• THE DAY’S PLAY
• THE HOLIDAY ROUND
• ONCE A WEEK
• ONCE ON A TIME
• NOT THAT IT MATTERS
• IF I MAY
• FIRST PLAYS
• SECOND PLAYS
• THE SUNNY SIDE
• MR. PIM
• THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY

THREE PLAYS[iii]
BY A. A. MILNE

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1923

[iv]PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
R. & R. CLARK, LTD., EDINBURGH

ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED

[v]To DAFF
FOR MAKING THE FAIRY-BOOKS COME TRUE

[vi]Applications regarding Amateur Performances of the Plays in this Volume should be addressed to Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2.

CONTENTS[vii]

These plays are printed here in the order in
which they were written.

INTRODUCTION[ix]

I wanted not to write an introduction to these three plays, but circumstances are too strong for me. Yet, after all, what is to be said but, to the public, “Here they are; like them,” and, to the critics, “Here they are; fall on them”? But apparently this is not enough. I must think of something else.

There was a happy time when I was a critic myself. I, too, have lived in that Arcady. What nights were then! Red-letter nights when the play was bad, and in one short hour, standing on the body of the dramatist, I had delivered my funeral oration; black-letter nights when the play was good, and it took six hours of solid pushing, myself concealed by the fellow’s person, to place him fairly in the sun. The years slip away. Yet even now I have something of my old style. Here, lest you should think I am boasting, is my Hamlet. Yes, by the enterprise of The Saturday Review, I was present on that historic first night. For, lately, this paper stimulated its readers, with promise of reward, to imagine themselves there as critics, and I brushed up my old black doublet and went with the others. Interested, you know, in this young provincial dramatist; hoping against hope that here at last was the.... [x]However, luckily the play was a bad one, and (proud am I to say it) I won the prize.

HAMLET

Mr. William Shakespeare, whose well-meaning little costume play Hamlet was given in London for the first time last week, bears a name that is new to us, although we understand, or at least are so assured by the management, that he has a considerable local reputation in Warwickshire as a sonneteer. Why a writer of graceful little sonnets should have the ambition, still less conceive himself to have the ability, to create a tragic play capable of holding the attention of a London audience for three hours, we are unable to imagine. Merely to kill off seven (or was it eight?) of the leading characters in a play is not to write a tragedy. It is not thus that the great master-dramatists have purged our souls with pity and with terror. Mr. Shakespeare, like so many other young writers, mistakes violence for power, and, in his unfortunate lighter moments, buffoonery for humour. The real tragedy of last night was that a writer should so misunderstand and misuse the talent given to him.

For Mr. Shakespeare, one cannot deny, has talent. He has a certain pleasing gift of words. Every now and then a neat line catches the ear, as when Polonius (well played by Mr. Macready Jones) warns his son that “borrowing often loses a man his friends,” or when Hamlet himself refers to death as “a shuffling off of this mortal toil.” But a succession of neat lines does not make a play. We require something more. [xi]Our interest must be held throughout: not by such well-worn stage devices as the appearance of a ghostly apparition, who strikes terror into the hearts only of his fellow-actors; not by comic clowning business at a grave-side; but by the spiritual development of the characters. Mr. Shakespeare’s characters are no more than mouthpieces for his rhythmic musings. We can forgive a Prince of Denmark for soliloquising in blank verse to the extent of fifty lines, recognising this as a legitimate method of giving dignity to a royal pronouncement; but what are we to say of a Captain of Infantry who patly finishes off a broken line with the exact number of syllables necessary to complete the iambus? Have such people any semblance to life at all? Indeed, the whole play gives us the impression of having been written to the order of a manager as a means of displaying this or that “line” which, in the language of the day, he can “do just now.” Soliloquies (unhampered by the presence of rivals) for the popular star, a mad scene for the leading lady (in white), a ghost for the electrician, a duel for the Academy-trained fencers, a scene in dumb-show for the cinema-trained rank-and-file—our author has provided for them all. No doubt there is money in it, and a man must live. But frankly we prefer Mr. Shakespeare as a writer of sonnets.

So much for Mr. Shakespeare. I differ from him (as you were about to say) in that I prefer to see my plays printed, and he obviously preferred to see his acted. People sometimes say to me: “How beautifully [xii]Mary Brown played that part, and wasn’t John Smith’s creation wonderful, and how tremendously grateful you must be.” She did; it was; I am. The more I see of actors and actresses at rehearsals (and it is only at rehearsals of your own plays that you can see them at all, or learn anything of their art), by so much the more do I admire, am I amazed by, their skill. There are heights and depths and breadths and subtleties in acting, still more in producing, of which the casual playgoer, even the regular playgoer if he only sees the stage from the front, knows nothing. But the fact remains that, to the author, the part must always seem better than the player. That great actor John Smith may “create” the part of Yorick, but the author created it first, and created it, to his own vision, every bit as much in flesh and blood as did, later, the actor. You may read the plays here, and say that this or the other character does not “live,” meaning by this that you are unable to visualise him, unable to imagine for yourself, granted the circumstance, a person so acting, so reacting. Well—“If it be so, so it is, you know”; it is very easy not to be a great artist; I have failed. But do not believe that, because a character does not live for you, therefore it does not live for the author. While we are writing, how can we help seeing the fellow? We shut our eyes, and he is there; we open them, and he is there; we dip our pen into the ink-pot, and he is waiting on the edge for us. We shake him out on to the paper.... Ah, but now he is dead, you say. Well, well, he lived a moment before.

[xiii]So when John Smith “creates” the character of Yorick, he creates him in his own image—John Smith-Yorick; a great character, it may be, to those who see him thus for the first time, but lacking something to us who have lived with the other for months. For the other was plain Yorick—and only himself could play him. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well, a fellow of most excellent fancy. Would that you could know him too! Well, you may find him in the printed page ... or you may not ... but here only, if anywhere, is he to be found.

A. A. M.

THE GREAT BROXOPP[1]
FOUR CHAPTERS IN HIS LIFE

CHARACTERS[2]

• Broxopp.
• Nancy (his wife).
• Jack (his son).
• Sir Roger Tenterden.
• Iris Tenterden.
• Honoria Johns.
• Ronald Derwent.
• Norah Field.
• Benham.
• Mary.
• Alice.

The Scene is laid in the Broxopp home of the period.

Twenty-four years pass between Act I. and Act II., eighteen months between Act II. and Act III., and a year between Act III. and Act IV.

The first performance of this play in London took place at the St. Martin’s Theatre on March 6, 1923, with the following cast:

THE GREAT BROXOPP[3]

ACT I

Scene: The GREAT BROXOPP’S lodgings in Bloomsbury; a humble room in late Victorian days, for BROXOPP has only just begun. He has been married for six months, and we see NANCY (the dear) at work, while her husband is looking for it. He is an advertising agent, in the days when advertising agents did not lunch with peers and newspaper proprietors. Probably he would prefer to call himself an “adviser to men of business.” As we see from a large advertisement over the sideboard—drawn and lettered by hand (NANCY’S)—he has been hoping to advise SPENLOW on the best way to sell his suspenders. SPENLOW, we are assured, “gives that natty appearance.” The comfort, says THE GREAT ONE, in an inspired moment:

“The comfort is immense

With Spenlow’s great invention!

Other makes mean Suspense,

But Spenlow means Suspension!!”

Many such inspirations decorate the walls—some accepted, some even paid for—and NANCY is now making a fair copy of one of them.

MARY, the Broxopps’ servant—NANCY thought they could do without one, but the GREAT BROXOPP wanted to be [4]called “Yes, sir,” and insisted on it—well then, MARY comes in.

NANCY (without looking up). Yes, Mary?

MARY. It’s about the dinner, ma’am.

NANCY (with a sigh). Yes, I was afraid it was. It isn’t a very nice subject to talk about, is it, Mary?

MARY. Well, ma’am, it has its awkwardness like.

NANCY (after a pause, but not very hopefully). How is the joint looking?

MARY. Well, it’s past looking like anything very much.

NANCY. Well, there’s the bone.

MARY. Yes, there’s the bone.

NANCY (gaily). Well, there we are, Mary. Soup.

MARY. If you remember, ma’am, we had soup yesterday.

NANCY (wistfully). Couldn’t you—couldn’t you squeeze it again, Mary?

MARY. It’s past squeezing, ma’am—in this world.

NANCY. I was reading in a book the other day about two people who went out to dinner one night—they always dine late in books, Mary—and ordered a grilled bone. It seemed such a funny thing to have, when they had everything else to choose from. I suppose our bone——?

MARY. Grilling wouldn’t do it no good, ma’am.

NANCY. Well, I suppose we mustn’t blame it. It has been a good joint to us.

MARY. A good stayer, as you might say.

NANCY. Yes. Well, I suppose we shall have to get another.

MARY. Yes, ma’am.

NANCY. Would you look in my purse? (MARY goes to the sideboard and opens the purse.) How much is there?

[5]MARY. Three coppers and two stamps, ma’am.

NANCY. Oh! (Determined to be brave) Well, that’s fivepence.

MARY. They are halfpenny stamps, ma’am.

NANCY (utterly undone). Oh, Mary! What a very unfortunate morning we’re having. (Coaxingly) Well, anyhow it’s fourpence, isn’t it?

MARY. Yes, ma’am.

NANCY. Well, now what can we get for fourpence?

MARY (stolidly). A turkey.

NANCY (laughing with complete happiness). Oh, Mary, don’t be so gloomy about it. (Collapsing into laughter again) Let’s have two turkeys—two tuppenny ones.

MARY. It’s enough to make any one gloomy to see a nice gentleman like Mr. Broxopp and a nice lady like yourself starving in a garret.

NANCY. I don’t know what a garret is, but if this is one, I love garrets. And we’re not starving; we’ve got fourpence. (Becoming practical again) What about a nice chop?

MARY. It isn’t much for two of you.

NANCY. Three of us, Mary.

MARY. Oh, I can do all right on bread and cheese, ma’am.

NANCY. Well then, so can I. And Jim can have the chop. There! Now let me get on with my work. (Contemptuously to herself as she goes on with her drawing) Starving! And in a house full of bread and cheese!

MARY. Mr. Broxopp is not the sort of gentleman to eat a chop while his wife is only eating a bit of cheese.

NANCY (with love in her voice and eyes). No, he isn’t! (Proudly) Isn’t he a fine man, Mary?

MARY. Yes, he’s a real gentleman is Mr. Broxopp. It’s queer he doesn’t make more money.

NANCY. Well, you see, he’s an artist.

[6]MARY (surprised). An artist? Now that’s funny, I’ve never seen him painting any of his pictures.

NANCY. I don’t mean that sort of an artist. I mean he’s—— (Wrinkling her forehead) Now, how did he put it yesterday? He likes ideas for their own sake. He wants to educate the public up to them. He doesn’t believe in pandering to the public for money. He’s in advance of his generation—like all great artists.

MARY (hopefully). Yes, ma’am.

NANCY (pointing to the advertisement of Spenlow’s suspenders). Now, there you see what I mean. Now that’s what the artist in Mr. Broxopp feels that a suspender-advertisement ought to be like. But Mr. Spenlow doesn’t agree with him. Mr. Spenlow says it’s above the public’s head. And so he’s rejected Jim’s work. That’s the worst of trying to work for a man like Mr. Spenlow. He doesn’t understand artists. Jim says that if he saw an advertisement like that, he’d buy ten pairs at once, even if he never wore anything but kilts. And Jim says you can’t work for men like that, and one day he’ll write advertisements for something of his own.

MARY. Lor, ma’am! Well, I’ve often wondered myself if it was quite decent for a gentleman like Mr. Broxopp to write about things that aren’t spoken of in ordinary give-and-take conversation. But then——

NANCY (with pretty dignity). That is not the point, Mary. An artist has no limitations of that sort. And—and you’re interrupting me at my work.

MARY (going over to her and just touching her lightly on the shoulder). Bless you, dearie, you are fond of him, aren’t you?

NANCY. Oh, I just love him. (Eagerly) And he must have that chop to himself, Mary, and I’ll tell you [7]what I’ll do. I’ll write him a little note to say I’ve been invited out to dinner—and who do you think is going to invite me? Why, you! And we’ll have our bread and cheese together in the kitchen. Won’t that be fun? (Suddenly looking tragic) Oh!

MARY. What’s the matter, ma’am?

NANCY. Why, perhaps he’ll go out again directly after dinner and then I shan’t have seen him all day! (After thinking it over) No, Mary, I shall have dinner with him. (Firmly) But I shall say I’m not hungry. (There is a sound of whistling on the stairs.) Listen, there’s Jim! Oh, Mary, go quickly! He hasn’t seen me for such a long time and he’ll like to find me alone.

MARY (sympathetically). I know, ma’am.

[She goes out.

(The GREAT BROXOPP comes in. He wears a tail-coat of the period, a wide-awake hat, and a spreading blue tie—“The Broxopp tie” as it is called in later years. He is twenty-five at this time, but might be any age, an impetuous, enthusiastic, flamboyant, simple creature; candid, generous; a gentleman, yet with no manners; an artist, yet not without vulgarity. His beliefs are simple. He believes in himself and NANCY; but mostly in himself.)

BROXOPP. Nancy!

NANCY. Jim! (She flies into his arms.)

BROXOPP (releasing himself and looking at his watch). Two hours and twenty minutes since I kissed you, Nancy.

NANCY. Is that all? It seems so much longer.

BROXOPP (comparing his watch with the clock). You’re right; I’m a little slow. It’s two hours and twenty-three minutes. I must have another one. (Has one.)

NANCY. Oh, Jim, darling, it’s lovely having you [8]back. But you’re early, aren’t you? Tell me what’s been happening.

BROXOPP (trying to speak indifferently). How do you know anything has been happening?

NANCY (excitedly). Then it has! I knew it had! I felt it. Tell me quickly! (With a sudden change) No, don’t tell me quickly, tell me very, very slowly.

Begin from the very beginning when you left here after breakfast. (Pleadingly) Only just tell me first that it is good news.

BROXOPP (with an air). Madam, you see in front of you the Great Broxopp.

NANCY. Yes, but you’ve told me that every day since we’ve been married.

BROXOPP (momentarily shaken, but quickly recovering). But you believed it! Say you believed it!

NANCY. Of course I did.

BROXOPP (strutting about the room). Aha, she knew! She recognised the Great Broxopp. (Striking an attitude) And now the whole world will know.

NANCY. Is it as wonderful as that?

BROXOPP. It is, Nancy, it is! I have been singing all the way home. (Seriously) Nancy, when we have lots of money I think I shall learn to sing. An artist like myself requires to give expression to his feelings in his great moments. Several people on the bus objected to my singing. I’m afraid they were right.

NANCY (awed). Are we going to have lots of money one day? Oh, quick, tell me—but slowly right from the beginning. (She arranges his chair for him.) Or would you rather walk about, dear?

BROXOPP (sitting down). Well, I shall probably have to walk about directly, but—Where are you going to sit?

NANCY (on the floor at his knees). Here.

[9]BROXOPP (earnestly). Nancy, you must get me out of my habit of sitting down before you are seated. It isn’t what a gentleman would do.

NANCY (patting his hand). It’s what a husband would do. That’s what wives are for—to make their husbands comfy.

BROXOPP. Well, dear, never hesitate to tell me any little thing you notice about me. I never drop my aitches now, do I?

NANCY (smiling lovingly at him). Never, darling.

BROXOPP (complacently). Very few people could have got out of that in a year. But then (raising his hand with a gesture of pride) Broxopp is not like—— Dear me, have I been wearing my hat all the time?

NANCY. Yes, darling, I love you in your hat.

(A little upset, BROXOPP takes it off and throws it on the floor.)

BROXOPP (pained). Darling, you should have told me.

NANCY. I love you so—just as you are. The Great Broxopp. Now then, begin from the beginning.

BROXOPP (his confidence recovered). Well, after breakfast—a breakfast so enormous that, as I said to you at the time, I probably shouldn’t require any dinner after it——

NANCY (hastily). Yes, darling, but I said it first, and I really meant it. (Carelessly) I don’t know how it is, but somehow I feel I shan’t be at all hungry for dinner to-day.

BROXOPP. Nancy, what is for dinner to-day?

NANCY (as though dinner were a small matter in that house). Oh, chops, bread and cheese and all that sort of thing. (Eagerly) But never mind dinner now—go on telling me.

BROXOPP. Nancy, look at me and tell me how many chops you have ordered?

[10]NANCY (bravely). I thought perhaps one would be enough for you, dear, as you weren’t very hungry, and not being hungry myself——

BROXOPP (jumping up). I thought so! The Great Broxopp to dine off one chop! The Great Broxopp’s wife to dine off no chops! (He leans against the wall in a magnificent manner, and with a tremendous flourish produces a five pound note) Woman, buy five hundred chops! (Producing another five pound note with an even greater air) Five hundred tons of fried potatoes! (Flourishing a third note) Five million bottles of tomato sauce! (Thumping his heart) That’s the sort of man I am.

NANCY. Jim! Have you earned all this?

BROXOPP (disparagingly). Tut! That’s nothing to what is coming.

NANCY. Fifteen pounds! (Suddenly remembering) Now what would you really like for dinner?

BROXOPP (going over to her and taking her hands). Nancy, you believed in me all the time. It has been weary waiting for you, but now—(answering her question) I think I should like a kiss.

NANCY (kissing him and staying very close). Of course I believed in you, my wonderful man. And now they’ll all believe in you. (After a pause) Who believed the fifteen pounds? Was it Mr. Spenlow?

BROXOPP. Spenlow? Bah! (He strides across the room and tears down the Spenlow advertisements.) Spenlow comes down—like his suspenders. Facilis descensus Spenlovi. (Dramatically) I see the man Spenlow begging his bread from door to door. I see his wife’s stockings falling in swathes about her ankles. I see——

NANCY. Darling!

BROXOPP. You’re quite right, dear. I’m being vulgar again. And worse than that—uncharitable. [11]When we are rich, we will ask the Spenlows to stay with us. We will be kind to them; we will provide them with suspenders.

NANCY (bringing him back to the point). Jim! (She holds up the money.) You haven’t told me yet.

BROXOPP (carelessly). Oh, that? That was from Fordyce.

NANCY. The Fordyce cheap Restaurants?

BROXOPP. The same. I had an inspiration this morning. I forced my way into the office of the man Fordyce, and I took him on one side and whispered winged words into his ear. I said (dramatically) “Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” It will be all over London to-morrow. “Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” What an arresting thought to a hungry man!

NANCY. Shall we have dinner there to-day, dear?

BROXOPP. Good heavens, no! It is sufficient that I drag others into his beastly eating-house. We will dine on champagne, regally.

NANCY. Darling, I know you are an artist and mustn’t be thwarted, but—there’s the rent—and—and other days coming—and——

BROXOPP (dropping into his chair again). Nancy, come and sit on my knee. (With suppressed excitement) Quick, while I’m sitting down. I shall be wanting to walk about directly. This room is too small for me. (She comes to him.) Nancy, it has been a hard struggle for you, I’m afraid.

NANCY. I’ve loved it, Jim.

BROXOPP. Well, that’s over now. Now the real fun is beginning. (Triumphantly) Nancy, I’m on my own at last. Broxopp is on his own! (He puts her down impetuously and jumps up.) I look into the future and what do I see? I see on every hoarding, I see on the side of every omnibus, I see dotted among the [12]fields along the great railway routes these magic words: “BROXOPP’S BEANS FOR BABIES.”

NANCY (carried away). Darling!

BROXOPP. Yes! I have begun. And now the world will see what advertisement can do in the hands of an artist. Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!

NANCY. But—(timidly) do babies like beans?

BROXOPP (confidently). They will. I can make them like anything. I can make them cry for beans. They will lean out of their little cradles and hold out their little hands and say: “Broxopp. I want Broxopp. Give me my beans.”

NANCY (seeing them). The darlings. (Business-like) Now tell me all about it.

BROXOPP (really meaning to this time). It began with—Ah, Nancy, it began with you. I might have known it would. I owe it, like everything else, to you.

NANCY (awed). To me?

BROXOPP. To you. It was the nail-brush.

NANCY. The nail-brush?

BROXOPP. Yes, you told me the other day to buy a nail-brush. (Looking at his fingers) You were quite right. As you said, a gentleman is known by his hands. I hadn’t thought of it before. Always tell me, darling. Well, I went into a chemist’s. Fordyce had given me fifteen guineas. I had the odd shillings in my pocket and I suddenly remembered. There was a very nice gentlemanly young fellow behind the counter, and as sometimes happens on these occasions, I got into conversation with him.

NANCY (smiling to herself). Yes, darling.

BROXOPP. I told him something of my outlook on life. I spoke of the lack of imagination which is the curse of this country, instancing the man Spenlow as an example of the type with whom we artists had to [13]deal. He interrupted me to say that he had found it so, too. A patent food which he had composed in his leisure moments—I broke in hastily. “Tell me of your food,” I said. “Perhaps,” and I smote my breast, “perhaps I am the capitalist for whom you look.”

NANCY. The five hundred pounds!

BROXOPP. The five hundred pounds. The nest-egg which I had been keeping for just such a moment. In a flash I saw that the moment had come.

NANCY (a little frightened). Then we shall never have that five hundred pounds behind us again.

BROXOPP. But think of the thousands we shall have in front of us! Millions!

NANCY. We seemed so safe with that in the bank. My little inheritance. No, darling, I’m not disagreeing. I know you’re quite right. But I’m just a little frightened. You see, I’m not so brave as you.

BROXOPP. But you will be brave with me? You believe in me?

NANCY. Oh, yes, yes. (Bravely) Go on.

BROXOPP (going on). He told me about his discovery. A food for babies. Thomson’s Food for Babies, he called it. (Scornfully) No wonder nobody would look at it. “The name you want on that food,” I said, “is Broxopp.” Who is Thomson? Anybody. The next man you meet may be Thomson. But there is only one Broxopp—the Great Broxopp. (With an inspired air) Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!

NANCY (timidly). I still don’t quite see why beans.

BROXOPP. Nor did he, Nancy. “Mr. Thomson,” I said, “this is my business. You go about inventing foods. Do I interfere with you? No. I don’t say that we must have this, that, and the other in it. All I do is to put it on the market and advertise it. And when I’m doing that, don’t you interfere with me. [14]Why beans? you say. Exactly! I want the whole of England to ask that question. Beans for Babies—what an absurd idea! Who is this Broxopp? Once they begin talking like that, I’ve got them. As for the food—make it up into bean shape and let them dissolve it. Or no. Leave it as it is. They’ll talk about it more that way. Lucus a non lucendo. Good-morning!”

NANCY. What does that mean?

BROXOPP (off-handedly). It’s Latin, dear, for calling a thing black because it’s white. Thomson understood; he’s an educated man, he’s not like Spenlow.

NANCY. And do we share the profits with Mr. Thomson?

BROXOPP. He’ll have to take some, of course, because it’s his food. I shall be generous to him, Nancy; don’t you be afraid of that.

NANCY. I know you will, darling; that’s what I’m afraid of.

BROXOPP (carelessly). We shall have an agreement drawn up. (On fire to begin.) It will be hard work for the first year. Every penny we make will have to be used again to advertise it. (Thumping the table) But I can do it! With you helping me, Nancy, I can do it.

NANCY (adoringly). You can do it, my man. And oh! how proud I shall be of helping you.

BROXOPP. And the time will come when the world will be full of Broxopp Babies! I look into the future and I see—millions of them!

NANCY (coming very close). Jim, when I am all alone, then sometimes I look into the future, too.

BROXOPP (indulgently). And what do you see, Nancy?

NANCY. Sometimes I seem to see one little Broxopp baby.

[15]BROXOPP (with a shout). Nancy! You mean——

NANCY. Would you like to have a little one of your very own, Jim?

BROXOPP. My darling! It only needed this! (He takes her in his arms.)

NANCY. My husband!

BROXOPP (releasing her). A Broxopp—to carry on the name! A little Broxopp! Nancy, he shall be the first, the pioneer of all the Broxopp Babies! (Carried away) I see him—everywhere—sitting in his little vest——

NANCY (seeing him too). His little vest!

BROXOPP. Holding out his little pudgy hand——

NANCY. His little pudgy hand!

BROXOPP. And saying to all the world (he hesitates, and a sudden triumphant inspiration gives him the words) “I am a Broxopp Baby—are you?”

(They gaze eagerly into the future, BROXOPP seeing his million babies, NANCY seeing her one.)

ACT II[16]

Scene: A sitting-room in the GREAT BROXOPP’S house in Queen’s Gate. Being the room in which he is generally interviewed, it is handsomely furnished, as befits a commercial prince. The desk with the telephone on it, the bookcase, the chairs and sofa, the mantelpiece are all handsome. But what really attracts your eye is the large picture of the baby, looking at you over the end of his cot, and saying: “I am a Broxopp baby—are you?” At least, he says so on the posters; this is the original, in a suitable gold frame, for which JACK BROXOPP sat twenty-three years ago.

(BENHAM, the new butler, is discovered answering the telephone.)

BENHAM (at telephone). Hello.... Mr. Broxopp is not here for the moment, sir. Can I take a message?... To ring Mr. Morris up some time this morning. Yes, sir.... Thank you, sir. (He walks back to the door and meets ALICE coming in.)

ALICE. Oh, Mr. Benham, I was looking for you. There’s a young woman, name of Johns, just come to see the master. Would you wish to show her up yourself, Mr. Benham? You see we’re not used to a gentleman with us downstairs. It’s all so new to us. When you were with His Grace——

BENHAM. Who is this young woman?

[17]ALICE (giving card). She comes from one of the newspapers.

BENHAM (reading). “Miss Honoria Johns. Contributor to The Queen and other leading journals.” (Contemptuously) What does she want? An interview?

ALICE. She didn’t say, Mr. Benham, but I expect that’s what she wants.

BENHAM. I’ll send her away. Bless you, I had to send hundreds of them away when I was with His Grace.

ALICE (alarmed). Oh, but I don’t think Mr. Broxopp would like that.

BENHAM (staggered). Do you mean to say that he wants to be interviewed?

ALICE. Oh, I’m sure he does. But I suppose he’s gone to his office. Oh no, he hasn’t, because there’s his hat.

BENHAM (scandalised). His hat? Has he only got one hat?

ALICE. Only one that he wears. What the papers call the “Broxopp hat.”

BENHAM (to Heaven). If anybody had told me a year ago that I should take service in a house where we only wore one hat—but there! God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.

ALICE. Oh, but it isn’t as if Mr. Broxopp was just an ordinary gentleman. You mustn’t think that, Mr. Benham.

BENHAM. You all make too much of your Mr. Broxopp, my girl. After all, who is he? What’s his family?

ALICE. Well, there’s only Mr. Jack, of course.

BENHAM (contemptuously). Mr. Jack isn’t “family,” my girl. Mr. Jack is “hissue.” Not but what Mr. Jack is very well in his way. Eton and Oxford—I’ve nothing to say against that, though I happen to be [18]Cambridge myself. But who’s the family? Broxopp! There isn’t such a family.

ALICE. Well, but I’m sure he’s very rich, Mr. Benham.

BENHAM. Rich, yes, but what does he do with his money? Does he hunt or shoot? Does he entertain? Has he got a country-house?

ALICE (sticking to it). I’m sure you couldn’t find a nicer gentleman than Sir Roger Tenterden who lives next door, and came to dinner here only last Tuesday with his daughter.

BENHAM. Tenterden? Ah, now that is family, my girl. That’s the best I’ve heard of your Mr. Broxopp as yet. But you mustn’t stand talking here all the morning. Just go down and tell that young woman to wait until I send for her. They’re used to waiting.

ALICE. Yes, Mr. Benham.

[She goes out.

BENHAM (picking up hat delicately and putting it down again). One hat—and what a hat!

(BROXOPP comes in. Very much the BROXOPP that we know, though his hair, moustache, and beard are greying slightly, and his face is more lined. He still wears a broad-tailed coat and a spreading blue tie, though he probably pays more for them nowadays.)

BROXOPP. Well, Benham, what is it?

BENHAM. A gentleman rang up, your Grace—I beg your pardon—“Sir,” I should have said.

BROXOPP. Call me your Grace if it’s any comfort to you, Benham.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

BROXOPP. Settling down all right?

BENHAM. I am quite comfortable, sir, thank you.

BROXOPP. I’m afraid you feel that you have come down in the world?

BENHAM. In a sense, yes, sir.

[19]BROXOPP. Well, you’ll have to climb up again, Benham, that’s all. Did you ever read a little book—you can get it at all bookstalls—called Broxoppiana?

BENHAM. In a general way, sir, I read nothing later than Lord Lytton.

BROXOPP (genially). Well, this is by Lord Broxopp—a few suggestive thoughts that have occurred to me from time to time—with photograph. On page 7 I say this: “Going there is better fun than getting there.” I’ve got there, Benham. You’re just going there again. I envy you.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.... I wonder if I might take the liberty of asking your advice, sir, in a matter of some importance to myself.

BROXOPP. Why not?

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

BROXOPP. What is it? You want to get married?

BENHAM (shocked). Heaven forbid, sir.

BROXOPP. Well, Benham, I’ve been married twenty-five years, and I’ve never regretted it.

BENHAM. I suppose one soon gets used to it, sir. What I wanted to take your advice about, sir, was a little financial matter in which I am interested.

BROXOPP. Oh!... I’m not sure that you’re wise, Benham.

BENHAM. Wise, sir?

BROXOPP. In asking my advice about little financial matters. I lost five thousand myself last month.

BENHAM (alarmed). Not in West Africans, I trust, sir?

BROXOPP. God knows what it was in. Jack said they were going up.

BENHAM. I’m sure I’m sorry to hear it, sir.

BROXOPP. You needn’t be. That sort of thing doesn’t worry me (with a snap of the fingers) that much. I’d sooner lose five thousand on the Stock Exchange [20]than lose one customer who might have bought a five shilling bottle of Broxopp’s Beans, and didn’t. You should speak to Sir Roger the next time he comes to dinner. He’s gone into the City lately, and I daresay he can put you on to a good thing.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir. It would be very condescending of him. Would you like me to brush your hat, sir?

BROXOPP. I should like you to tell me who this gentleman was who rang up.

BENHAM. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. A Mr. Morris. He wishes you to communicate with him this morning, sir, if convenient.

BROXOPP. Morris? Ridiculous fellow. All right, Benham.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

(He picks up the hat and goes out as BROXOPP goes to the telephone.)

BROXOPP (at telephone). Central 99199 ... yes.... Is Mr. Morris in? Broxopp speaking.... Yes.... Hullo, is that you, Mr. Morris? Broxopp speaking.... Yes, I’ve got your letter.... Oh no, no, no, I don’t care how good the offer is. I don’t want to sell.... Well, you see, I happen to be interested in Broxopp’s Beans.... Yes, yes, of course, but I mean artistically interested. It’s my work, Morris; it’s what I live for. I am much too fond of it to want to share it with anybody.... That’s final, Morris.... Well, look here, if your man is as keen as all that to buy Broxopp’s Beans I’ll tell you what I’ll do. (He looks up at NANCY as she comes in, and nods affectionately to her, and then goes on speaking down the telephone.) I’ll let him have one of the large bottles for two and ninepence. Ha, ha, ha! (Greatly pleased with himself) Good-bye, Mr. Morris. (He puts back the receiver, and [21]says to NANCY) Morris has a man who wants to buy Broxopp’s Beans. I said I’d let him have one of the large bottles for two and ninepence. Rather good, Nancy, wasn’t it? We must put it in the next edition of Broxoppiana. (Thoughtfully) I’m not often funny. (He kisses her hand and leads her to the sofa.)

NANCY. Dear one ... aren’t you going to the City this morning?

BROXOPP (on the sofa with her). I don’t know. There’s not much to do just now. Besides (tapping his button-hole), how could I go?

NANCY (getting up). Oh, you baby. Have you been waiting for me to put that in? (She goes to a bowl of carnations and takes one out.)

BROXOPP. Well, I couldn’t go without it, could I? Broxopp without his pink carnation—what would they say in the City? And after you’d put it in for me for twenty years, how could I put it in for myself?

NANCY (giving it the final touch). There!

BROXOPP (looking from it to her with a satisfied smile). Now, then, give me a kiss, and perhaps I’ll go.

NANCY. You’re only a boy still, Jim; much younger than Jack.

BROXOPP. Oh, Jack’s just at the age when they’re oldest. He’ll grow out of it. Now then, what about that kiss?

NANCY. Keep young, Jim. (She kisses him and he takes her in his arms.)

Enter BENHAM noiselessly.

BENHAM (addressing the ceiling). I beg your pardon, sir. (They disengage hastily.) But there’s a young woman called from one of the newspapers. I think she desires an interview for the journal with which she is connected. Or something of that nature, sir. (He hands BROXOPP her card.)

[22]BROXOPP. Ah, yes. Well, show her up then.

BENHAM. Yes, sir.

[He goes out.

BROXOPP (indignantly). What I say is this, Nancy. If a man can’t kiss his own wife, on his own sofa, without being interrupted, he isn’t living in a home at all; he’s living in an hotel. Now, I suppose that the dignified gentleman who has just left us despises us from the bottom of his heart. His Grace would never have been so vulgar as to kiss his own wife on the sofa.

NANCY. It doesn’t matter very much, Jim, does it? And I expect we shall get used to him.

BROXOPP. I don’t know why we ever had the fellow—except that Master Jack thought it went better with Eton and Oxford. Eton and Oxford—was that your idea or mine?

NANCY. Yours, dear.

BROXOPP. Oh! Well, the only thing they taught him there was that his father’s tie was the wrong shape.

NANCY (carried back as she looks up at the picture). There never was a better baby than Jack.

BROXOPP (looking at the picture too). Yes, he used to like my tie in those days. He was never so happy as when he was playing with it. Funny how they change when they grow up. (Looking at his watch) What are you doing this morning?

NANCY (getting up). All right, darling. I’m going. I know you like being alone for interviews.

BROXOPP (going to the door with her). But you must come in, Nancy, at the end. That went well last time. (Quoting) “Ah,” said Mr. Broxopp, as a middle-aged but still beautiful woman glided into the room, “here is my wife. My wife,” he went on, with a tender glance at the still beautiful woman, “to whom I owe all my success.” As he said these words——

[23]NANCY. Oh, I expect this one won’t write that sort of rubbish.

BROXOPP (indignantly). Rubbish? I don’t call that rubbish.

NANCY. Well, then, nonsense, darling. Only—I rather like nonsense.

(NANCY goes out. Left alone, the GREAT BROXOPP gets ready. He spreads out his tie, fingers his buttonhole, and sees that a volume of Shakespeare is well displayed on a chair. Then he sits down at his desk and is discovered by MISS JOHNS hard at it.)

BENHAM (announcing). Miss Johns.

(BENHAM goes out, leaving MISS JOHNS behind; a nervous young woman of about thirty, with pince-nez. But BROXOPP is being too quick for her. He has whisked the receiver off, and is busy saying, “Quite so,” and “Certainly, half a million bottles,” to the confusion of the girl at the Exchange.)

BROXOPP. Sit down, Miss Johns, won’t you? If you’ll excuse me just a moment—(Down the telephone) Yes ... yes, C.O.D. of course.... Good-bye. (He replaces the receiver and turns to her.) Well, Miss Johns, and what can I do for you?

MISS JOHNS (nervously). You saw my card, Mr. Broxopp?

BROXOPP. Did I? Then where did I put it? You’re from——?

MISS JOHNS. Contributor to The Queen and other leading journals.

BROXOPP. Yes, yes, of course. (Encouragingly) And you—er——

(He comes away from the desk, so that she can see him better. A little dazzled, she turns away, [24]looks round the room for inspiration, and catches sight of the picture.)

MISS JOHNS (impulsively). Oh, Mr. Broxopp, is that IT?

BROXOPP (proudly). My boy Jack—Eton and Oxford—when he was a baby. You’ve seen the posters, of course.

MISS JOHNS. Who hasn’t, Mr. Broxopp?

BROXOPP. I always say I owe half my success to Jack. He was the first Broxopp baby—and now there are a million of them. I don’t know whether—er—you——?

MISS JOHNS (coyly). Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Broxopp. I’m afraid I was born a little too soon.

BROXOPP. A pity, a pity. But no doubt your relations——

MISS JOHNS. Oh yes, my nephews and nieces—they are all Broxopp babies. And then I have always felt specially interested in Broxopp’s Beans, Mr. Broxopp, because I live in (archly) Bloomsbury, Mr. Broxopp.

BROXOPP. Really? When my wife (he looks towards the door in case she should be choosing that very opportune moment to come in), to whom I owe all my success—when my wife and I were first married——

MISS JOHNS (eagerly). I know, Mr. Broxopp. You see, that’s what makes me so interested. I live at Number 26, too, in the floor below.

BROXOPP. Now, now, do you really? Well, I declare. That’s very curious.

MISS JOHNS. I’ve only been there the last few months. But the very first thing they told me when I took the room was that the Mr. Broxopp had begun his career in that house.

BROXOPP (pleased). Ah, they remember!... Yes, that was where I began. There was a man called Thomson ... but you wouldn’t be interested in him. He dropped out very soon. He had no faith. I paid [25]him well—I was too generous, my wife said. But it was worth it to be alone. Ah, Miss Johns, you see me now in my beautiful home, surrounded by pictures, books—(He picks up the Shakespeare and reads the title) “The Works of Shakespeare” (and puts it down again)—costly furniture—all that money can buy. And perhaps you envy me. Yet I think I was happier in those old days at Bloomsbury when I was fighting for my life.... Did you ever read a little book called Broxoppiana?

MISS JOHNS. Now, isn’t that funny, Mr. Broxopp? I bought it only last Saturday when I was going down to my brother’s in the country.

BROXOPP. Well, you may remember how I say, “Going there is better fun than getting there.” It’s true, Miss Johns.

MISS JOHNS (proud of knowing it). Didn’t Stevenson say something like that?

BROXOPP (firmly). Not in my hearing.

MISS JOHNS. I mean the Stevenson. I think he said, “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.”

BROXOPP. Yes—well, that’s another way of putting it. To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive. So Stevenson found it out, too, did he? Well, he was right.... All those years when I was building up Broxopp’s Beans I was happy, really happy. I’m a fighter. I like taking the public by the throat and making them look at me. That’s over now. I’ve got ’em almost too tame. They come and eat the Beans out of my hand. And though my success has given me something—a comfortable home—servants to wait upon me—butlers and what not—the best authors to read—(he picks up the Shakespeare and puts it down again)—even a son from Eton and Oxford to gladden my old heart—yet I miss something. I miss the struggle of those early days when my dear wife and I (he has another [26]look at the door just in case) set out together hand in hand to beat the world. (Sighing) Ah, well! (In a business-like voice) Now what can I tell you about myself, Miss Johns? Pray, don’t be afraid of making any notes that you like.

MISS JOHNS. I shall remember what you said, Mr. Broxopp, without taking any notes.

BROXOPP. Ah, well, you must please yourself about that. (Looking at his watch) Now, then, I’m waiting for you.