Fanny's First Play/Act 3

:Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table is not laid: it is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an exercise-book, and school-books on it. Bobby Gilbey is in the arm-chair, crouching over the fire, reading an illustrated paper. He is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, strong and manly enough by nature, but untrained and unsatisfactory, his parents having imagined that domestic restriction is what they call "bringing up." He has learnt nothing from it except a habit of evading it by deceit.
:He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins answers the bell.
BOBBY. Juggins.
JUGGINS. Sir?
BOBBY. [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed!
JUGGINS. [cheerfully] Not at all, sir.
BOBBY. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man.
JUGGINS. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you
sir; and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain.
BOBBY. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it?
JUGGINS. No, sir.
BOBBY. Ive been talking to Dora about you.
JUGGINS. Indeed, sir?
BOBBY. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have
the manners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadnt any manners.
Anyhow, your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in
my set.
JUGGINS. They would be, sir.
BOBBY. You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of
Dora's notion, I suppose.
JUGGINS. No, sir.
BOBBY. [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over the arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman] It was part of your bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it?
JUGGINS. Yes, sir.
BOBBY. Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an engagement to a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise or behaving like a regular cad?
JUGGINS. No, sir. You cant get out of an engagement without behaving like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it.
BOBBY. But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dont
really care for her.
JUGGINS. Women dont always marry for happiness, sir. They often
marry because they wish to be married women and not old maids.
BOBBY. Then what am I to do?
JUGGINS. Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad.
BOBBY. [Jumping up] Well, I wont marry her: thats flat. What
would you do if you were in my place?
JUGGINS. I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil
my engagement.
BOBBY. But youd have to make some excuse, you know. I want to give
it a gentlemanly turn: to say I'm not worthy of her, or something
like that.
JUGGINS. That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite the contrary.
BOBBY. I dont see that at all. Do you mean that it's not exactly true?
JUGGINS. Not at all, sir.
BOBBY. I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been.
That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather
exceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can
ever be of anyone else. You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of
a girl's feelings.
JUGGINS. If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her.
If you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get
credit for considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare
them. She wont like it. And it will start an argument, of which you
will get the worse.
BOBBY. But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her.
JUGGINS. Probably she never supposed you were, sir.
BOBBY. Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist.
JUGGINS. [preparing to go] Anything else, sir?
BOBBY. [querulously] You havnt been much use. [He wanders disconsolately across the room]. You generally put me up to the correct way of doing things.
JUGGINS. I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting. It's
not correct in itself.
BOBBY. [hopefully] I'll tell you what. I'll say I cant hold her to an engagement with a man whos been in quod. Thatll do it. [He seats himself on the table, relieved and confident].
JUGGINS. Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny herself the
romantic luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the
form of doing something agreeable. Shes almost sure to say that your
misfortune will draw her closer to you.
BOBBY. What a nuisance! I dont know what to do. You know, Juggins,
your cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark
Hill.
JUGGINS. I daresay not, sir. No doubt youd prefer to make it look
like an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke
her to break the engagement herself. Both plans have been tried
repeatedly, but never with success, as far as my knowledge goes.
BOBBY. You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law. You
know, in my class you have to wrap up things a bit. Denmark Hill
isn't Camberwell, you know.
JUGGINS. I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the
higher you go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and
that only tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere. Thats a mistake.
Tramps are often shameless; but theyre never sincere. Swells—if I
may use that convenient name for the upper classes—play much more
with their cards on the table. If you tell the young lady that you
want to jilt her, and she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction
may leave much to be desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if
you say youre not worthy.
BOBBY. Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins. The girl isnt a
scullery-maid. I want to do it delicately.
JUGGINS. A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in
that line.—Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell. [He goes out].
:Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes off the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. Juggins returns.
JUGGINS. [announcing] Miss Knox.
:Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws.
MARGARET. Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination, Bobby? Youll never pass.
BOBBY. [rising] No: I was just writing to you.
MARGARET. What about?
BOBBY. Oh, nothing. At least— How are you?
MARGARET. [passing round the other end of the table and putting down on it a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag] Quite well, thank you. How did you enjoy Brighton?
BOBBY. Brighton! I wasnt at— Oh yes, of course. Oh, pretty well.
Is your aunt all right?
MARGARET. My aunt! I suppose so. I havent seen her for a month.
BOBBY. I thought you were down staying with her.
MARGARET. Oh! was that what they told you?
BOBBY. Yes. Why? Werent you really?
MARGARET. No. Ive something to tell you. Sit down and lets be comfortable.
:She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and puts his arm wearily round her waist.
MARGARET. You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby. Suppose we get
off duty for the day, just to see what it's like.
BOBBY. Off duty? What do you mean?
MARGARET. You know very well what I mean. Bobby: did you ever care one little scrap for me in that sort of way? Dont funk answering: I dont care a bit for you—that way.
BOBBY. [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your pardon, I'm
sure. I thought you did.
MARGARET. Well, did you? Come! Dont be mean. Ive owned up. You
can put it all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more
than I do.
BOBBY. You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars.
MARGARET. Yes.
BOBBY. Well, it's not that I dont care for you: in fact, no girl can
ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much
together that it feels more like brother and sister than—well, than
the other thing, doesnt it?
MARGARET. Just so. How did you find out the difference?
BOBBY. [blushing] Oh, I say!
MARGARET. I found out from a Frenchman.
BOBBY. Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his consternation].
MARGARET. Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? You know you must
have learnt it from somebody.
BOBBY. Not a Frenchwoman. Shes quite a nice woman. But shes been
rather unfortunate. The daughter of a clergyman.
MARGARET. [startled] Oh, Bobby! That sort of woman!
BOBBY. What sort of woman?
MARGARET. You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do
you, you silly boy? It's a stock joke.
BOBBY. Do you mean to say you dont believe me?
MARGARET. No: I mean to say I dont believe her.
BOBBY. [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table beside her]. What do you know about her? What do you know about all this sort of thing?
MARGARET. What sort of thing, Bobby?
BOBBY. Well, about life.
MARGARET. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasnt at my
aunt's. All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean.
BOBBY. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better tell you: youre bound to find out sooner or later. [He begins his confession humbly, avoiding her gaze]. Meg: it's rather awful: youll think me no end of a beast. Ive been in prison.
MARGARET. You!
BOBBY. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police.
MARGARET. Do you mean to say that you—oh! this is a let-down for me. [She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the end of it furthest from the hearth].
BOBBY. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that. I was writing to you to break it off. [He also descends from the table and makes slowly for the hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter.
MARGARET. Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and assaulting the police? How long were you in?
BOBBY. A fortnight.
MARGARET. Thats what I was in for.
BOBBY. What are you talking about? In where?
MARGARET. In quod.
BOBBY. But I'm serious: I'm not rotting. Really and truly—
MARGARET. What did you do to the copper?
BOBBY. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated grossly. I only
laughed at him.
MARGARET. [jumping up, triumphant] Ive beaten you hollow. I
knocked out two of his teeth. Ive got one of them. He sold it to me
for ten shillings.
BOBBY. Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you I'm not rotting.
[He sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily].
MARGARET. [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him]
And I tell you I'm not either. Look! Heres a report of it. The
daily papers are no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid. [She
sits on the arm of the chair]. See! [Reading]: "Hardened at
Eighteen. A quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her
name"—thats me.
BOBBY. [pausing a moment in his perusal] Do you mean to say that
you went on the loose out of pure devilment?
MARGARET. I did no harm. I went to see a lovely dance. I picked up
a nice man and went to have a dance myself. I cant imagine anything
more innocent and more happy. All the bad part was done by other
people: they did it out of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here
we are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever. Isnt it a relief?
BOBBY. [rising stiffly] But you know, it's not the same for a girl. A man may do things a woman maynt. [He stands on the hearthrug with his back to the fire].
MARGARET. Are you scandalized, Bobby?
BOBBY. Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg? I
never thought you were that sort of girl.
MARGARET. [rising indignantly] I'm not. You mustnt pretend to
think that I'm a clergyman's daughter, Bobby.
BOBBY. I wish you wouldnt chaff about that. Dont forget the row you got into for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back on him quickly]—a footman! And what about the Frenchman?
MARGARET. [facing him again] I know nothing about the Frenchman
except that hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like
the hand of a clock and knock a policeman down with it. He was in
Wormwood Scrubbs with you. I was in Holloway.
BOBBY. It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit
thick, you know.
MARGARET. Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison?
BOBBY. [hastily] No. I never said that. It might even give a
woman a greater claim on a man. Any girl, if she were thoughtless and
a bit on, perhaps, might get into a scrape. Anyone who really
understood her character could see there was no harm in it. But youre
not the larky sort. At least you usent to be.
MARGARET. I'm not; and I never will be. [She walks straight up to him]. I didnt do it for a lark, Bob: I did it out of the very depths of my nature. I did it because I'm that sort of person. I did it in one of my religious fits. I'm hardened at eighteen, as they
say. So what about the match, now?
BOBBY. Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg. Of
course it would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or
anything of that sort. I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and
I dont pretend to. I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as
long as it is understood that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go
on the loose on principle; to talk about religion in connection with
it; to—to—well, Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say. I hope
youre not in earnest when you talk that way.
MARGARET. Bobby: youre no good. No good to me, anyhow.
BOBBY. [huffed] I'm sorry, Miss Knox.
MARGARET. Goodbye, Mr Gilbey. [She turns on her heel and goes to the other end of the table]. I suppose you wont introduce me to the clergyman's daughter.
BOBBY. I dont think she'd like it. There are limits, after all. [He sits down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books: a hint to her to go].
MARGARET. [on her way to the door] Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell
Juggins to shew me out.
BOBBY. [reddening] I'm not a cad, Meg.
MARGARET. [coming to the table] Then do something nice to prevent
us feeling mean about this afterwards. Youd better kiss me. You
neednt ever do it again.
BOBBY. If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you.
MARGARET. Oh, it'd be no fun. If I wanted what you call fun, I
should ask the Frenchman to kiss me—or Juggins.
BOBBY. [rising and retreating to the hearth] Oh, dont be
disgusting, Meg. Dont be low.
MARGARET. [determinedly, preparing to use force] Now, I'll make you kiss me, just to punish you. [She seizes his wrist; pulls him off his balance; and gets her arm round his neck].
BOBBY. No. Stop. Leave go, will you.
Juggins appears at the door.
JUGGINS. Miss Delaney, Sir. [Dora comes in. Juggins goes out. Margaret hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the room.]
DORA. [through the door, to the departing Juggins] Well, you are a
Juggins to shew me up when theres company. [To Margaret and Bobby]
It's all right, dear: all right, old man: I'll wait in Juggins's
pantry til youre disengaged.
MARGARET. Dont you know me?
DORA. [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very attentively] Why, it's never No. 406!
MARGARET. Yes it is.
DORA. Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform. How
did you get out? You were doing a month, wernt you?
MARGARET. My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself.
DORA. A real gentleman! [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring open-mouthed] Look at him. He cant take it in.
BOBBY. I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg. But when
it comes to talking about blokes and all that—well!
MARGARET. Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it. It's another
barrier broken down.
BOBBY. It's not so much the language, Meg. But I think [he looks at Dora and stops].
MARGARET. [suddenly dangerous] What do you think, Bobby?
DORA. He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie. It does
him credit: he always was a gentleman, you know.
MARGARET. Does him credit! To insult you like that! Bobby: say
that that wasnt what you meant.
BOBBY. I didnt say it was.
MARGARET. Well, deny that it was.
BOBBY. No. I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think
it's not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her.
DORA. Of course it isnt, old man. [To Margaret] I'll just trot off and come back in half an hour. You two can make it up together. I'm really not fit company for you, dearie: I couldnt live up to you. [She turns to go].
MARGARET. Stop. Do you believe he could live up to me?
DORA. Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and a
respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself.
I have a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some.
MARGARET. You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's
behaving like a skunk.
BOBBY. [much ruffled] Nice language that!
DORA. Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep
up their respectability. But you cant blame them for that, can you?
Ive met Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead.
I wont pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear?
MARGARET. And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in countenance. Well, I shant: not if my whole family were there. But I'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat you properly. [To Bobby, with a threatening move in his direction] I'll educate you, you young beast.
BOBBY. [furious, meeting her half way] Who are you calling a young
beast?
MARGARET. You.
DORA. [peacemaking] Now, dearies!
BOBBY. If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly well
clouted.
MARGARET. If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be
the beginning of a collection.
DORA. Now, loveys, be good.
:Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at Margaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended countenance a box on the cheek. He hurls himself at her. They wrestle.
BOBBY. Cat! I'll teach you.
MARGARET. Pig! Beast! [She forces him backwards on the table].
Now where are you?
DORA. [calling] Juggins, Juggins. Theyll murder one another.
JUGGINS. [throwing open the door, and announcing] Monsieur
Duvallet.
Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence.
The combatants separate by the whole width of the room. Juggins
withdraws.''
DUVALLET. I fear I derange you.
MARGARET. Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: Monsieur
Duvallet will think I'm always fighting.
DUVALLET. Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling.
Admirable, Miss Knox. The athletic young Englishwoman is an example
to all Europe. [Indicating Bobby] Your instructor, no doubt.
Monsieur— [he bows].
BOBBY. [bowing awkwardly] How d'y' do?
MARGARET. [to Bobby] I'm so sorry, Bobby: I asked Monsieur Duvallet to call for me here; and I forgot to tell you. [Introducing] Monsieur Duvallet: Miss Four hundred and seven. Mr
Bobby Gilbey. [Duvallet bows]. I really dont know how to explain
our relationships. Bobby and I are like brother and sister.
DUVALLET. Perfectly. I noticed it.
MARGARET. Bobby and Miss—Miss—
DORA. Delaney, dear. [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to
real friends.
MARGARET. Bobby and Dora are—are—well, not brother and sister.
DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension] Perfectly.
MARGARET. Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison. You dont
mind, do you?
DUVALLET. No, naturally. I have spent the last fortnight in
prison.
:The conversation drops. Margaret renews it with an effort.
MARGARET. Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison.
DUVALLET. Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement.
DORA. Trop merci, as they say in Boulogne. No call to be stiff
with one another, have we?
:Juggins comes in.
JUGGINS. Beg pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the
street.
DORA. Let me absquatulate [making for the door].
JUGGINS. If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step into my pantry and leave afterwards.
DORA. Right oh! [She bursts into song]
:Hide me in the meat safe til the cop goes by.
:Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh.
[She goes out on tiptoe].
MARGARET. I wont stay here if she has to hide. I'll keep her company
in the pantry. [She follows Dora].
BOBBY. Lets all go. We cant have any fun with the Mar here. I say,
Juggins: you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you?
JUGGINS. Certainly, sir.
BOBBY. Right. Say nothing to my mother. You dont mind, Mr. Doovalley, do you?
DUVALLET. I shall be charmed.
BOBBY. Right you are. Come along. [At the door] Oh, by the way,
Juggins, fetch down that concertina from my room, will you?
JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him to the door]. You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely comme il faut?
DUVALLET. Perfectly. But the other?
JUGGINS. The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately
described in your native idiom as a daughter of joy.
DUVALLET. It is what I thought. These English domestic interiors are
very interesting. [He goes out, followed by Juggins].
:Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in. They take their accustomed places: he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table.
MRS GILBEY. Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob?
GILBEY. No, I didnt. And I dont want to smell it. Dont you go
looking for trouble, Maria.
MRS GILBEY. [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere] Shes been here.
[Gilbey rings the bell]. What are you ringing for? Are you going
to ask?
GILBEY. No, I'm not going to ask. Juggins said this morning he wanted to speak to me. If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not going to ask; and dont you either. [Juggins appears at the door]. You said you wanted to say something to me.
JUGGINS. When it would be convenient to you, sir.
GILBEY. Well, what is it?
MRS GILBEY. Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea.
GILBEY. He knows that. [He sits down. Then, to Juggins] What is it?
JUGGINS. [advancing to the middle of the table] Would it inconvenience you, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice?
GILBEY. [taken aback] What! Why? Aint you satisfied?
JUGGINS. Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better myself, I
assure you.
GILBEY. Well, what do you want to leave for, then? Do you want to
worse yourself?
JUGGINS. No, sir. Ive been well treated in your most comfortable
establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbey
were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction.
GILBEY. [paternally] Now you listen to me, Juggins. I'm an older
man than you. Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh.
Dont get too big for your boots. Youre like all servants nowadays:
you think youve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a
dozen jobs. But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated here.
In bed every night before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on
Mrs Gilbey's day once a month; and no other manservant to interfere
with you. It may be a bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of
adventure. Take my advice: think over it. You suit me; and I'm
prepared to make it suit you if youre dissatisfied—in reason, you
know.
JUGGINS. I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private reasons—
GILBEY. [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug in dudgeon] Oh, I know. Very well: go. The sooner the better.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, not until we're suited. He must stay his month.
GILBEY. [sarcastic] Do you want to lose him his character, Maria?
Do you think I dont see what it is? We're prison folk now. Weve been
in the police court. [To Juggins] Well, I suppose you know your
own business best. I take your notice: you can go when your month is
up, or sooner, if you like.
JUGGINS. Believe me, sir—
GILBEY. Thats enough: I dont want any excuses. I dont blame you.
You can go downstairs now, if youve nothing else to trouble me about.
JUGGINS. I really cant leave it at that, sir. I assure you Ive no
objection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison. You may do six months
yourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me.
I'm leaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement,
and feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets
over it.
GILBEY. And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend your
savings in comforting him? Have some sense, man: how can you afford
such things?
JUGGINS. My brother can afford to keep me, sir. The truth is, he
objects to my being in service.
GILBEY. Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him? Dont
do it, Juggins: pay your own way like an honest lad; and dont eat
your brother's bread while youre able to earn your own.
JUGGINS. There is sound sense in that, sir. But unfortunately it is
a tradition in my family that the younger brothers should spunge to a
considerable extent on the eldest.
GILBEY. Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man.
JUGGINS. A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent one.
GILBEY. Radical! What do you mean? Dont you begin to take
liberties, Juggins, now that you know we're loth to part with you.
Your brother isnt a duke, you know.
JUGGINS. Unfortunately, he is, sir.
:[Together]
GILBEY. What!
MRS GILBY. Juggins!
JUGGINS. Excuse me, sir: the bell. [He goes out].
GILBEY. [overwhelmed] Maria: did you understand him to say his
brother was a duke?
MRS GILBEY. Fancy his condescending! Perhaps if youd offer to raise
his wages and treat him as one of the family, he'd stay.
GILBEY. And have my own servant above me! Not me. Whats the world
coming to? Heres Bobby and—
JUGGINS. [entering and announcing] Mr and Mrs Knox.
The Knoxes come in. Juggins takes two chairs from the wall and places them at the table, getween the host and hostess. Then he withdraws.
MRS GILBEY. [to Mrs Knox] How are you, dear?
MRS KNOX. Nicely, thank you. Good evening, Mr Gilbey. [They shake hands; and she takes the chair nearest Mrs Gilbey. Mr Knox takes the other chair].
GILBEY. [sitting down] I was just saying, Knox, What is the world
coming to?
KNOX. [appealing to his wife] What was I saying myself only this
morning?
MRS KNOX. This is a strange time. I was never one to talk about the
end of the world; but look at the things that have happened!
KNOX. Earthquakes!
GILBEY. San Francisco!
MRS GILBEY. Jamaica!
KNOX. Martinique!
GILBEY. Messina!
MRS GILBEY. The plague in China!
MRS KNOX. The floods in France!
GILBEY. My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs!
KNOX. Margaret in Holloway!
GILBEY. And now my footman tells me his brother's a duke!
KNOX. No!
 
MRS KNOX. Whats that?
GILBEY. Just before he let you in. A duke! Here has everything been
respectable from the beginning of the world, as you may say, to the
present day; and all of a sudden everything is turned upside down.
MRS KNOX. It's like in the book of Revelations. But I do say that
unless people have happiness within themselves, all the earthquakes,
all the floods, and all the prisons in the world cant make them really
happy.
KNOX. It isnt alone the curious things that are happening, but the
unnatural way people are taking them. Why, theres Margaret been in
prison, and she hasnt time to go to all the invitations shes had from
people that never asked her before.
GILBEY. I never knew we could live without being respectable.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, Rob, what a thing to say! Who says we're not
respectable?
GILBEY. Well, it's not what I call respectable to have your children
in and out of gaol.
KNOX. Oh come, Gilbey! we're not tramps because weve had, as it were,
an accident.
GILBEY. It's no use, Knox: look it in the face. Did I ever tell you
my father drank?
KNOX. No. But I knew it. Simmons told me.
GILBEY. Yes: he never could keep his mouth quiet: he told me your
aunt was a kleptomaniac.
MRS KNOX. It wasnt true, Mr Gilbey. She used to pick up
handkerchiefs if she saw them lying about; but you might trust her
with untold silver.
GILBEY. My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller. My father used to say to
me: Rob, he says, dont you ever have a weakness. If you find one
getting a hold on you, make a merit of it, he says. Your Uncle Phil
doesnt like spirits; and he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of
the Blue Ribbon Committee. I do like spirits; and I make a merit of
it, and I'm the King Cockatoo of the Convivial Cockatoos. Never put
yourself in the wrong, he says. I used to boast about what a good boy
Bobby was. Now I swank about what a dog he is; and it pleases people
just as well. What a world it is!
KNOX. It turned my blood cold at first to hear Margaret telling
people about Holloway; but it goes down better than her singing used
to.
MRS KNOX. I never thought she sang right after all those lessons we
paid for.
GILBEY. Lord, Knox, it was lucky you and me got let in together. I
tell you straight, if it hadnt been for Bobby's disgrace, I'd have
broke up the firm.
KNOX. I shouldnt have blamed you: I'd have done the same only for
Margaret. Too much straightlacedness narrows a man's mind. Talking
of that, what about those hygienic corset advertisements that Vines &
Jackson want us to put in the window? I told Vines they werent decent
and we couldnt shew them in our shop. I was pretty high with him.
But what am I to say to him now if he comes and throws this business
in our teeth?
GILBEY. Oh, put em in. We may as well go it a bit now.
MRS GILBEY. Youve been going it quite far enough, Rob. [To Mrs Knox] He wont get up in the mornings now: he that was always out of bed at seven to the tick!
MRS KNOX. You hear that, Jo? [To Mrs Gilbey] Hes taken to whisky
and soda. A pint a week! And the beer the same as before!
KNOX. Oh, dont preach, old girl.
MRS KNOX. [To Mrs Gilbey] Thats a new name hes got for me. [to
Knox] I tell you, Jo, this doesnt sit well on you. You may call it
preaching if you like; but it's the truth for all that. I say that if
youve happiness within yourself, you dont need to seek it outside,
spending money on drink and theatres and bad company, and being
miserable after all. You can sit at home and be happy; and you can
work and be happy. If you have that in you, the spirit will set you
free to do what you want and guide you to do right. But if you havent
got it, then youd best be respectable and stick to the ways that are
marked out for you; for youve nothing else to keep you straight.
KNOX. [angrily] And is a man never to have a bit of fun? See
whats come of it with your daughter! She was to be content with your
happiness that youre always talking about; and how did the spirit
guide her? To a month's hard for being drunk and assaulting the
police. Did I ever assault the police?
MRS KNOX. You wouldnt have the courage. I dont blame the girl.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, Maria! What are you saying?
 
GILBEY. What! And you so pious!
MRS KNOX. She went where the spirit guided her. And what harm there
was in it she knew nothing about.
GILBEY. Oh, come, Mrs Knox! Girls are not so innocent as all that.
MRS KNOX. I dont say she was ignorant. But I do say that she didnt
know what we know: I mean the way certain temptations get a sudden
hold that no goodness nor self-control is any use against. She was
saved from that, and had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no
earthly protection that did that. But dont think, you two men, that
youll be protected if you make what she did an excuse to go and do as
youd like to do if it wasnt for fear of losing your characters. The
spirit wont guide you, because it isnt in you; and it never had been:
not in either of you.
GILBEY. [with ironic humility] I'm sure I'm obliged to you for
your good opinion, Mrs Knox.
MRS KNOX. Well, I will say for you, Mr Gilbey, that youre better than
my man here. Hes a bitter hard heathen, is my Jo, God help me! [She
begins to cry quietly].
KNOX. Now, dont take on like that, Amelia. You know I always give in
to you that you were right about religion. But one of us had to think
of other things, or we'd have starved, we and the child.
MRS KNOX. How do you know youd have starved? All the other things
might have been added unto you.
GILBEY. Come, Mrs Knox, dont tell me Knox is a sinner. I know
better. I'm sure youd be the first to be sorry if anything was to
happen to him.
KNOX. [bitterly to his wife] Youve always had some grudge against
me; and nobody but yourself can understand what it is.
MRS KNOX. I wanted a man who had that happiness within himself. You
made me think you had it; but it was nothing but being in love with
me.
MRS GILBEY. And do you blame him for that?
MRS KNOX. I blame nobody. But let him not think he can walk by his
own light. I tell him that if he gives up being respectable he'll go
right down to the bottom of the hill. He has no powers inside himself
to keep him steady; so let him cling to the powers outside him.
KNOX. [rising angrily] Who wants to give up being respectable?
All this for a pint of whisky that lasted a week! How long would it
have lasted Simmons, I wonder?
MRS KNOX. [gently] Oh, well, say no more, Jo. I wont plague you
about it. [He sits down]. You never did understand; and you never
will. Hardly anybody understands: even Margaret didnt til she went
to prison. She does now; and I shall have a companion in the house
after all these lonely years.
KNOX. [beginning to cry] I did all I could to make you happy. I
never said a harsh word to you.
GILBEY. [rising indignantly] What right have you to treat a man
like that? an honest respectable husband? as if he were dirt under
your feet?
KNOX. Let her alone, Gilbey. [Gilbey sits down, but mutinously].
MRS KNOX. Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and if it wasnt what I
wanted, that wasnt your fault. But I'd rather have you as you were
than since you took to whisky and soda.
KNOX. I dont want any whisky and soda. I'll take the pledge if you
like.
MRS KNOX. No: you shall have your beer because you like it. The
whisky was only brag. And if you and me are to remain friends, Mr
Gilbey, youll get up to-morrow morning at seven.
GILBEY. [defiantly] Damme if I will! There!
MRS KNOX. [with gentle pity] How do you know, Mr Gilbey, what
youll do to-morrow morning?
GILBEY. Why shouldnt I know? Are we children not to be let do what
we like, and our own sons and daughters kicking their heels all over
the place? [To Knox] I was never one to interfere between man and
wife, Knox; but if Maria started ordering me about like that—
MRS GILBEY. Now dont be naughty, Rob. You know you mustnt set
yourself up against religion?
GILBEY. Whos setting himself up against religion?
MRS KNOX. It doesnt matter whether you set yourself up against it or
not, Mr. Gilbey. If it sets itself up against you, youll have to go
the appointed way: it's no use quarrelling about it with me that am
as great a sinner as yourself.
GILBEY. Oh, indeed! And who told you I was a sinner?
MRS GILBEY. Now, Rob, you know we are all sinners. What else is
religion?
GILBEY. I say nothing against religion. I suppose were all sinners,
in a manner of speaking; but I dont like to have it thrown at me as if
I'd really done anything.
MRS GILBEY. Mrs Knox is speaking for your good, Rob.
GILBEY. Well, I dont like to be spoken to for my good. Would anybody
like it?
MRS KNOX. Dont take offence where none is meant, Mr Gilbey. Talk
about something else. No good ever comes of arguing about such things
among the like of us.
KNOX. The like of us! Are you throwing it in our teeth that your
people were in the wholesale and thought Knox and Gilbey wasnt good
enough for you?
MRS KNOX. No, Jo: you know I'm not. What better were my people than
yours, for all their pride? But Ive noticed it all my life: we're
ignorant. We dont really know whats right and whats wrong. We're all
right as long as things go on the way they always did. We bring our
children up just as we were brought up; and we go to church or chapel
just as our parents did; and we say what everybody says; and it goes
on all right until something out of the way happens: theres a family
quarrel, or one of the children goes wrong, or a father takes to
drink, or an aunt goes mad, or one of us finds ourselves doing
something we never thought we'd want to do. And then you know what
happens: complaints and quarrels and huff and offence and bad
language and bad temper and regular bewilderment as if Satan possessed
us all. We find out then that with all our respectability and piety,
weve no real religion and no way of telling right from wrong. Weve
nothing but our habits; and when theyre upset, where are we? Just
like Peter in the storm trying to walk on the water and finding he
couldnt.
MRS GILBEY. [piously] Aye! He found out, didnt he?
GILBEY. [reverently] I never denied that youve a great intellect,
Mrs Knox—
MRS KNOX. Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you begin talking about
my intellect. Give us some tea, Maria. Ive said my say; and Im sure
I beg the company's pardon for being so long about it, and so
disagreeable.
MRS GILBEY. Ring, Rob. [Gilbey rings]. Stop. Juggins will think
we're ringing for him.
GILBEY. [appalled] It's too late. I rang before I thought of it.
MRS GILBEY. Step down and apologize, Rob.
KNOX. Is it him that you said was brother to a—
Juggins comes in with the tea-tray. All rise. He takes the tray to
Mrs. Gilbey.''
GILBEY. I didnt mean to ask you to do this, Mr Juggins. I wasnt
thinking when I rang.
MRS GILBEY. [trying to take the tray from him] Let me, Juggins.
JUGGINS. Please sit down, madam. Allow me to discharge my duties
just as usual, sir. I assure you that is the correct thing. [They
sit down, ill at ease, whilst he places the tray on the table. He
then goes out for the curate].
KNOX. [lowering his voice] Is this all right, Gilbey? Anybody may
be the son of a duke, you know. Is he legitimate?
GILBEY. Good lord! I never thought of that.
Juggins returns with the cakes. They regard him with suspicion.
GILBEY. [whispering to Knox] You ask him.
KNOX. [to Juggins] Just a word with you, my man. Was your mother
married to your father?
JUGGINS. I believe so, sir. I cant say from personal knowledge. It
was before my time.
GILBEY. Well, but look here you know—[he hesitates].
JUGGINS. Yes, sir?
KNOX. I know whatll clinch it, Gilbey. You leave it to me. [To
Juggins] Was your mother the duchess?
JUGGINS. Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir, I assure you. [To Mrs
Gilbey] That is the milk, madam. [She has mistaken the jugs].
This is the water.
They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment.
MRS KNOX. What did I tell you? Heres something out of the common
happening with a servant; and we none of us know how to behave.
JUGGINS. It's quite simple, madam. I'm a footman, and should be
treated as a footman. [He proceeds calmly with his duties, handing
round cups of tea as Mrs Knox fills them].
Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the company.
MRS GILBEY. Whats that noise? Is Master Bobby at home? I heard his
laugh.
MRS KNOX. I'm sure I heard Margaret's.
GILBEY. Not a bit of it. It was that woman.
JUGGINS. I can explain, sir. I must ask you to excuse the liberty;
but I'm entertaining a small party to tea in my pantry.
MRS GILBEY. But youre not entertaining Master Bobby?
JUGGINS. Yes, madam.
GILBEY. Who's with him?
JUGGINS. Miss Knox, sir.
GILBEY. Miss Knox! Are you sure? Is there anyone else?
JUGGINS. Only a French marine officer, sir, and—er—Miss Delaney.
[He places Gilbey's tea on the table before him]. The lady that
called about Master Bobby, sir.
KNOX. Do you mean to say theyre having a party all to themselves
downstairs, and we having a party up here and knowing nothing about
it?
JUGGINS. Yes, sir. I have to do a good deal of entertaining in the
pantry for Master Bobby, sir.
GILBEY. Well, this is a nice state of things!
KNOX. Whats the meaning of it? What do they do it for?
JUGGINS. To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think.
MRS GILBEY. Enjoy themselves! Did ever anybody hear of such a thing?
GILBEY. Knox's daughter shewn into my pantry!
KNOX. Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a footman— [Suddenly
realizing that the footman is offering him cake.] She doesnt know
about—about His Grace, you know.
MRS GILBEY. Perhaps she does. Does she, Mr Juggins?
JUGGINS. The other lady suspects me, madam. They call me Rudolph, or
the Long Lost Heir.
MRS GILBEY. It's a much nicer name than Juggins. I think I'll call
you by it, if you dont mind.
JUGGINS. Not at all, madam.
Roars of merriment from below.
GILBEY. Go and tell them to stop laughing. What right have they to
make a noise like that?
JUGGINS. I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir. But the French
gentleman always sets them off again.
KNOX. Do you mean to tell me that my daughter laughs at a Frenchman's
jokes?
GILBEY. We all know what French jokes are.
JUGGINS. Believe me: you do not, sir. The noise this afternoon has
all been because the Frenchman said that the cat had whooping cough.
MRS GILBEY. [laughing heartily] Well, I never!
GILBEY. Dont be a fool, Maria. Look here, Knox: we cant let this go
on. People cant be allowed to behave like this.
KNOX. Just what I say.
A concertina adds its music to the revelry.
MRS GILBEY. [excited] Thats the squiffer. Hes bought it for her.
GILBEY. Well, of all the scandalous— [Redoubled laughter from
below].
KNOX. I'll put a stop to this. [He goes out to the landing and
shouts] Margaret! [Sudden dead silence]. Margaret, I say!
MARGARET'S VOICE. Yes, father. Shall we all come up? We're dying
to.
KNOX. Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like wild
Indians.
DORA'S VOICE [screaming] Oh! oh! oh! Dont Bobby. Now—oh! [In
headlong flight she dashes into and right across the room, breathless,
and slightly abashed by the company]. I beg your pardon, Mrs Gilbey,
for coming in like that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby,
he pretends it's a cat biting my ankles; and I just must scream.
Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently in high
spirits. Bobby places himself near his father, on the hearthrug, and
presently slips down into the arm-chair.''
MARGARET. How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey? [She posts herself behind her
mother].
Duvallet comes in behaving himself perfectly. Knox follows.
MARGARET. Oh—let me introduce. My friend Lieutenant Duvallet. Mrs
Gilbey. Mr Gilbey. [Duvallet bows and sits down on Mr Knox's left,
Juggins placing a chair for him].
DORA. Now, Bobby: introduce me: theres a dear.
BOBBY. [a little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his
spirits] Miss Delaney: Mr and Mrs Knox. [Knox, as he resumes his
seat, acknowledges the introduction suspiciously. Mrs Knox bows
gravely, looking keenly at Dora and taking her measure without
prejudice].
DORA. Pleased to meet you. [Juggins places the baby rocking-chair
for her on Mrs Gilbey's right, opposite Mrs Knox]. Thank you. [She
sits and turns to Mrs Gilbey] Bobby's given me the squiffer. [To
the company generally] Do you know what theyve been doing
downstairs? [She goes off into ecstasies of mirth]. Youd never
guess. Theyve been trying to teach me table manners. The Lieutenant
and Rudolph say I'm a regular pig. I'm sure I never knew there was
anything wrong with me. But live and learn [to Gilbey] eh, old
dear?
JUGGINS. Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney. [He retires to the
end of the sideboard nearest the door].
DORA. Oh get out! I must call a man something. He doesnt mind: do
you, Charlie?
MRS GILBEY. His name isnt Charlie.
DORA. Excuse me. I call everybody Charlie.
JUGGINS. You mustnt.
DORA. Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold my tongue
altogether; and then how sorry youd be! Lord, how I do run on! Dont
mind me, Mrs Gilbey.
KNOX. What I want to know is, whats to be the end of this? It's not
for me to interfere between you and your son, Gilbey: he knows his
own intentions best, no doubt, and perhaps has told them to you. But
Ive my daughter to look after; and it's my duty as a parent to have a
clear understanding about her. No good is ever done by beating about
the bush. I ask Lieutenant—well, I dont speak French; and I cant
pronounce the name—
MARGARET. Mr Duvallet, father.
KNOX. I ask Mr Doovalley what his intentions are.
MARGARET. Oh father: how can you?
DUVALLET. I'm afraid my knowledge of English is not enough to
understand. Intentions? How?
MARGARET. He wants to know will you marry me.
MRS GILBEY. What a thing to say!
 
KNOX. Silence, miss.
 
DORA. Well, thats straight, aint it?
DUVALLET. But I am married already. I have two daughters.
KNOX. [rising, virtuously indignant] You sit there after carrying
on with my daughter, and tell me coolly youre married.
MARGARET. Papa: you really must not tell people that they sit there.
[He sits down again sulkily].
DUVALLET. Pardon. Carrying on? What does that mean?
MARGARET. It means—
KNOX. [violently] Hold your tongue, you shameless young hussy.
Dont you dare say what it means.
DUVALLET. [shrugging his shoulders] What does it mean, Rudolph?
MRS KNOX. If it's not proper for her to say, it's not proper for a
man to say, either. Mr Doovalley: youre a married man with
daughters. Would you let them go about with a stranger, as you are to
us, without wanting to know whether he intended to behave honorably?
DUVALLET. Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls. That is very
different. It would not be correct for a French girl to go about
alone and speak to men as English and American girls do. That is why
I so immensely admire the English people. You are so free—so
unprejudiced—your women are so brave and frank—their minds are
so—how do you say?—wholesome. I intend to have my daughters
educated in England. Nowhere else in the world but in England could I
have met at a Variety Theatre a charming young lady of perfect
respectability, and enjoyed a dance with her at a public dancing
saloon. And where else are women trained to box and knock out the
teeth of policemen as a protest against injustice and violence?
[Rising, with immense elan] Your daughter, madam, is superb. Your
country is a model to the rest of Europe. If you were a Frenchman,
stifled with prudery, hypocrisy and the tyranny of the family and the
home, you would understand how an enlightened Frenchman admires and
envies your freedom, your broadmindedness, and the fact that home life
can hardly be said to exist in England. You have made an end of the
despotism of the parent; the family council is unknown to you;
everywhere in these islands one can enjoy the exhilarating, the
soul-liberating spectacle of men quarrelling with their brothers,
defying their fathers, refusing to speak to their mothers. In France
we are not men: we are only sons—grown-up children. Here one is a
human being—an end in himself. Oh, Mrs Knox, if only your military
genius were equal to your moral genius—if that conquest of Europe by
France which inaugurated the new age after the Revolution had only
been an English conquest, how much more enlightened the world would
have been now! We, alas, can only fight. France is unconquerable.
We impose our narrow ideas, our prejudices, our obsolete institutions,
our insufferable pedantry on the world by brute force—by that stupid
quality of military heroism which shews how little we have evolved
from the savage: nay, from the beast. We can charge like bulls; we
can spring on our foes like gamecocks; when we are overpowered by
reason, we can die fighting like rats. And we are foolish enough to
be proud of it! Why should we be? Does the bull progress? Can you
civilize the gamecock? Is there any future for the rat? We cant even
fight intelligently: when we lose battles, it is because we have not
sense enough to know when we are beaten. At Waterloo, had we known
when we were beaten, we should have retreated; tried another plan; and
won the battle. But no: we were too pigheaded to admit that there is
anything impossible to a Frenchman: we were quite satisfied when our
Marshals had six horses shot under them, and our stupid old grognards
died fighting rather than surrender like reasonable beings. Think of
your great Wellington: think of his inspiring words, when the lady
asked him whether British soldiers ever ran away. "All soldiers run
away, madam," he said; "but if there are supports for them to fall
back on it does not matter." Think of your illustrious Nelson, always
beaten on land, always victorious at sea, where his men could not run
away. You are not dazzled and misled by false ideals of patriotic
enthusiasm: your honest and sensible statesmen demand for England a
two-power standard, even a three-power standard, frankly admitting
that it is wise to fight three to one: whilst we, fools and braggarts
as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a host in himself, and that
when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is guilty of an act of
cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikes a woman. It is
folly: it is nonsense: a Frenchman is not really stronger than a
German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman. Sir: if all
Frenchwomen were like your daughter—if all Frenchmen had the good
sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm
judgment, the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true
courage, which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are
hardly conscious of possessing them, France would become the greatest
nation in the world.
MARGARET. Three cheers for old England! [She shakes hands with him warmly].
BOBBY. Hurra-a-ay! And so say all of us.
Duvallet, having responded to Margaret's handshake with enthusiasm, kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping his perspiring brow.
GILBEY. Well, this sort of talk is above me. Can you make anything
out of it, Knox?
KNOX. The long and short of it seems to be that he cant lawfully
marry my daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her.
DORA. I'm ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction.
GILBEY. No you dont. Not if I know it.
MRS KNOX. He ought to, Mr Gilbey.
GILBEY. Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of
it. Would you invite them to your house if he married her?
MRS KNOX. He ought to marry her whether or no.
BOBBY. I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox.
GILBEY. Hold your tongue. Mind your own business.
BOBBY. [wildly] If I'm not let marry her, I'll do something
downright disgraceful. I'll enlist as a soldier.
JUGGINS. That is not a disgrace, sir.
BOBBY. Not for you, perhaps. But youre only a footman. I'm a
gentleman.
MRS GILBEY. Dont dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr Rudolph, Bobby.
For shame!
JUGGINS. [coming forward to the middle of the table] It is not
gentlemanly to regard the service of your country as disgraceful. It
is gentlemanly to marry the lady you make love to.
GILBEY. [aghast] My boy is to marry this woman and be a social
outcast!
JUGGINS. Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably condemned by
respectable society to spend the rest of their days in precisely the
sort of company they seem to like best and be most at home in.
KNOX. And my daughter? Whos to marry my daughter?
JUGGINS. Your daughter, sir, will probably marry whoever she makes up
her mind to marry. She is a lady of very determined character.
KNOX. Yes: if he'd have her with her character gone. But who would?
Youre the brother of a duke. Would—
BOBBY. Whats that?
 
MARGARET. Juggins a duke?
 
DUVALLET. Comment!
 
DORA. What did I tell you?
KNOX. Yes: the brother of a duke: thats what he is. [To Juggins] Well, would you marry her?
JUGGINS. I was about to propose that solution of your problem, Mr Knox.
MRS GILBEY. Well I never!
 
KNOX. D'ye mean it?
 
MRS KNOX. Marry Margaret!
JUGGINS. [continuing] As an idle younger son, unable to support
myself, or even to remain in the Guards in competition with the
grandsons of American millionaires, I could not have aspired to Miss
Knox's hand. But as a sober, honest, and industrious domestic servant, who has, I trust, given satisfaction to his employer [he bows to Mr Gilbey] I feel I am a man with a character. It is for Miss Knox to decide.
MARGARET. I got into a frightful row once for admiring you, Rudolph.
JUGGINS. I should have got into an equally frightful row myself,
Miss, had I betrayed my admiration for you. I looked forward to those
weekly dinners.
MRS KNOX. But why did a gentleman like you stoop to be a footman?
DORA. He stooped to conquer.
MARGARET. Shut up, Dora: I want to hear.
JUGGINS. I will explain; but only Mrs Knox will understand. I once
insulted a servant—rashly; for he was a sincere Christian. He
rebuked me for trifling with a girl of his own class. I told him to
remember what he was, and to whom he was speaking. He said God would
remember. I discharged him on the spot.
GILBEY. Very properly.
KNOX. What right had he to mention such a thing to you?
MRS GILBEY. What are servants coming to?
MRS KNOX. Did it come true, what he said?
JUGGINS. It stuck like a poisoned arrow. It rankled for months.
Then I gave in. I apprenticed myself to an old butler of ours who
kept a hotel. He taught me my present business, and got me a place as
footman with Mr Gilbey. If ever I meet that man again I shall be able
to look him in the face.
MRS KNOX. Margaret: it's not on account of the duke: dukes are
vanities. But take my advice and take him.
MARGARET. [slipping her arm through his] I have loved Juggins
since the first day I beheld him. I felt instinctively he had been in
the Guards. May he walk out with me, Mr Gilbey?
KNOX. Dont be vulgar, girl. Remember your new position. [To
Juggins] I suppose youre serious about this, Mr—Mr Rudolph?
JUGGINS. I propose, with your permission, to begin keeping company
this afternoon, if Mrs Gilbey can spare me.
GILBEY. [in a gust of envy, to Bobby] Itll be long enough before
youll marry the sister of a duke, you young good-for-nothing.
DORA. Dont fret, old dear. Rudolph will teach me high-class manners.
I call it quite a happy ending: dont you, lieutenant?
DUVALLET. In France it would be impossible. But here—ah! [kissing
his hand] la belle Angleterre!
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