First Plays | Page 3

instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it
doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.
RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke
to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.
VIOLA. Of course not.
RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.
VIOLA. Then why does he say it?
RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The
whole structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to
say things like that at Basingstoke. ... But really, darling, we're very
good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't
take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it awfully good of him to insist
on my staying here while my flat was being done up. (Seriously) I bless
him for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I should never have
known you. You were just "Viola"-- the girl I'd seen at odd times since
she was a child; now--oh, why won't you let me tell your father? I hate
it like this.
VIOLA, Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He
would, as they say in novels, show you the door. (Smiling) And I want
you this side of the door for a little bit longer.
RICHARD (firmly). I shall tell him before I go.
VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days.
You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. You
see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates poor people.
RICHARD (viciously). Damn money!
VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual
instability.
RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She
goes to him and--) Oh, Lord, look out!
VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches?
RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT
CRAWSHAW comes in.)
(CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and
whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly
style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look
older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he
undoubtedly is.)

CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at
breakfasts?
CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?
VIOLA (making for the door). I don't know, father; do you want her?
CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.
VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [She goes out.]
(RICHARD Picks up "The Times" and sits down again.)
CRAWSHAW (sitting down in a business-like way at his desk).
Richard, why don't you get something to do?
RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.
CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--
work in the House.
RICHARD (a trifle cool). I have something to do.
CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should
get a directorship or something in the City.
RICHARD. I hate the City.
CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual
arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke.
RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me.
CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing
personal. (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest boasts of
the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere
with his private friendships.
RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
[Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT
CRAWSHAW for twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from
habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly
call her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.]
MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast
was all right.
RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.
MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?
CRAWSHAW. (obviously uncomfortable).
Yes--er--h'rm--Richard--er-- what are your--er--plans?
RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?
MARGARET. Of course not. (TO ROBERT) Are you, dear?

CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret.
We can leave Richard here with the paper.
RICHARD. No, no; I'm going.
CRAWSHAW (going to the door with him). I have some particular
business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult you
in the matter afterwards.
RICHARD. Right! [He goes out.]
CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news
for you.
MARGARET (sitting down). Yes, Robert?
CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. (He reads it) "199,
Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have pleasure to inform you that under
the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the
extent of £50,000."
MARGARET. Robert!
CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that
you should take the