Arthur Wing Pinero

“ Roope.
[Joining Philip.] Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you, feed the papers! It isn't as if you hadn't talent; you have. Advertising minus talent goes a long way; advertising plus talent is irresistible. Feed the papers. The more you do for them, the more they'll do for you. Quid pro quo. To the advertiser shall advertisement be given. Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. ”

“ Ottoline.
[Confronting Bertram, trembling with passion.] How dare you! How dare you meddle with my affairs—mine and Mr. Mackworth's! How dare you!
Bertram.
[Straightening himself.] Look heah, Ottoline——!
Ottoline.
Stand up when I speak to you!
[Bertram gets to his feet in a hurry.
Lady Filson.
[Appealingly.] Otto——!
Ottoline.
[To Bertram.] All your life you've been paltry, odious, detestable——
Bertram.
Look heah——!
Ottoline.
But this! My God! For you—for any of us—to impugn the honesty of a man whose shadow we're not fit to walk in——!
Sir Randle. ”

“ Lady Filson.
[To Sir Randle and Bertram.] Just now she was resenting our considering her a child!
Ottoline.
[Looking down upon the flowers in the grate.] Romance doesn't belong to youth, mother. Youth is greedy for reality—the toy that feels solid in its fingers. I was, and bruised myself with it. After such a lesson as I've had, one yearns for something less tangible—something that lifts one morally out of oneself—an ideal——! ”

“ You see, Lady Filson, Master Bertram is endowed with an exceptionally active brain; and when I gave those assurances to you and Sir Randle last June, it occurred to him that, in the event of my book failing to attract the market, there was a danger of my palming it off, with the kind aid of my publisher, as the out-and-out triumph I'd bragged of in advance; and the loud blasts of Titterton's trumpet strengthened Master Bertie's apprehensions. [Ottoline, unobserved, rises unsteadily and, with her eyes fixed fiercely upon Bertram, crosses the room at the back.] ”

“ Sir Randle.
[Gazing blinkingly at the ceiling as Lady Filson sinks upon the settee.] Incredible! Incredible!
Bertram.
[Sitting beside Lady Filson, dazed.] My dear mother——!
Ottoline.
[Starting up.] Oh, do try to be understanding and sympathetic! Mr. Mackworth is a high-souled, noble fellow. If I'd been honest with myself, I should have married him ten years ago. To me this is a golden dream come true. Recollect my bitter experience of the other sort of marriage! [Walking away to the fireplace.] Why grudge me a spark of romance in my life! ”

“ Ah, Philip! Don't say we're late!
Philip.
[Lightly.] I won't.
Lady Filson.
[Entering and shaking hands with him.] Your staircase is so dark, it takes an age to climb it. [To Roope, who comes forward, shaking hands with him.] How nice! Ottoline told me, coming along, that we were to meet you.
Roope.
[Bending over her hand.] Dear lady!
Lady Filson.
[Coming to Sir Randle.] There you are, Randle! [Nodding to Bertram, who is sitting aloof in the chair on the extreme left.] Bertie darling! [Sir Randle rises.] Aren't these rooms quaint and cosy, Randle? ”

“ Sir Timothy.
[Lighting his cigarette.] At a loss, are you! [Warmly.] You're at a loss to understand that I'm not the sort of man who'd steal a march upon another where a woman's concerned, and take advantage of his misfortunes in a dirty manner! [Coming to Philip.] Mackworth—I'll drop the Mister, if you've no objection—Mackworth, I promise you I won't move a step till I have your assurance that your split with Madame de Chaumié is a mortal one, and that the coast is open to all comers. ”

“ Philip.
What sort—spiritual and material?
Ottoline.
[Resting her elbow upon the arm of her chair and her chin upon her hand, musingly.] Oh, I believe any world would content me that's totally different from the world I've lived in so long; any world that isn't flat and stale and stifling; that isn't made up of shams, and petty aims and appetites; any world that—well, such a world as you used to picture, Phil, when you preached your gospel to a selfish, common girl under the chestnuts in the Allée de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysées! ”

“ Abandon your career just when you're making a noise in the world——!
Philip.
[Throwing up his hands.] Noise in the world!
Roope.
When you're getting the finest advertisement an author could possibly desire!
Philip.
[Choking.] Advertisement——!
Roope.
I can sympathize with your feeling mortified at not scoring entirely off your own bat; but, deuce take it, your book is in its thirteenth edition!
Philip.
[Laughing wildly.] Ho, ho, ho! [Moving to the fireplace.] Ha, ha, ha, ha——!
Roope.
[Testily.] Oh, I'm glad I amuse you——!
Philip.
[Coming to the settee on the right.] ”

“ Ottoline.
[Taking his hands in hers.] Good-bye. Don't come downstairs with me. Let me leave you sitting at your table, at work—at work on that incomplete chapter. We shall tumble up against one another, I dare say, at odd times, but this is the last we shall see of each other dans l'intimité; and I want to print on my memory the sight of you— [pointing to the writing-table] there—keeping your flag flying. [Putting her arms round him—in a whisper.] Keep your flag flying, Philip! Don't—don't sulk with your art, and be false to yourself, because a trumpery woman has fretted and disturbed you. ”

“ Lady Filson.
[Dropping on to the settee before the fireplace.] She's mad! That's the only excuse I can make for her!
Sir Randle.
Stark mad! A calamity.
Lady Filson.
You remember the man?
Sir Randle.
[Taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning its pages.] A supercilious, patronizing person—son of a wretched country parson—used to loll against the wall of your salon—with his nose in the air.
Lady Filson.
[Tearfully.] A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randle! Fancy! Everything has always gone so well with us——! ”

“ Sir Randle.
[To Lady Filson.] Winifred— [To Philip.] Well, Mr. Mackworth?
Philip.
Well, Sir Randle, I—I'm prepared to take a sporting chance. It may be that I am misled by the sanguine temperament of the artist, who is apt to believe that his latest production will shake the earth to its foundation. I've gammoned myself before into such a belief, but— [resolutely] I'll stake everything on my next book! I give you my word that if it isn't a success—an indisputable popular success—I will join you both, in all sincerity, in urging Ottoline to break with me. Come! Does that mollify you? ”

“ Philip.
As you—are?
Ottoline.
An incurably vulgar woman. An incurably common, vulgar woman. Nobody but a woman whose vulgarity is past praying for could have conceived such a scheme as I planned and carried out with that man Clifford Titterton—nobody. This—how shall I term it?—this refinement of mine is merely on the surface. We women are like the—what's the name of the little reptile?—the chameleon, isn't it? We catch the colour of our surroundings. ”

“ Roope.
You'd have broken our hearts if you hadn't. You know Mackworth?
Green.
And his charming works. [Shaking hands with Philip.] Haven't met you for evah so long.
Philip.
How d'ye do?
Green.
Ouf! I must sit down. [Sitting on the fauteuil-stool and taking off a pair of delicately tinted gloves.] The Season is killing me. I'm shaw I sha'n't last till Goodwood, Robbie.
Roope.
Yes, it's a shockin' rush, isn't it!
Green.
Haw! You only fancy you're rushed. Your life is a rest-cure compared with mine. You've no conception, either of you, what my days are just now.
Philip. ”

“ Philip.
Go on. Nobody'll hear you. John's out.
Roope.
What happened was this. I overtook 'em at the bottom of the stairs, and begged 'em to let me go back with them to Ennismore Gardens. Lady Filson and I got into one cab, Sir Randle and Madame de Chaumié into another. Bertram Filson slunk off to his club. At Ennismore Gardens we had the most depressin' meal I've ever sat down to, and then Madame Ottoline proposed that I should smoke a cigarette in her boudoir. [Distressed.] Oh, my dear Phil——!
Philip.
W-w-what——?
Roope.
I can't bear to see a woman in tears; I can't, positively. ”

“ Philip.
When Robbie Roope brought me your kind greetings.
Sir Timothy.
Ah, that's nice of you! [Constrainedly.] That's—nice of you.
Philip.
[Changing his position and unbending.] But tell me! I don't know yet what you have to say to me about Madame de Chaumié—but why should you find it embarrassing to speak of her to me? [Gently.] We're men of the world, you and I; and it isn't the rule of life that the prize always goes to the most deserving. [With animation.] ”

“ Oh, I'm sure you're wise. [Drawing herself erect.] A writer shouldn't give up to society what is meant for mankind, should he?
[She passes him distantly, to leave the room, and he suddenly grips her shoulder.
Philip.
Ottoline——!
[By a mutual impulse, they glance swiftly at the open door, and then she throws herself into his arms.
Ottoline.
Philip——!
[Just as swiftly, they separate; and a moment afterwards Roope returns, rubbing his hands cheerily.
Roope.
[Advancing, but not shutting the door.] There! Now we're by ourselves! [To Ottoline.] You're not running away? ”

“ Sir Randle.
[To Philip, incredulously—rising.] Until you have obtained public recognition, Mr. Mackworth?
Philip.
[Smiling.] Well, it may sound extravagant——
Lady Filson.
Grotesque!
Sir Randle.
[Walking about on the extreme right.] Amazing!
Ottoline.
Why grotesque; why amazing? [Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair.] All that is amazing about it is that Philip should lack the superior courage which enables a man, in special circumstances, to sink his pride and ignore ill-natured comments. ”

“ Philip.
Otto! Otto! [Loudly.] Ottoline——!
[With his hand on the door-handle, he wavers, his eyes shifting wildly to and from the writing-table. Then, with a mighty effort, he pulls himself together, strides to the smoking-table, and loads and lights his pipe. Puffing at his pipe fiercely, he reseats himself before his manuscript and, grabbing his pen, forces himself to write. He has written a word or two when he falters—stops—and lays his head upon his arm on the table.
Philip.
[His shoulders heaving.] Oh, Otto—Otto——!
THE END
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. ”

“ Sir Randle.
[To her.] My dear——! [To Philip.] On the other hand, Mr. Mackworth, as you are probably aware, my daughter is—no, I won't say a rich woman—I will say comfortably provided for; not by the late Comte de Chaumié, but by myself. [Closing his eyes.] I have never been a niggardly parent, Mr. Mackworth.
Ottoline.
[Softly, without turning.] Indeed, no, Dad!
Philip.
[To Sir Randle, bluntly.] Yes, I do know of the settlement you made upon Ottoline on her marriage, and of your having supplemented it when she became a widow. Very handsome of you.
Lady Filson. ”

“ It shows how dignity and reserve have been cast aside as virtues that are antiquated and outworn, until half the world—the world that should be orderly, harmonious, beautiful—has become an arena for the exhibition of vulgar ostentation or almost superhuman egoism—a cockpit resounding with raucous voices bellowing one against the other! ”

“ When the glazed door is opened, it is seen that the hall is appropriately furnished. A window is at the further end of it, letting in light from the street, and on the right of the window there is a lofty screen arranged in such a manner as to suggest that it conceals the front door of the house.
The fireplace, where a bank of flowers hides the grate, is in the left-hand wall of the room. On the further side of the fireplace there is an armchair, and before the fireplace a settee. Behind the settee, also facing the fireplace, are a writing-table and chair ”

“ Lady Filson.
[After a short pause, in a low voice.] Darling Ottoline! What a wedding she shall have!
[Again there is a pause, and then Sir Randle leaves his chair and seats himself beside Lady Filson.
Sir Randle.
[Putting his arm round her, fondly.] Mother!
[They look at one another, and he draws her to him and kisses her. As he does so, the glazed door opens and Westrip returns, carrying an illustrated-weekly. Lady Filson rises hastily and goes to the writing-table.
Westrip.
[Handing her the paper.] It was in the servants' hall, Lady Filson. ”

“ Roope.
[To John.] So Mr. Mackworth wrote and told me. [Giving his gloves to John.] Congratulate you, John.
John.
[Depositing the hat, coat, etc., upon the settee on the left.] Thank you, sir.
Roope.
[Crossing to the fireplace, rubbing his hands, as John retires to the dining-room.] Oh, my dear Phil, this dreadful climate after the sunshine of the Lago Maggiore!
Philip.
[Walking about and spouting, in high spirits.] "Italia! O Italia! thou who hast the fatal gift of beauty——!" ”

“ Mr. Mackworth, Lady Filson and I are ambitious people. Not for ourselves. For ourselves, all we desire is rest and retirement— [closing his eyes] if it were possible, obscurity. But where our children are concerned, it is different; and, to be frank—I must be frank—we had hoped that, in the event of Ottoline remarrying, she would contract such a marriage as is commonly described as brilliant.
Philip.
[Dryly.] Such a marriage as her marriage to Monsieur de Chaumié, for example.
Sir Randle. ”