First Plays | Page 3

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 name of--Wurzel-Flummery."
MARGARET. Robert!
CRAWSHAW. "I have the honour to be, your obedient servant, Denis Clifton." (He folds the letter up and puts it away.)
MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the money?--
CRAWSHAW (calmly). I have not the slightest idea, Margaret. Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis Clifton to come and see me.
MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy!
CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery!
MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon