Selby, they’ll fuse.
EDNA. Let them fuse.
ARTHUR (still in Verona). Again, please. That’s too quick.
JOYCE. It’s no good, Jack, I’m leaving you. You’ll never get out of this, it’s bedlam, and you’re in it for life. Goodbye, Jack, goodbye.
She runs off the stage.
JACK. Joyce!
DAME MAUD (looking down from the balcony). Now that girl has talent. Who is she? Arthur – who was that girl?
ARTHUR (still arranging the fight in Verona). I don’t know, Auntie Maud. Get her name, will you, Jack?
JACK. I’ve got her name, Mr Gosport. It’s Joyce Langland. She was my fiancée.
ARTHUR. Good. We’ll try her for Winter’s Tale tomorrow. Now this duel is getting very sloppy. Let’s go back.
EDNA. There’s still too much light, Jack.
JACK. Yes, Miss Selby. Take it down more, Will. And try those thunder and lightning cues two, three, and four.
The lights suddenly go out.
My God! They’ve fused.
Summer lightning is now playing fitfully on the scene.
ARTHUR (calling). House lights. House lights.
The house lights go up. MR BURTON rushes on.
BURTON (in a frantic voice). Take those lights out! It’s 7.30. There’s an audience in front. Look!
He points. A row of startled faces gaze at the now visible audience, and then they scatter in panic to the wings.
The house lights go out. There is a moment’s blackout, disturbed by summer lightning and a roll of thunder. Then the stage lights come on again, revealing an empty stage. ARTHUR comes on slowly carrying his pot.
JACK (off, whispering frantically). Mr Gosport! Mr Gosport! The audience is in front.
He beckons him to the wings. Other faces and other beckoning figures appear, but ARTHUR is oblivious. He walks slowly round the pot, then, dissatisfied with its appearance, picks it up once more and walks slowly out, to the strains of the overture.