Barrie, J M - The Admirable Crichton Read online

  TWEENY. Oh lawks!

  AGATHA. We are doing this for you so that your position socially may be more nearly akin to that of Crichton.

  CRICHTON (gravely). It will undoubtedly increase the young person's chances.

  LADY MARY. Then if I get a good character for you from Mrs. Perkins, she will make the necessary arrangements.

  (She resumes reading.)

  TWEENY (elated). My lady!

  LADY MARY. By the way, I hope you are a good sailor.

  TWEENY (startled). You don't mean, my lady, I'm to go on the ship?

  LADY MARY. Certainly.

  TWEENY. But--(To CRICHTON.) You ain't going, sir?

  CRICHTON. No.

  TWEENY (firm at last). Then neither ain't I.

  AGATHA. YOU must.

  TWEENY. Leave him! Not me.

  LADY MARY. Girl, don't be silly. Crichton will be--considered in your wages.

  TWEENY. I ain't going.

  CRICHTON. I feared this, my lady.

  TWEENY. Nothing'll budge me.

  LADY MARY. Leave the room.

  (CRICHTON shows TWEENY out with marked politeness.)

  AGATHA. Crichton, I think you might have shown more displeasure with her.

  CRICHTON (contrite). I was touched, my lady. I see, my lady, that to part from her would be a wrench to me, though I could not well say so in her presence, not having yet decided how far I shall go with her.

  (He is about to go when LORD LOAM returns, fuming.)

  LORD LOAM. The ingrate! The smug! The fop!

  CATHERINE. What is it now, father?

  LORD LOAM. That man of mine, Rolleston, refuses to accompany us because you are to have but one maid.

  AGATHA. Hurrah!

  LADY MARY (in better taste). Darling father, rather than you should lose Rolleston, we will consent to take all the three of them.

  LORD LOAM. Pooh, nonsense! Crichton, find me a valet who can do without three maids.

  CRICHTON. Yes, my lord. (Troubled.) In the time--the more suitable the party, my lord, the less willing will he be to come without the- -the usual perquisites.

  LORD LOAM. Any one will do.

  CRICHTON (shocked). My lord!

  LORD LOAM. The ingrate! The puppy!

  (AGATHA has an idea, and whispers to LADY MARY.)

  LADY MARY. I ask a favour of a servant?--never!

  AGATHA. Then I will. Crichton, would it not be very distressing to you to let his lordship go, attended by a valet who might prove unworthy? It is only for three months; don't you think that you--you yourself--you--

  (As CRICHTON sees what she wants he pulls himself up with noble, offended dignity, and she is appalled.)

  I beg your pardon.

  (He bows stiffly.)

  CATHERINE (to CRICHTON). But think of the joy to Tweeny.

  (CRICHTON is moved, but he shakes his head.)

  LADY MARY (so much the cleverest). Crichton, do you think it safe to let the master you love go so far away without you while he has these dangerous views about equality?

  (CRICHTON is profoundly stirred. After a struggle he goes to his master, who has been pacing the room.)

  CRICHTON. My lord, I have found a man.

  LORD LOAM. Already? Who is he?

  (CRICHTON presents himself with a gesture.)

  Yourself?

  CATHERINE. Father, how good of him.

  LORD LOAM (pleased, but thinking it a small thing). Uncommon good. Thank you, Crichton. This helps me nicely out of a hole; and how it will annoy Rolleston! Come with me, and we shall tell him. Not that I think you have lowered yourself in any way. Come along.

  (He goes, and CRICHTON is to follow him, but is stopped by AGATHA impulsively offering him her hand.)

  CRICHTON (who is much shaken). My lady--a valet's hand!

  AGATHA. I had no idea you would feel it so deeply; why did you do it?

  (CRICHTON is too respectful to reply.)

  LADY MARY (regarding him). Crichton, I am curious. I insist upon an answer.

  CRICHTON. My lady, I am the son of a butler and a lady's-maid-- perhaps the happiest of all combinations, and to me the most beautiful thing in the world is a haughty, aristocratic English house, with every one kept in his place. Though I were equal to your ladyship, where would be the pleasure to me? It would be counterbalanced by the pain of feeling that Thomas and John were equal to me.

  CATHERINE. But father says if we were to return to nature--

  CRICHTON. If we did, my lady, the first thing we should do would be to elect a head. Circumstances might alter cases; the same person might not be master; the same persons might not be servants. I can't say as to that, nor should we have the deciding of it. nature would decide for us.

  LADY MARY. You seem to have thought it all out carefully, Crichton.

  CRICHTON. Yes, my lady.

  CATHERINE. And you have done this for us, Crichton, because you thought that--that father needed to be kept in his place?

  CRICHTON. I should prefer you to say, my lady, that I have done it for the house.

  AGATHA. Thank you, Crichton. Mary, be nicer to him. (But LADY MARY has begun to read again.) If there was any way in which we could show our gratitude.

  CRICHTON. If I might venture, my lady, would you kindly show it by becoming more like Lady Mary. That disdain is what we like from our superiors. Even so do we, the upper servants, disdain the lower servants, while they take it out of the odds and ends.

  (He goes, and they bury themselves in cushions.)

  AGATHA. Oh dear, what a tiring day.

  CATHERINE. I feel dead. Tuck in your feet, you selfish thing.

  (LADY MARY is lying reading on another couch.)

  LADY MARY. I wonder what he meant by circumstances might alter cases.

  AGATHA (yawning). Don't talk, Mary, I was nearly asleep.

  LADY MARY. I wonder what he meant by the same person might not be master, and the same persons might not be servants.

  CATHERINE. Do be quiet, Mary, and leave it to nature; he said nature would decide.

  LADY MARY. I wonder--

  (But she does not wonder very much. She would wonder more if she knew what was coming. Her book slips unregarded to the floor. The ladies are at rest until it is time to dress.)

  End of Act I.

  ACT II

  THE ISLAND

  Two months have elapsed, and the scene is a desert island in the Pacific, on which our adventurers have been wrecked.

  The curtain rises on a sea of bamboo, which shuts out all view save the foliage of palm trees and some gaunt rocks. Occasionally Crichton and Treherne come momentarily into sight, hacking and hewing the bamboo, through which they are making a clearing between the ladies and the shore; and by and by, owing to their efforts, we shall have an unrestricted outlook on to a sullen sea that is at present hidden. Then we shall also be able to note a mast standing out of the water--all that is left, saving floating wreckage, of the ill-fated yacht the Bluebell. The beginnings of a hut will also be seen, with Crichton driving its walls into the ground or astride its roof of saplings, for at present he is doing more than one thing at a time. In a red shirt, with the ends of his sailor's breeches thrust into wading-boots, he looks a man for the moment; we suddenly remember some one's saying--perhaps it was ourselves--that a cataclysm would be needed to get him out of his servant's clothes, and apparently it has been forthcoming. It is no longer beneath our dignity to cast an inquiring eye on his appearance. His features are not distinguished, but he has a strong jaw and green eyes, in which a yellow light burns that we have not seen before. His dark hair, hitherto so decorously sleek, has been ruffled this way and that by wind and weather, as if they were part of the cataclysm and wanted to help his chance. His muscles must be soft and flabby still, but though they shriek aloud to him to desist, he rains lusty blows with his axe, like one who has come upon the open for the first time in his life, and likes it. He is as yet far from being an expert woodsman--mark the blood on his hands at p
laces where he has hit them instead of the tree; but note also that he does not waste time in bandaging them--he rubs them in the earth and goes on. His face is still of the discreet pallor that befits a butler, and he carries the smaller logs as if they were a salver; not in a day or a month will he shake off the badge of servitude, but without knowing it he has begun.

  But for the hatchets at work, and an occasional something horrible falling from a tree into the ladies' laps, they hear nothing save the mournful surf breaking on a coral shore.

  They sit or recline huddled together against a rock, and they are farther from home, in every sense of the word, than ever before. Thirty-six hours ago, they were given three minutes in which to dress, without a maid, and reach the boats, and they have not made the best of that valuable time. None of them has boots, and had they known this prickly island they would have thought first of boots. They have a sufficiency of garments, but some of them were gifts dropped into the boat--Lady Mary's tarpaulin coat and hat, for instance, and Catherine's blue jersey and red cap, which certify that the two ladies were lately before the mast. Agatha is too gay in Ernest's dressing-gown, and clutches it to her person with both hands as if afraid that it may be claimed by its rightful owner. There are two pairs of bath slippers between the three of them, and their hair cries aloud and in vain for hairpins.

  By their side, on an inverted bucket, sits Ernest, clothed neatly in the garments of day and night, but, alas, bare-footed. He is the only cheerful member of this company of four, but his brightness is due less to a manly desire to succour the helpless than to his having been lately in the throes of composition, and to his modest satisfaction with the result. He reads to the ladies, and they listen, each with one scared eye to the things that fall from trees.

  ERNEST (who has written on the fly-leaf of the only book saved from the wreck). This is what I have written. 'Wrecked, wrecked, wrecked! on an island in the Tropics, the following: the Hon. Ernest Woolley, the Rev. John Treherne, the Ladies Mary, Catherine, and Agatha Lasenby, with two servants. We are the sole survivors of Lord Loam's steam yacht Bluebell, which encountered a fearful gale in these seas, and soon became a total wreck. The crew behaved gallantly, putting us all into the first boat. What became of them I cannot tell, but we, after dreadful sufferings, and insufficiently clad, in whatever garments we could lay hold of in the dark'--

  LADY MARY. Please don't describe our garments.

  ERNEST. --'succeeded in reaching this island, with the loss of only one of our party, namely, Lord Loam, who flung away his life in a gallant attempt to save a servant who had fallen overboard.' (The ladies have wept long and sore for their father, but there is something in this last utterance that makes them look up.)

  AGATHA. But, Ernest, it was Crichton who jumped overboard trying to save father.

  ERNEST (with the candour that is one of his most engaging qualities). Well, you know, it was rather silly of uncle to fling away his life by trying to get into the boat first; and as this document may be printed in the English papers, it struck me, an English peer, you know--

  LADY MARY (every inch an English peer's daughter). Ernest, that is very thoughtful of you.

  ERNEST (continuing, well pleased). --'By night the cries of wild cats and the hissing of snakes terrify us extremely'--(this does not satisfy him so well, and he makes a correction)--'terrify the ladies extremely. Against these we have no weapons except one cutlass and a hatchet. A bucket washed ashore is at present our only comfortable seat'--

  LADY MARY (with some spirit). And Ernest is sitting on it.

  ERNEST. H'sh! Oh, do be quiet.--'To add to our horrors, night falls suddenly in these parts, and it is then that savage animals begin to prowl and roar.'

  LADY MARY. Have you said that vampire bats suck the blood from our toes as we sleep?

  ERNEST. No, that's all. I end up, 'Rescue us or we perish. Rich reward. Signed Ernest Woolley, in command of our little party.' This is written on a leaf taken out of a book of poems that Crichton found in his pocket. Fancy Crichton being a reader of poetry. Now I shall put it into the bottle and fling it into the sea.

  (He pushes the precious document into a soda-water bottle, and rams the cork home. At the same moment, and without effort, he gives birth to one of his most characteristic epigrams.)

  The tide is going out, we mustn't miss the post.

  (They are so unhappy that they fail to grasp it, and a little petulantly he calls for CRICHTON, ever his stand-by in the hour of epigram. CRICHTON breaks through the undergrowth quickly, thinking the ladies are in danger.)

  CRICHTON. Anything wrong, sir?

  ERNEST (with fine confidence). The tide, Crichton, is a postman who calls at our island twice a day for letters.

  CRICHTON (after a pause). Thank you, sir.

  (He returns to his labours, however, without giving the smile which is the epigrammatist's right, and ERNEST is a little disappointed in him.)

  ERNEST. Poor Crichton! I sometimes think he is losing his sense of humour. Come along, Agatha.

  (He helps his favourite up the rocks, and they disappear gingerly from view.)

  CATHERINE. How horribly still it is.

  LADY MARY (remembering some recent sounds). It is best when it is still.

  CATHERINE (drawing closer to her). Mary, I have heard that they are always very still just before they jump.

  LADY MARY. Don't. (A distinct chapping is heard, and they are startled.)

  LADY MARY (controlling herself). It is only Crichton knocking down trees.

  CATHERINE (almost imploringly). Mary, let us go and stand beside him.

  LADY MARY (coldly). Let a servant see that I am afraid!

  CATHERINE. Don't, then; but remember this, dear, they often drop on one from above.

  (She moves away, nearer to the friendly sound of the axe, and LADY MARY is left alone. She is the most courageous of them as well as the haughtiest, but when something she had thought to be a stick glides tow ard her, she forgets her dignity and screams.)

  LADY MARY (calling). Crichton, Crichton!

  (It must have been TREHERNE who was tree-felling, for CRICHTON comes to her from the hut, drawing his cutlass.)

  CRICHTON (anxious). Did you call, my lady?

  LADY MARY (herself again, now that he is there). I! Why should I?

  CRICHTON. I made a mistake, your ladyship. (Hesitating.) If you are afraid of being alone, my lady--

  LADY MARY. Afraid! Certainly not. (Doggedly.) You may go.

  (But she does not complain when he remains within eyesight cutting the bamboo. It is heavy work, and she watches him silently.)

  LADY MARY. I wish, Crichton, you could work without getting so hot.

  CRICHTON (mopping his face). I wish I could, my lady.

  (He continues his labours.)

  LADY MARY (taking off her oilskins). It makes me hot to look at you.

  CRICHTON. It almost makes me cool to look at your ladyship.

  LADY MARY (who perhaps thinks he is presuming). Anything I can do for you in that way, Crichton, I shall do with pleasure.

  CRICHTON (quite humbly). Thank you, my lady.

  (By this time most of the bamboo has been cut, and the shore and sea are visible, except where they are hidden by the half completed hut. The mast rising solitary from the water adds to the desolation of the scene, and at last tears run down LADY MARY'S face.)

  CRICHTON. Don't give way, my lady, things might be worse.

  LADY MARY. My poor father.

  CRICHTON. If I could have given my life for his.

  LADY MARY. You did all a man could do. Indeed I thank you, Crichton. (With some admiration and more wonder.) You are a man.

  CRICHTON. Thank you, my lady.

  LADY MARY. But it is all so awful. Crichton, is there any hope of a ship coming?

  CRICHTON (after hesitation). Of course there is, my lady.

  LADY MARY (facing him bravely). Don't treat me as a child. I have got to know the worst, and to face it. Crichton, the trut
h.

  CHICHTON (reluctantly). We were driven out of our course, my lady; I fear far from the track of commerce.

  LADY MARY. Thank you; I understand.

  (For a moment, however, she breaks down. Then she clenches her hands and stands erect.)

  CRICHTON (watching her, and forgetting perhaps for the moment that they are not just a man and woman). You're a good pluckt 'un, my lady.

  LADY MARY (falling into the same error). I shall try to be. (Extricating herself.) Crichton, how dare you?

  CRICHTON. I beg your ladyship's pardon; but you are.

  (She smiles, as if it were a comfort to be told this even by CRICHTON.)

  And until a ship comes we are three men who are going to do our best for you ladies.

  LADY MARY (with a curl of the lip). Mr. Ernest does no work.

  CRICHTON (cheerily). But he will, my lady.

  LADY MARY. I doubt it.

  CRICHTON (confidently, but perhaps thoughtlessly). No work--no dinner--will make a great change in Mr. Ernest.

  LADY MARY. No work--no dinner. When did you invent that rule, Crichton?

  CRICHTON (loaded with bamboo). I didn't invent it, my lady. I seem to see it growing all over the island.

  LADY MARY (disquieted). Crichton, your manner strikes me as curious.

  CRICHTON (pained). I hope not, your ladyship.

  LADY MARY (determined to have it out with him). You are not implying anything so unnatural, I presume, as that if I and my sisters don't work there will be no dinner for us?

  CRICHTON (brightly). If it is unnatural, my lady, that is the end of it.

  LADY MARY. If? Now I understand. The perfect servant at home holds that we are all equal now. I see.

  CRICHTON (wounded to the quick). My lady, can you think me so inconsistent?

  LADY MARY. That is it.

  CRICHTON (earnestly). My lady, I disbelieved in equality at home because it was against nature, and for that same reason I as utterly disbelieve in it on an island.

  LADY MARY (relieved by his obvious sincerity). I apologise.

  CRICHTON (continuing unfortunately). There must always, my lady, be one to command and others to obey.

  LADY MARY (satisfied). One to command, others to obey. Yes. (Then suddenly she realises that there may be a dire meaning in his confident words.) Crichton!