JANE. I know, dear. But of course they don't nowadays.
MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose—perhaps just a rose.
JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him? (She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather—you know. Rather forward.
MELISANDE. Forward!
JANE (upset). Well, I mean—Well, of course, I suppose it was different in those days.
MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?
JANE. Well, of course, there is that.
MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope—for I have been immured in my room—and I let myself down to him. He places me on the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the world—together for always!
JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get married, I suppose, darling, or do you—er—
MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest marries us.
JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes.
MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince from Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a country which is sorely troubled by a dragon.
JANE. By a what, dear?
MELISANDE. A dragon.
JANE. Oh, yes, of course.
MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his kingdom to anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens to be passing through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the dragon devours him.
JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't the one?
MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused no emotion in my heart.
JANE. Oh, I'm so glad.
MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes upon the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed.
JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow
MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in blue and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be allowed to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the great hall on my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our eyes meet. . . . Oh, Jane!
JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, Melisande. They would have suited you so well.
MELISANDE. Will they never come back again?
JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress in blue and gold nowadays. I mean men.
MELISANDE. No. (She sighs) Well, I suppose I shall never marry.
JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't have time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I quite agree with everything you say, and of course it must have been thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still here we are, and (with a wave of the hand)—and what I mean is—here we are.
MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and to make the ordinary commonplace marriage?
JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was the right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman—I don't say beautiful—pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not very clever perhaps, but making enough money——
MELISANDE (carelessly). It sounds rather like Bobby.
JANE (confused). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else particularly. It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I was just describing the sort of man without thinking of any one in——
MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right.
JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to you.
MELISANDE (firmly). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you solemnly that if you think you are going to leave me and Bobby alone together this evening—— (Voices are heard outside.) Well, I warn you.
JANE (in a whisper). Of course not, darling. (With perfect tact) And, as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the most——Ah, here you are at last! We wondered what had happened to you!
Enter BOBBY and MR. KNOWLE. JANE has already described BOBBY for us. MR. KNOWLE is a pleasant, middle-aged man with a sense of humour, which he cultivates for his own amusement entirely.
BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (He goes towards them.)
JANE (laughing). Very.
(MELISANDE gets up as BOBBY comes, and moves away.)
MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy?
MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father.
MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget what I said about the bread-sauce, will you?
MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What you said?
MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that you should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there is no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy chicken, such as we had to-night, but that a properly made bread-sauce is a necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to be obtained.
MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, Father.
MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A little quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer Night. Why aren't you two out in the garden looking for fairies?
BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be out. D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy?
MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out.
BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm.
MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take you out. If we meet any of Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me.
MELISANDE (looking across warningly at her). Jane——
JANE (awkwardly). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande and I—I promised Sandy—we——
MR. KNOWLE (putting her arm firmly through his). Nonsense. I'm not going to have my niece taken away from me, when she is only staying with us for such a short time. Besides I insist upon being introduced to Titania. I want to complain about the rings on the tennis-lawn. They must dance somewhere else.
JANE (looking anxiously at MELISANDE). You see, Uncle Henry, I'm not feeling very——
MELISANDE (resigned) All right, Jane.
JANE (brightly). All right, Uncle Henry.
MR. KNOWLE (very brightly). It's all right, Bobby.
JANE. Come along! (They go to the open windows together.)
MR. KNOWLE (as they go). Any message for Oberon, if we meet him?
MELISANDE (gravely). No, thank you, Father.
MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose.
(JANE laughs as they go out together.)
(Left alone, MELISANDE takes up a book and goes to the sofa with it, while BOBBY walks about the room unhappily, whistling to himself. He keeps looking across at her, and at last their eyes meet.)
MELISANDE (putting down her book). Well, Bobby?
BOBBY (awkwardly). Well, Sandy?
MELISANDE (angrily). Don't call me that; you know how I hate it.
BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And your father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say anything.
MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes a time when it is almost useless to say things to them.
BOBBY (eagerly). I never mind your saying things to me, Sandy—I mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, really I shan't. Of course, I know I'm not worthy of you, and all that, but—I say, Melisande, isn't there any hope?
MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that again.
BOBBY (coming to her). I know you did, but I must. I can't believe that you—
MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like that again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that it shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not even Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they propose to a girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of the country and shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to do. But I did try and make it easy for you, Bobby. (Sadly) And now you're beginning all over again.
BOBBY (awkwardly). I though perhaps you might have changed your mind. Lots of girls do.
MELISANDE (contemptuously). Lots of girls! Is that how you think of me?
BOBBY. Well, your mother said—(He breaks off hurriedly.)
MELISANDE (coldly). Have you been discussing me with my mother?
BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean Melisande.
MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on.
BOBBY. Well, I didn't discuss you with your mother. She just happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and that they always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be downhearted, because—
MELISANDE. That you needn't? You mean you told her?
BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out.
MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, you went and told her! And then I suppose you went and told the cook, and she said that her brother's young woman was just the same, and then you told the butcher, and he said, "You stick to it, sir. All women are alike. My missis said 'No' to me the first time." And then you went and told the gardeners—I suppose you had all the gardeners together in the potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it—and when you had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go and tell the postman," and then—
BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair.
MELISANDE. Oh, what a world!
BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair.
MELISANDE (picking up her book). Father and Jane are outside, Bobby, if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I suppose they know already. (She pretends to read.)
BOBBY. I say, you know—(He doesn't quite know what to say. There is an awkward silence. Then he says humbly) I'm awfully sorry, Melisande. Please forgive me.
MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). That's nice of you, Bobby. Please forgive me. I wasn't fair.
BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your mother. And it sort of came out with her. She began talking about you—
MELISANDE. I know.
BOBBY. But I never told anybody else.
MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother.
BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should mind so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't help falling in love with you, and—well, it is a sort of a compliment to you, isn't it?—even if it's only me.
MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so—so unromantic. (After a pause) Sometimes I think I shall never marry.
BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do like me, don't you?
MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking Englishman—I don't say beautiful—
BOBBY. I should hope not!
MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable—not very clever, perhaps, but making enough money—
BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad.
MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more!
BOBBY. What sort of things?
MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so—so ordinary!
BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did you?
MELISANDE. So—commonplace. So—unromantic.
BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry and all that, if that's what you mean by romantic, but—commonplace! I'm blessed if I see how you make out that.
MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings—
BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings.
MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass!
(BOBBY goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his clothes.)
BOBBY (looking back at her). Well?
MELISANDE. Well!
BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong.
MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like that!
BOBBY (looking at it). What's the matter with it? It's what every other fellow wears.
MELISANDE (contemptuously). What every other fellow wears! And you think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what every other fellow talks, and eat what every other—I suppose you didn't like the bread-sauce this evening?
BOBBY (guardedly). Well, not as bread-sauce.
MELISANDE (nodding her head). I thought so, I thought so.
BOBBY (struck by an idea). I say, you didn't make it, did you?
MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it?
BOBBY. I thought perhaps—You know, I really don't know what you do want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean—
MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did.
BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is he going to do the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I don't.
MELISANDE (shaking her head gently at him). No, I'm sure you don't, Bobby.
BOBBY (still trying, however). I suppose it's because he's doing the cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. He sounds a funny sort of chap; I should like to see him.
MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him.
BOBBY (jealously). Have you seen him?
MELISANDE. Only in my dreams.
BOBBY (relieved). Oh, well.
MELISANDE (dreamily to herself). Perhaps I shall never see him in this world—and then I shall never marry. But if he ever comes for me, he will come not like other men; and because he is so different from everybody else, then I shall know him when he comes for me. He won't talk about bread-sauce—billiards—and the money market. He won't wear a little black suit, with a little black tie—all sideways. (BOBBY hastily pulls his tie straight.) I don't know how he will be dressed, but I know this, that when I see him, that when my eyes have looked into his, when his eyes have looked into mine—
BOBBY. I say, steady!
MELISANDE (waking from her dream). Yes? (She gives a little laugh) Poor Bobby!
BOBBY (appealingly). I say, Sandy! (He goes up to her.)
(MRS. KNOWLE has seized this moment to come back for her handkerchief. She sees them together, and begins to walk out on tiptoe.)
(They hear her and turn round suddenly.)
MRS. KNOWLE (in a whisper). Don't take any notice of me. I only just came for my handkerchief. (She continues to walk on tiptoe towards the opposite door.)
MELISANDE (getting up). We were just wondering where you were, Mother. Here's your handkerchief. (She picks it up from the sofa.)
MRS. KNOWLE (still in the voice in which you speak to an invalid). Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you—I was just going—
MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to Bobby, won't you?
MRS. KNOWLE (with a happy smile, hoping for the best). Yes, my darling.
MELISANDE (going to the windows). That's right. (She stops at the windows and holds out her hands to the night)—
(She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling voice) In such a night! Ah!
[She goes to it.
MRS. KNOWLE (in a different voice). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. Coote?
BOBBY (turning back to her with a start). Oh—er—yes?
MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you Bobby, mayn't I?
BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle.
MRS. KNOWLE (archly). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of a better name?
BOBBY (wondering if he ought to call her MARY). Er—I'm—I'm afraid I don't quite—
MRS. KNOWLE. Mother.
BOBBY. Oh, but I say—
MRS. KNOWLE (giving him her hand). And now come and sit on the sofa with me, and tell me all about it.
(They go to the sofa together.)
BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle—
MRS. KNOWLE (shaking a finger playfully at him). Not Mrs. Knowle, Bobby.
BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think—I mean Sandy and I—we aren't—
MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has refused you again.
BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it.
MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other day was true. Girls don't know their own minds.
BOBBY (ruefully). I think Sandy knows hers—about me, anyhow.
MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet said—Shakespeare, or was it the other man?—"Faint heart never won fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would never have won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he came again—like Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a revolver, and threatened to shoot himself. I was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I loved him. "Henry," I said, "I am yours." He took me in his arms—putting down the revolver first, of course. I have never regretted my surrender, Mr. Coote. (With a sigh) Ah, me! We women are strange creatures.
BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot myself.
MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very warm-hearted. I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you are taking too gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it.
BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her again. I know when I'm not wanted.
MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and I—
BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to you this time.
MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how should I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not?
BOBBY. Well, of course—I mean I haven't really said anything, have I? Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about things.
MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she gets it from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was all the result of being christened in that irreligious way—I quite thought he said Millicent—and reading all those books, instead of visiting the sick as I used to do. I was quite a little Red Riding Hood until Henry sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE and JANE come in by the window, and she turns round towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was wondering where you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all about his prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get your feet wet, I hope.
JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary.
MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been talking to the fairies—haven't we, Jane?
MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see Sandy?
MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania—and Peters. He had an appointment, apparently—but not with Titania.
JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think.
MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a mistake.
MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about it as you. He is doing his best to remedy the error.
MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I have been through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know about.
MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What's the matter, my love? Indigestion?
MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my lips are sealed. I shall suffer my cross—my mental cross—in silence.
JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary?
MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (To Heaven) My only daughter has left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece has offered to help me out of my—to help me. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Mr. Coote.
BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle.
MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (in a loud whisper) what Shakespeare said. (She presses his hand and holds it) Good-night! Good-night! . . . Good-night!
MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he said, "Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I could say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE looks at him severely, and then, without saying anything, goes over to him and holds up her cheek.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well.
MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane.
JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary.
(MRS. KNOWLE goes to the door, BOBBY hurrying in front to open it for her.)
MRS. KNOWLE (at the door). I shall not sleep well. I shall lie awake all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much distressed. "Dr. Anderson," I shall say, "it is not your fault. I lay awake all night, thinking of my loved ones." In five minutes, Jane.
[She goes out.
MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the library, if anybody wants to think of me—or say good-night to me—or anything like that.
JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now Uncle Henry. (She goes up to him.)
MR. KNOWLE (kissing her). Good-night, dear.
JANE. Good-night.
MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss me—what about you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library and have a smoke first?
BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather tired to-day, somehow.
MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a business this is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she should come back, Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she will find it in the library—just above the back of the armchair nearest the door. [He goes out.
JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden?
BOBBY (gloomily). Yes—about five minutes ago.
JANE (timidly). I'm so sorry, Bobby.
BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (After a pause) Don't let's talk about it.
JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I had to say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did you?
BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind.
JANE (gently). I mind very much when my friends are unhappy.
BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (He stands up, buttons his coat, and looks at himself) I say, do you see anything wrong with it?
JANE. Wrong with what?
BOBBY. My clothes. (He revolves slowly.)
JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully.
BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she means half the time.
JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what you mean. She's so (searching for the right word)—so romantic.
BOBBY (eagerly). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of living up to. I say, have a cigarette, won't you?
JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who marries her.
BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that?
JANE. Yes. She's too (getting the right word at last)—too romantic.
BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about doing deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but when one marries and settles down—you know what I mean?
JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to Melisande only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I happen to like the twentieth century. That's all.
BOBBY. I see what you mean.
JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen on games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else wears—as long as they fit well, of course—and to talk about the ordinary things that everybody talks about. Of course, Melisande would say that that was very stupid and unromantic of me——
BOBBY. I don't think it is at all.
JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do understand so wonderfully.
BOBBY (with a laugh). I say, that's rather funny. I was just thinking the same about you.
JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that we are really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't know whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make friends very easily.
BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends?
JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly think of any—not what you call real friends.
BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each other all your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you?
JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I could never tell even her. (Impressively) I could never show her my inmost heart.
BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I bet there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything.
JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. That sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be liked.
BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit horrid.
JANE. How nice of you. (She gets up) Well, I must be going, I suppose.
BOBBY. What's the hurry?
JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes.
BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down again, won't you?
JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Bobby.
BOBBY (taking it). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light your candle for you.
JANE. How nice of you!
(She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door together.)
BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself.
JANE (at the door). Well, if you are, we'd better put the lights out.
BOBBY. Righto. (He puts them out.) I say, what a night! (The moonlight streams through the windows on them.) You'll hardly want a candle.
[They go out together.
(The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to ring. After a little interval, ALICE comes in, turns on the light, and looks round the hall. She is walking across the hall to the drawing-room when MR. KNOWLE comes in from behind her, and she turns round).
MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice?
ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir.
MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it?
ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he wondered if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how very sorry he was to trouble you——
MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all—particularly if Peters is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if it's not troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And ask the gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the door-mat.
ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir.
MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is about to bring in the whiskey.
ALICE. Yes, sir.
MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.
ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out, and returns a moment later) He says, thank you very much, sir, but he really won't come in, and he's very sorry indeed to trouble you about the petrol.
MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him.
ALICE (hopefully). Yes, sir.
MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present Mr. Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much honoured if he will drink a glass of whiskey with me before proceeding on his journey.
ALICE. Yes, sir.
MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.
ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out. In a little while she comes back followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in a long cloak.) Mr. Gervase Mallory.
[She goes out.
MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see you. (They shake hands.)
GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for bothering you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance.
MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far?
GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty miles away. Do you know it?
MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as far away as that.
GERVASE (with a laugh). Well, perhaps only by the way I came. The fact is I've lost myself rather.
MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to have come within five miles of us.
GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't.
MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now that you are here.
GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you.
ALICE comes in.
MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE puts down the whiskey.) You've told Peters?
ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now.
MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE goes out.) You'll have some whiskey, won't you?
GERVASE. Thanks very much.
(He comes to the table.)
MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make yourself comfortable?
GERVASE. Er—thanks. I don't think—— (He smiles to himself and keeps his cloak on.)
MR. KNOWLE (busy with the drinks). Say when.
GERVASE. Thank you.
MR. KNOWLE. And soda?
GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks!
(He takes the glass.)
MR. KNOWLE (giving himself one). I'm so glad you came, because I have a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives me cough-mixture, I insist on somebody else in the house having cough-mixture too. A glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just before going to bed—— (He looks up) But do take your coat off, won't you, and sit down and be comfortable?
GERVASE. Er—thanks very much, but I don't think—— (With a shrug and a smile) Oh, well! (He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. He is in fancy dress—the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold of MELISANDE'S dream.)
(MR. KNOWLE turns round to him again just as he has put his cloak down. He looks at GERVASE in amazement.)
MR. KNOWLE (pointing to his whiskey glass). But I haven't even begun it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port.
GERVASE (laughing). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder what on earth I'm doing.
MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth I'd been doing.
GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at Collingham.
MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably.
GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in—or take my cloak off.
MR. KNOWLE (inspecting him). It becomes you extraordinarily well, if I may say so.
GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it when other people are in ordinary clothes.
MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. I don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but (looking at himself) I am sure that I could have found something more expressive of my emotions than this.
GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, Davy."
MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed.
GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a whiskey and soda.
MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette, too?
GERVASE. May I have one of my own?
MR. KNOWLE. Do.
GERVASE (feeling for it). If I can find it. They were very careless about pockets in the old days. I had a special one put in somewhere, only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, here it is. (He takes a cigarette from his case, and after trying to put the case back in his pocket again, places it on the table.)
MR. KNOWLE. Match?
GERVASE. Thanks. (Picking up his whiskey) Well, here's luck, and—my most grateful thanks.
MR. KNOWLE (raising his glass). May you slay all your dragons.
GERVASE. Thank you. (They drink.)
MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw a map outside in the hall.
GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was too much interested in your prints.
MR. KNOWLE (eagerly). You don't say that you are interested in prints?
GERVASE. Very much—as an entire amateur.
MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the art began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I have something in the library—but of course I mustn't take up your time now. If you could bear to come over another day—after all, we are neighbours——
GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it.
MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it because you seem to have lost your way so completely——
GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different in the moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in one afternoon.
MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea.
GERVASE. That will be ripping. (Getting up) Well, I suppose I ought to be getting on. (He picks up his cloak.)
MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the way.
GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's.
(They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking at the casement windows.)
MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (He switches off the lights, and the moon streams through the windows) Just look.
GERVASE (with a deep sigh). Wonderful!
[They go out together.
(The hall is empty for a moment. Then GERVASE reappears. He has forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and on his way out again stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking through the casement windows.)
(MELISANDE comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and at the same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. It is He! The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each other. . . . Silently he makes obeisance to her; silently she acknowledges it. . . . Then he is gone.)
ACT II
It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The scene is a glade in a wood a little way above the village of Hedgling.
GERVASE MALLORY, still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak on, comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He takes off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns round, and, seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While he is looking he hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round with a start; the whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries to get to his cloak. It is too late. ERN, a very small boy, comes through the trees into the glade. GERVASE gives a sigh of resignation and stands there. ERN stops in the middle of his tune and gazes at him.
ERN. Oo—er! Oo! (He circles slowly round GERVASE.)
GERVASE. I quite agree with you.
ERN. Oo! Look!
GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the back—take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . . Been all round? Good!
ERN. Oo!
GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very difficult. Do you mind if I sit down?
ERN. Oo!
GERVASE (sitting down on a log). I gather that I have your consent. I thank you.
ERN. Oo! Look! (He points at GERVASE'S legs.)
GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed those before?
ERN (sitting down in front of GERVASE). Oo!
GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a walk in a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say "Oo." What does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you don't walk all round him and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle George wear when he's reaping? I suppose you don't—By the way, I wish you'd tell me your name. (ERN gazes at him dumbly.) Oh, come! They must have told you your name when you got up this moving.
ERN (smiling sheepishly). Ern.
GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN grins) Thank you.
ERN (tapping himself). I'm Ern.
GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory.
ERN. Ern.
GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, you know, because then we never get any farther. Once an introduction is over, Mr. Hearne, we are—
ERN. Ern.
GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But now—Oh, I see what you mean. Ern—short for Ernest?
ERN (nodding). They calls me Ern.
GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger I shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest— (getting up) Just excuse me a moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree has. It must be a Pomeranian. (He folds his cloak upon it and sits down again) That's better. Now we can talk comfortably together. I don't know if there's anything you particularly want to discuss—nothing?—well, then, I will suggest the subject of breakfast.
ERN (grinning). 'Ad my breakfast.
GERVASE. You've had yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of course, you're wondering why I haven't had mine.
ERN. Bacon fat. (He makes reminiscent noises.)
GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a motor car of your own.
ERN. Don't like moty cars.
GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree with you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't broken down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if you're married or anything of that sort, but I think even your rough stern heart would have been moved by that vision of loveliness which I saw last night. (He is silent for a little, thinking of her.) Well, then, I lost my way. There I was—ten miles from anywhere—in the middle of what was supposed to be a short cut—late at night—Midsummer Night—what would you have done, Ernest?
ERN. Gone 'ome.
GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know where home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen the Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or any wise man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of Her.
ERN. Oo!
GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . Have you ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer Night—I don't mean just for a minute or two, but all through the night until the dawn came? You aren't really alone, you know. All round you there are little whisperings going on, little breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is out hunting; somebody stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt of yesterday; somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, and then, finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little head back under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies are out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in them last night. I heard them whispering.
ERN. Oo!
GERVASE (coming out of his thoughts with a laugh). Well, of course, I can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about thinking that there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and bull's-eyes. Well, then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up suddenly and it was morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical morning—but, of course, you were just settling down to business then.
ERN. Oo! (He makes more reminiscent noises.)
GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, breakfast.
ERN. 'Ad my breakfast.
GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old friend, Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, has got an estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his simple meal with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you didn't do, young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on a pocket-handkerchief—one of my sister's, unfortunately—and then I came out to look for breakfast. And suddenly, whom should I meet but my old friend, Ernest, the same hearty fellow, the same inveterate talker as when we shot dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay. (Shaking his hand) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about it?
ERN. 'Ad my—
GERVASE. S'sh. (He gets up) Now then—to business. Do you mind looking the other way while I try to find my purse. (Feeling for it.) Every morning when you get up, you should say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big boy now and I've got pockets in my trousers." And you should feel very sorry for the poor people who lived in fairy books and had no trousers to put pockets in. Ah, here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very carefully. Where do you live?
ERN. 'Ome.
GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, how far away is your home? (ERN grins and says nothing) A mile? (ERN continues to grin) Half a mile? (ERN grins) Six inches?
ERN (pointing). Down there.
GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this— (giving him half-a-crown)—
ERN. Oo!
GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you—and I want you to ask your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, listen very carefully, because we are coming to the important part. Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk—and anything else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because your old friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is starving by the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket quickly, I'll give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a week. (Very earnestly) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you got that?
ERN (nodding). Going 'ome. (He looks at the half-crown again.)
GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But—returning with breakfast. Starving man—lost in forest—return with basket—save life. (To himself) I believe I could explain it better to a Chinaman. (To ERN) Now then, off you go.
ERN (as he goes off). 'Ad my breakfast.
GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine.
(GERVASE walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as he goes down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another stranger in the distance.)
GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (He walks towards the log) Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (He puts on his coat.)
(A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of SUSAN, comes in singing. He sees GERVASE sitting on the log.)
SUSAN (with a bow). Good morning, sir.
GERVASE. (looking round). Good morning.
SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not discommode you.
GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on.
SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there.
GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again?
SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (Taking off his hat) Would it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few minutes?
GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? Have you come far this morning?
SUSAN. Three or four miles—a mere nothing on a morning like this. Besides, what does the great William say?
GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say?
SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way.
GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes.
SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry?
GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you merry?
SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say?
GERVASE (trying hard). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've got me there. I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he say?
SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of Empires ridiculous.
GERVASE. Emerson, of course. Silly of me.
SUSAN. So you see, sir—I am well, the day is well, all is well.
GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great Percy—(to himself) that's got him.
SUSAN (at a loss). The—er—great Percy?
GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
SUSAN (eagerly). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, there's a poet, Mr.—er—I don't think I quite caught your name.
GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory—to be referred to by posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase.
SUSAN. Not a poet, too?
GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally.
SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit—like myself. I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you to converse with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE bows.) Generally called Master Susan in these parts, or sometimes Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling Peddler by profession.
GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure.
SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (He begins to undo his pack,) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I may so far venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, or collar-studs?
GERVASE (smiling). Well, no, not at this actual moment. On almost any other day perhaps—but no, not this morning.
SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing—en passant, as the French say. (He brings out a paper bag from his pack.) Would the fact of my eating my breakfast in this pleasant resting place detract at all from your appreciation of the beautiful day which Heaven has sent us?
GERVASE. Eating your what?
SUSAN. My simple breakfast.
GERVASE (shaking his head). I'm very sorry, but I really don't think I could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest—I don't know if you know Ernest?
SUSAN. The great Ernest?
GERVASE (indicating with his hand). No, the very small one—Well, he was telling me all about the breakfast he'd just had, and now you're showing me the breakfast you're just going to have—no, I can't bear it.
SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do me the honour of joining me at my simple repast?
GERVASE (jumping up excitedly). The honour of joining you!—the honour! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why they call you Gentleman Susan. (Shaking his head sadly) But no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I should eat too much. Besides, Ernest may come back. No, I will wait. It wouldn't be fair.
SUSAN (unpacking his breakfast). Bacon or cheese?
GERVASE. Cheese—I mean bacon—I mean—I say, you aren't serious?
SUSAN (handing him bread and cheese). I trust you will find it up to your expectations.
GERVASE (taking it). I say, you really—(Solemnly) Master Susan, with all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I say "Thank you." (He takes a bite) Thank you.
SUSAN (eating also). Please do not mention it. I am more than repaid by your company.
GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to be your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful cheese.
SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it.
GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for this delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your boot-laces. Nay, more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your buttons. Your profession would then be gone.
SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence?
GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, nothing less than half-a-crown will satisfy me.
SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more.
GERVASE (with a sigh). Very well, then. (He begins to feel in his pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress. SUSAN opens his eyes at it, and then goes on eating. GERVASE finds his purse and produces sixpence, which he gives to SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (He resumes his breakfast.)
SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but you are not by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road?
GERVASE. Do you mean professionally?
SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I wondered—
(He glances at GERVASE's legs, which are uncovered. GERVASE hastily wraps his coat round them.)
GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . . . Er—my costume—
SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to have inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free world.
GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe.
SUSAN (with a bow). I congratulate you on your bathing costume.
GERVASE. Not at all.
SUSAN. You live near here then?
GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car.
SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away.
GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely.
SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there.
GERVASE (surprised). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have lost my way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. And I never knew!
SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory?
GERVASE. No. Not yet.
SUSAN. Get married.
GERVASE. What?
SUSAN. Take my advice and get married.
GERVASE. You recommend it?
SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you marry the right woman.
GERVASE. Oh?
SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of happiness.
GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife a good deal.
SUSAN (smiling). But then I come back to her a good deal.
GERVASE (thoughtfully). Yes, that must be rather jolly.
SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I came upon you here this morning?
GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well——
SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. When you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You have your adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have your adventure again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second time. You can say the things which you didn't quite say the first time, and do the things which you didn't quite do. When my week's travels are ever, and I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole week's happenings to tell her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. Mallory. Our little breakfast here this morning—she will love to hear about that. I can see her happy excited face as I tell her all that I said to you, and—if I can remember it—all that you said to me.
GERVASE (eagerly). I say, how jolly! (Thoughtfully) You won't forget what I said about the Great Percy? I thought that was rather good.
SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I shall find myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. That's why I say "Get married." Then you can make things fair for yourself. You can tell her all the good things of mine which you said.
GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that.
SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship is at the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship means?
GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally?
SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art of having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible to them, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not impossible to two people who have found what love is.
GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic.
SUSAN (solemnly). It is the most romantic thing in the whole world. . . . Some more cheese?
GERVASE (taking it). Thank you. . . . (Thoughtfully) Do you believe in love at first sight, Master Susan?
SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not only the face.
GERVASE. I see. (After a pause) It's rather hard to tell, you know. I suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have breakfast with you, and see how you get on.
SUSAN. Well, you might do worse.
GERVASE (laughing). And propose to her after breakfast?
SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball as some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss in the moonlight.
GERVASE (shaking his head). Nothing like that happened last night.
SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss?
GERVASE. I never read the Daily Mail.
SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson.
GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon.
SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem but to be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have found in thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the art of having breakfast with a person. (Getting up) Well, I must be moving on. We have been companions for a short time; I thank you for it. I wish you well.
GERVASE (getting up). I say, I've been awfully glad to meet you. And I shall never forget the breakfast you gave me.
SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so.
GERVASE (hesitatingly). You won't mind my having another one when Ernest comes back—I mean, if Ernest comes back? You won't think I'm slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor bathe, you know, one does——
SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an appetite.
GERVASE (holding out his hand). Well, good-bye, Mr. Susan, (SUSAN looks at his hand doubtfully, and GERVASE says with a laugh) Oh, come on!
SUSAN (shaking it). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.
GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said.
SUSAN (smiling). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. Good-bye.
[He goes off.
GERVASE (calling after him). Because it wasn't the moonlight, it wasn't really. It was just Her. (To himself) It was just Her. . . . I suppose the great Whatsisname would say, "It was just She," but then, that isn't what I mean.
(GERVASE watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to the other side, says, "Hallo!" suddenly in great astonishment, and withdraws a few steps.)
GERVASE. It can't be! (He goes cautiously forward and looks again) It is!
(He comes back, and walks gently off through the trees.)
(MELISANDE comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two plaits to her waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to any century. She stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, holds out her hands to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a sigh of happiness. . . .)
(GERVASE, his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a moment he is half-hidden by the trees.)
GERVASE (very softly). Princess!
(She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a little.)
GERVASE (a little more loudly). Princess!
(She listens and nods to herself, GERVASE steps out into the open.)
GERVASE. Princess!
(She turns round.)
MELISANDE (looking at him wonderingly). You!
GERVASE. At your service, Princess.
MELISANDE. It was you who came last night.
GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You looked at me.
MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a dream?
GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming.
MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland?
GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest.
MELISANDE (with a sigh of happiness). Ah!
GERVASE. You have been looking for it?
MELISANDE. For so long. (She is silent for a little, and then says with a smile) May one sit down in an enchanted forest?
GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (He spreads his cloak over the log.)
MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too?
GERVASE (shaking his head). I haven't finished looking at you yet. . . . You are very lovely, Princess.