The Project Gutenberg eBook of Landed Gentry: A Comedy in Four Acts
Title: Landed Gentry: A Comedy in Four Acts
Author: W. Somerset Maugham
Release date: December 3, 2015 [eBook #50601]
Most recently updated: October 22, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
| Characters Act I Act II Act III Act IV |
LANDED GENTRY
PLAYS BY W. S. MAUGHAM
Uniform with this volume
|
JACK STRAW PENELOPE MRS. DOT THE EXPLORER A MAN OF HONOUR LADY FREDERICK SMITH THE TENTH MAN |
CHICAGO: THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY
Landed Gentry
A COMEDY
In Four Acts
By W. S. MAUGHAM
CHICAGO:
THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY
Printed by
Ballantyne & Company ltd
London, England
This play was produced under the title “Grace,” at the Duke of York’s Theatre, London, October 15, 1910, with the following cast:
| Claude Insoley | Dennis Eadie |
| Rev. Archibald Insoley | Leslie Faber |
| Henry Cobbett | Arthur Wontner |
| Gann | Edmund Gwenn |
| Moore | Heston Cooper |
| Grace Insoley | Irene Vanbrugh |
| Mrs. Insoley | Lady Tree |
| Miss Vernon of Foley | Lillah MacCarthy |
| Miss Hall | Mary Barton |
| Edith Lewis | Nina Sevening |
| Margaret Gann | Gertrude Lang |
LANDED GENTRY
CHARACTERS
| Claude Insoley Rev. Archibald Insoley Henry Cobbett Gann Moore Grace Insoley Mrs. Insoley Miss Vernon of Foley Miss Hall Edith Lewis Margaret Gann |
The Action takes place at Kenyon-Fulton, Claude Insoley’s place in Somersetshire.
The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be obtained.
LANDED GENTRY
THE FIRST ACT
Scene: The drawing-room at Kenyon-Fulton. It is a handsome apartment with large windows, reaching to the ground. On the walls are old masters whose darkness conceals their artistic insignificance. The furniture is fine and solid. Nothing is very new or smart. The chintzes have a rather pallid Victorian air. The room with its substantial magnificence represents the character of a family rather than the taste of an individual.
It is night and one or two electric lamps are burning.
Moore, an elderly impressive butler, comes in, followed by Gann. This is Claude Insoley’s gamekeeper, a short, sturdy man, grizzled, with wild stubborn hair and a fringe of beard round his chin. He wears his Sunday clothes of sombre broadcloth.
Moore.
You’re to wait here.
[Gann, hat in hand, advances to the middle of the room.
Moore.
They’ve not got up from dinner yet, but he’ll come and see you at once.
Gann.
I’ll wait.
Moore.
He said I was to tell him the moment you come. What can he be wanting of you at this time of night?
Gann.
Maybe if he wished you to know he’d have told you.
Moore.
I don’t want to know what don’t concern me.
Gann.
Pity there ain’t more like you.
Moore.
It’s the missus’ birthday to-day.
Gann.
Didn’t he say you was to tell him the moment I come?
Moore.
I’ve only just took in the dessert. Give ’em a minute to sample the peaches.
Gann.
I thought them was your orders.
Moore.
You’re a nice civil-spoken one, you are.
[With an effort Gann prevents himself from replying. It is as much as he can do to keep his hands off the sleek, obsequious butler. Moore after a glance at him goes out. The gamekeeper begins to walk up and down the room like a caged beast. In a moment he hears a sound and stops still. He turns his hat round and round in his hands.
[Claude Insoley comes in. He is a man of thirty-five, rather dried-up, rather precise, neither good-looking nor plain, with a slightly dogmatic, authoritative manner.
Claude.
Good evening, Gann.
Gann.
Good evening, sir.
[Claude hesitates for a moment; to conceal a slight embarrassment he lights a cigarette. Gann watches him steadily.
Claude.
I suppose you know what I’ve sent for you about.
Gann.
No, sir.
Claude.
I should have thought you might guess without hurting yourself. The Rector tells me that your daughter Peggy came back last night.
Gann.
Yes, sir.
Claude.
Bit thick, isn’t it?
Gann.
I don’t know what you mean, sir.
Claude.
Oh, that’s all rot, Gann. You know perfectly well what I mean. It’s a beastly matter for both of us, but it’s no good funking it.... You’ve been on the estate pretty well all your life, haven’t you?
Gann.
It’s fifty-four years come next Michaelmas that my father was took on, and I was earning wages here before you was born.
Claude.
My governor always said you were the best keeper he ever struck, and hang it all, I haven’t had anything to complain about either.
Gann.
Thank you, sir.
Claude.
Anyhow, we shan’t make it any better by beating about the bush. It appears that Peggy has got into trouble in London.... I’m awfully sorry for you, and all that sort of thing.
Gann.
Poor child. She’s not to blame.
[Claude gives a slight shrug of the shoulders.
Gann.
I want ’er to forget all she’s gone through. It was a mistake she ever went to London, but she would go. Now I’ll keep ’er beside me. She’ll never leave me again till I’m put underground.
Claude.
That’s all very fine and large, but I’m afraid Peggy can’t stay on here, Gann.
Gann.
Why not?
Claude.
You know the rule of the estate as well as I do. When a girl gets into a mess she has to go.
Gann.
It’s a wicked rule!
Claude.
You never thought so before, and this isn’t the first time you’ve seen it applied, by a long chalk.
Gann.
The girl went away once and come to grief. She wellnigh killed herself with the shame of it. I’m not going to let ’er out of my sight again.
Claude.
I’m afraid I can’t make an exception in your favour, Gann.
Gann.
[Desperately.] Where’s she to go to?
Claude.
Oh, I expect she’ll be able to get a job somewhere. Mrs. Insoley’ll do all she can.
Gann.
It’s no good, Squire. I can’t let ’er go. I want ’er.
Claude.
I don’t want to be unreasonable. I’ll give you a certain amount of time to make arrangements.
Gann.
Time’s no good to me. I haven’t the ’eart to send her away.
Claude.
I’m afraid it’s not a question of whether you like it or not. You must do as you’re told.
Gann.
I can’t part with her, and there’s an end of it.
Claude.
You’d better go and talk it over with your wife.
Gann.
I don’t want to talk it over with anyone. I’ve made up my mind.
[Claude is silent for a moment. He looks at Gann thoughtfully.
Claude.
[Deliberately.] I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about it.
Gann.
[Startled.] What d’you mean by that, sir?
Claude.
If Peggy isn’t gone by that time, I am afraid I shall have to send you away.
Gann.
You wouldn’t do that, sir? You couldn’t do it, Squire, not after all these years.
Claude.
We’ll soon see about that, my friend.
Gann.
You can’t dismiss me for that. I’ll have the law of you. I’ll sue you for wrongful dismissal.
Claude.
You can do what you damned well like; but if Peggy hasn’t gone by to-morrow night I shall turn you off the estate on Tuesday.
Gann.
[Hoarsely.] You wouldn’t do it! You couldn’t do it.
[There is a sound of talking and laughter, and of a general movement as the dining-room door is opened.
Claude.
They’re just coming in. You’d better hook it.
[Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis come in, followed by Grace. For a moment Gann stands awkwardly, and then leaves the room. Miss Vernon is a slight, faded, rather gaunt woman of thirty-five. Her deliberate manner, her composure, suggest a woman of means and a woman who knows her own mind. Edith Lewis is a pretty girl of twenty. Grace is thirty. She is a beautiful creature with an eager, earnest face and fine eyes. She has a restless manner, and her frequent laughter strikes you as forced. She is always falling from one emotion to another. She uses a slightly satirical note when she speaks to her husband.
Edith.
[Going to the window.] Oh, what a lovely night! Do let’s go out. [To Grace.] May we?
Grace.
Of course, if you want to.
Edith.
I’m perfectly sick with envy every time I look out of the window. Those lovely old trees!
Grace.
I wonder if you’d be sick with envy if you looked at nothing else for forty-six weeks in the year?
Edith.
I adore the country.
Grace.
People who habitually live in London generally do.
Miss Vernon.
Aren’t you fond of the country?
Grace.
[Vehemently.] I hate it! I hate it with all my heart and soul.
Claude.
My dear Grace, what are you saying?
Grace.
It bores me. It bores me stiff. Those endless trees, and those dreary meadows, and those ploughed fields. Oh!
Edith.
I don’t think I could ever get tired of the view from your dining-room.
Grace.
Not if you saw it for three meals a day for ten years? Oh, my dear, you don’t know what that view is like at an early breakfast on a winter’s morning. You sit there looking at it, with icy fingers, wondering if your nose is red, while your husband reads morning prayers, because his father read morning prayers before him; and the sky looks as if it were going to sink down and crush you.
Claude.
You can’t expect sunshine all the year round, can you?
Grace.
[Smiling.] True, O King!
Edith.
Well, I’m a Cockney, and I feel inclined to fall down on my very knees and worship those big trees in your park. Oh, what a night!
Miss Vernon.
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise....
[Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis go out. Grace is left alone with her husband.
Grace.
What on earth was Gann doing here?
Claude.
I had something to say to him.
Grace.
May I know what?
Claude.
It would only bore you.
Grace.
That wouldn’t be a new experience.
Claude.
I say, you’re looking jolly to-night, darling.
Grace.
It’s kind of you to say so.
Claude.
Were you pleased with the necklace I gave you this morning?
Grace.
[Smiling.] Surely I said so at the time.
Claude.
I was rather hoping you’d wear it to-night.
Grace.
It wouldn’t have gone with my frock.
Claude.
You might have put it on all the same.
Grace.
You see, your example hasn’t been lost on me. I’ve learnt to put propriety before sentiment.
Claude.
[Rather shyly.] I should have thought, if you cared for me, you wouldn’t have minded.
Grace.
Are you reproaching me?
Claude.
No!
Grace.
Only?
Claude.
Hang it all, I can’t help wishing sometimes you’d seem as if—you were fond of me, don’t you know.
Grace.
If you’ll point out anything you particularly object to in my behaviour, I’ll try to change it.
Claude.
My dear, I don’t want much, do I?
Grace.
I don’t know why you should choose this particular time to make a scene.
Claude.
Hang it all, I’m not making a scene!
Grace.
I beg your pardon, I forgot that only women make scenes.
Claude.
I only wanted to tell you that I’m just about as fond of you as I can stick.
Grace.
[Suddenly touched.] After ten years of holy matrimony?
Claude.
It seems about ten days to me.
Grace.
Good God, to me it seems a lifetime.
Claude.
I say, Grace, what d’you mean by that?
Grace.
[Recovering herself.] Oughtn’t you to go back to the dining-room? Your brother and Mr. Cobbett will be boring one another.
[Claude looks at her for a moment, then rises and goes out. Grace clenches her hands, and an expression of utter wretchedness crosses her face. She passes her hand across her eyes with an impatient gesture, as if she were trying to shake herself free from some torturing thought. Moore comes in with coffee on a salver.
Grace.
Put it down on the table.
Moore.
Yes, madam.
Grace.
Miss Vernon’s in the garden with Miss Lewis. Will you tell them that coffee is here?
Moore.
Very good, ma’am.
[He goes out of one of the French windows into the garden. In a moment Miss Vernon comes in.
Grace.
Isn’t Edith coming?
Miss Vernon.
I sent her to get a wrap. We want to go down to the lake.
Grace.
Will you have some coffee?
Miss Vernon.
Thank you.... I was trying to remember how long it is since I was here last.
Grace.
[Pouring out the coffee.] It was before I was married.
Miss Vernon.
I’m devoted to Kenyon, I’m so glad you asked me to come and spend Whitsun here.
Grace.
My mother-in-law wrote and told us that you weren’t engaged.
Miss Vernon.
[With a smile.] That sounds rather chilly.
Grace.
Does it?
Miss Vernon.
[Abruptly.] May I call you Grace?
Grace.
[Looking up, faintly surprised.] Certainly. If you wish it.
Miss Vernon.
My name is Helen.
Grace.
Is it?
[Miss Vernon gives a slight smile of amusement, then gets up and stands before the fire-place with her hands behind her back.
Miss Vernon.
I wonder why you dislike me so much?
Grace.
I don’t know why you should think I do.
Miss Vernon.
You don’t take much trouble to hide it, do you?
Grace.
I’m sorry. In future I’ll be more careful.
Miss Vernon.
[Rather wistfully.] I wanted to be great friends with you.
Grace.
I’m afraid I don’t make friends very easily.
Miss Vernon.
We live so near one another. It seems rather silly that we should only just be on speaking terms.
[A very short pause.
Grace.
They wanted Claude to marry you, didn’t they? And he married me instead.
Miss Vernon.
When I saw you at your wedding, I couldn’t help feeling I’d have done just the same in his place.
Grace.
[With a twinkle in her eye.] And now they want you to marry his brother Archibald.
Miss Vernon.
[Smiling.] So I understand.
Grace.
Are you going to?
Miss Vernon.
He hasn’t asked me yet.
Grace.
Five thousand acres in a ring fence. It seems a pity to let it go out of the family.
Miss Vernon.
It’s such a nuisance that a plainish woman of six-and-thirty has to be taken along with it.
Grace.
Did you ever care for Claude?
Miss Vernon.
If I did or not, I’m very anxious to care for his wife.
Grace.
Why?
Miss Vernon.
Well, partly because I’m afraid you’re not very happy.
Grace.
[Startled.] I? [Almost defiantly.] I should have thought I had everything that a woman can want to make her happy. I’ve got a husband who adores me. We’re rich. We’re—[with a sudden break in her voice]—happy! I wish to God he had married you! It’s clear enough now that he made a mistake.
Miss Vernon.
[With a chuckle.] I don’t think it’s occurred to him, you know.
Grace.
How many times d’you suppose his mother has said to Claude: Things would be very different now if you’d had the sense to marry Helen Vernon.
Miss Vernon.
Yes, in that case I must say it’s not to be wondered at if you don’t like me very much.
Grace.
Like you! I hate you with all my heart and soul!
Miss Vernon.
Good gracious me, you don’t say so?
Grace.
[With a sudden flash of humour.] You don’t mind my telling you, do you?
Miss Vernon.
Not a bit, but I should very much like to know why?
Grace.
Because I’ve got an envious disposition and I envy you.
Miss Vernon.
A solitary old maid like me?
Grace.
You’ve got everything that I haven’t got. D’you suppose I’ve lived ten years in my husband’s family without realising the gulf that separates Miss Vernon of Foley from the very middle-class young woman that Claude Insoley was such a damned fool as to marry? You’ve got money and I haven’t a farthing.
Miss Vernon.
Money isn’t everything.
Grace.
Oh, don’t talk such nonsense! How would you like to be dependent on somebody else for every penny you had? If I want to get Claude a Christmas present I have to buy it out of his money.... It wouldn’t be so maddening if I only had forty pounds a year of my own, but I haven’t a penny, not a penny! And I have to keep accounts. After all, it’s his money. If he wants accounts why shouldn’t he have them? I have to write down the cost of every packet of hair-pins. [With a sudden chuckle.] And the worst of it is, I never could add.
Miss Vernon.
That, of course, must increase the difficulty of keeping accounts.
Grace.
I’ve been an utter failure from the beginning. They despised me because I was a nobody and not even a rich nobody; but I was a strapping, healthy sort of young woman and they consoled themselves by thinking I’d have children—a milch cow was what they wanted—and I haven’t even had children....
[Miss Vernon, not knowing what to say, makes a little gesture of perplexity and helplessness. There is a brief pause.
Grace.
Oh! I’m about fed up with all the humiliations I’ve had to endure.
[Edith Lewis comes in with a wrap which she gives to Miss Vernon.
Edith.
Will this do?
Miss Vernon.
Thanks so much. You’re a perfect angel.
Grace.
You mustn’t stay out more than a few minutes. The men will be here in a moment, and I want to play poker. When my mother-in-law comes we shall have to mind our p’s and q’s.
Edith.
You don’t like Mrs. Insoley?
Grace.
Mrs. Insoley doesn’t like me.
Miss Vernon.
Nonsense! She’s very fond of you indeed.
Grace.
I could wish she had some pleasanter way of showing it than finding fault with everything I do, everything I say, and everything I wear.
Edith.
She’s coming to-morrow, isn’t she?
Grace.
Yes. [With a quizzical smile.] She’ll thoroughly disapprove of you. When I introduce you to her: This is Miss Lewis—she’ll look at you for a moment as if you were a kitchen-maid applying for a situation and say: Lewis.
Edith.
Why?
Grace.
Because, like myself, you’re not county.
Edith.
Oh!
Grace.
It’s all very fine to say: Oh! but you don’t know what that means. In London, if you’re pretty and amusing and don’t give yourself airs, people are quite ready to be nice to you; but in a place like this, you can have every virtue under the sun, and if you’re not county you’re of no importance in this world, and you’ll certainly be very uncomfortable in the next.
Miss Vernon.
[Smiling.] I think you’re extremely hard on us. If you have the advantage of....
Grace.
[Seizing the opportunity which Miss Vernon’s hesitation gives her.] Middle-class origins?
Miss Vernon.
You needn’t grudge us the perfectly harmless delusion that there is a difference between a family that has lived in the same place for three or four centuries, with traditions of good breeding and service to the country—and one that has no roots in the soil.
Grace.
I seem to hear Claude’s very words.
Miss Vernon.
[Good-humouredly.] Of course we have our faults.
Grace.
You’re the first member of your class that I’ve ever heard acknowledge it.
Miss Vernon.
[Meditatively.] I wonder if you’d despise us so much if you had a string of drunken, fox-hunting squires behind you.
Grace.
Oh, my dear, when I was first married I used to lie awake at night wishing for them with all my heart. When the neighbours came to call on me I could see them obviously lying in wait for the aitches they were expecting me to drop. A Miss Robinson, wasn’t she? Robinson! Are there people called Robinson? Oh, how I wanted to scratch their ugly old faces!
Miss Vernon.
How lucky I was abroad for so long! You might have disfigured me for life.
Grace.
I’ve often thought that if the Archangel Gabriel came down in Somersetshire, they’d look him out in the “Landed Gentry” before they asked him to a shooting-party.
Miss Vernon.
I don’t think you ought to judge us all on Mrs. Insoley. She’s a type that’s dying out.
Edith.
I don’t want to seem inquisitive, but if you don’t like Mrs. Insoley why on earth d’you have her to stay here?
Grace.
Simple-minded child! Because even in a county family money’s the only thing in the world that really matters, and we’re penniless, while Mrs. Insoley—[with a quick, defiant look at Miss Vernon]—Mrs. Insoley stinks of it.... Do I shock you?
Miss Vernon.
[With a smile.] No, because I see you’re trying to.
Grace.
Claude has nothing but the house and land and his principles. And if we’re able to have the hounds and the shooting and a couple of cars, it’s because Mrs. Insoley pays for it.
Miss Vernon.
[Explaining to Edith Lewis.] Mrs. Insoley was an heiress.
Grace.
She was a Bainbridge, and you’ll hear her thank God for it frequently.