"I'LL LEAVE IT
TO YOU"

A LIGHT COMEDY IN
THREE ACTS

BY
NOEL COWARD

LONDON
NEW YORK TORONTO SYDNEY HOLLYWOOD

The following text concerning the copyright and royalties was printed at the beginning of the book.
It is included here for historical interest only.
(note of transcriber)

Copyright 1920 by Samuel French Ltd

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All rights are strictly reserved.

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In territories overseas the fee quoted above may not apply. A quotation will be given upon application to the authorized agents, or direct to Samuel French Ltd.

ISBN 0 573 01199 0

To
MY MOTHER

"I'LL LEAVE IT TO YOU"

Produced on Wednesday, July 21, 1920, at the New Theatre, London, with the following Cast of Characters:—

The action of the play takes place in Mulberry Manor, Mrs. Dermott's house, a few miles out of London.

Eighteen months elapse between acts one and two, and one night between acts two and three.

"I'LL LEAVE IT TO YOU"

A plan of the stage of the New Theatre, London, set for the play is given at the end of the book.{[*]}

Scene.—The Hall of Mulberry Manor. All the furniture looks very comfortable. Through the window can be seen a glimpse of a snowy garden; there is a log fire. The light is a little dim, being late afternoon. Seated on the table swinging her legs is Joyce, she is attired in a fur coat and goloshes, very little else can be seen, except a pink healthy looking young face. Sylvia is seated on the Chesterfield R. She is twenty-one and exceedingly pretty. It is about five days before Christmas.

Joyce (brightly). My feet are simply soaking.

Sylvia (sewing). Why on earth don't you go and change them? You'll catch cold.

(Bobbie enters R. He is a slim, bright-looking youth of twenty.)

Joyce. I don't mind if I do. (Laughs.) Colds are fun.

Bobbie. She loves having a fuss made of her, beef tea—chicken—jelly with whipped cream—and fires in her bedroom, little Sybarite.

Joyce. So do you.

Bobbie (comes C.). No, I don't; whenever my various ailments confine me to my bed, I chafe—positively chafe at the terrible inactivity. I want to be up and about, shooting, riding, cricket, football, judo, the usual run of manly sports.

Sylvia. Knowing you for what you are—lazy, luxurious——

Bobbie (pained). Please, please, please, not in front of the child. (Joyce kicks). It's demoralizing for her to hear her idolized brother held up to ridicule.

Joyce. You're not my idolized brother at all—Oliver is. (Turning away, pouting.)

Bobbie (seated R. on Chesterfield, sweetly). If that were really so, dear, I know you have much too kind a heart to let me know it.

Sylvia. What is the matter with you this afternoon, Bobbie—you are very up in the air about something.

(Joyce takes her coat off, puts on back of chair R. of table).

Bobbie (rising and sitting on club fender). Merely another instance of the triumph of mind over matter; in this case a long and healthy walk was the matter. I went into the lobby to put on my snow boots and then—as is usually the case with me—my mind won. I thought of tea, crumpets and comfort. Oliver has gone without me, he simply bursts with health and extraordinary dullness. Personally I shall continue to be delicate and interesting.

Sylvia (seriously). You may have to work, Bobbie.

Bobbie. Really, Sylvia, you do say the most awful things, remember Joyce is only a school-girl, she'll be quite shocked.

Joyce. We work jolly hard at school, anyhow.

Bobbie. Oh, no, you don't. I've read the modern novelists, and I know; all you do is walk about with arms entwined, and write poems of tigerish adoration to your mistresses. It's a beautiful existence.

Joyce. You are a silly ass. (Picks up magazine.)

Sylvia. It's all very well to go on fooling Bobbie, but really we shall have to pull ourselves together a bit. Mother's very worried, as you know, money troubles are perfectly beastly, and she hasn't told us nearly all. I do so hate her to be upset, poor darling.

Bobbie. What can we do? (Sits L. end of Chesterfield. Joyce puts down magazine and listens.)

Sylvia. Think of a way to make money.

Bobbie. It's difficult now that the war is over.

Sylvia. That's cheap wit, dear; also it's the wrong moment for it. (Joyce giggles.)

Bobbie. It's always the wrong moment for cheap wit, admitting for one moment that it was, which it wasn't.

Joyce. Oh, do shut up, you make my head go round.

(Enter Evangeline downstairs; she is tall and almost beautiful;
she carries a book in her hand.)

Bobbie (turning). Oh, Vangy, do come and join us; we're on the verge of a congress.

Evangeline. I must read some more Maeterlinck. (Posing.)

Bobbie. You mean you must let us see you reading Maeterlinck.

Evangeline (goes to him, back of Chesterfield, touches his hair.) Try not to be so irritating, Bobbie dear; just because you don't happen to appreciate good literature, it's very small and narrow to laugh at people who do.

Sylvia. But seriously, Vangy, we are rather worried (Evangeline moves) about mother; she's been looking harassed for days.

Evangeline (sitting in armchair). What about?

Sylvia. Money, money, money! Haven't you realized that! Uncle Daniel sent a pretty substantial cheque from South America (all nod) that helped things on a bit after Father's death, but that must be gone by now—and mother won't say how much father left.

Joyce. Perhaps she doesn't know.

Bobbie. She must know now, he's been dead nearly six months—inconsiderate old beast!

Sylvia. Bobbie, you're not to talk about father like that. I won't have it; after all——

Bobbie. After all what?—He was perfectly rotten to mother, and never came near her for four years before his death. Why should we be charming and reverent about him just because he's our father. When I saw him I hated him, and his treatment of mum hasn't made me like him any better, I can tell you.

Evangeline. But still, Bobbie, he was our father, and mother was fond of him—(Bobbie. Ha!)—once, anyhow there's nothing to be gained by running him down.

Sylvia. The point is, have we enough money to keep on as we are, or haven't we?

Joyce (quickly). The only one who knows is mother, and she won't say.

Sylvia. We haven't asked her yet; we'll make her say. Where is she?

Bobbie. Up in her room, I think.

Sylvia. Go and fetch her down. (Puts sewing on form.)

Bobbie. What, now?

Sylvia. Yes, now.

Bobbie. Oh, no!

Sylvia and Evangeline. Yes, go along.

Bobbie. Righto! we'll tackle her straight away.

(Exit Bobbie upstairs.)

Joyce (goes to Evangeline). Do—do you think we may have to leave this house?

Sylvia. I don't know.

Joyce. I should simply hate that. (Sits on right end of form.)

Evangeline. So should we all—it would be miserable.

Sylvia. Think how awful it must be for mother.

Joyce. I say, don't you think Oliver ought to be here—if anything's going to happen? He's the eldest.

Sylvia. He wouldn't be any help. He cares for nothing but the inside of motors and the outside of Maisie Stuart; he's not observant enough to know her inside.

Evangeline. What a perfectly horrible thing to say!

Sylvia. Well, it's absolutely true; he thinks she's everything that's good and noble, when all the time she's painfully ordinary and a bit of a cat; what fools men are.

Joyce (blasé). One can't help falling in love.

(Enter Mrs. Dermott downstairs followed by Bobbie; she is a pretty
little woman with rather a plaintive manner.)

Mrs. Dermott (as she descends). Bobbie says you all want to talk to me! What's the matter, darlings? (Comes C.)

Sylvia. That's what we want to know, mum; come on now, out with it. You've been looking worried for ever so long.

(Bobbie stays at foot of stairs.)

Mrs. Dermott. I don't know what you mean, Sylvia dear I——

Sylvia. Now listen to me, mother; you've got something on your mind, that's obvious to any one; you're not a bit good at hiding your feelings. Surely we're all old enough to share the worry, whatever it is.

Mrs. Dermott. (kissing her). Silly old darlings—it's true I have been a little worried—you see, we're ruined.

(The girls rise.)

Mrs. Dermott (shaking her head sadly). Yes, we're ruined; we haven't a penny. (Moves to chair below table.)

Sylvia. Why didn't you tell us before?

Mrs. Dermott (sitting). I only knew it myself this morning, I had a letter from Tibbets; he's been through all the papers and things.

Evangeline. Father's papers?

Mrs. Dermott. I suppose so, dear. There wouldn't be any others, would there?

Bobbie (coming down). But mother, what did he say, how did he put it?

Mrs. Dermott. I really forget—but I know it worried me dreadfully.

(Joyce sits on form.)

Evangeline. And we literally haven't a penny?

Mrs. Dermott. Well, only fifteen hundred a year; it's almost as bad.

(Evangeline sits in armchair.)

Joyce. Shall we have to give up the house?

Mrs. Dermott. I'm afraid so, darling; you see there are taxes and rates and things. Tibbets knows all about it—he's coming down to-night.

Sylvia. Can't Uncle Daniel do anything?

(Bobbie sits on table.)

Mrs. Dermott. He's my only hope. I cabled to South America three weeks ago. I didn't know the worst then, but I felt I wanted some one to lean on—after all, his cheque was a great help.

Joyce. Is he very, very rich?

Mrs. Dermott. He must be, he's a bachelor, and he has a ranch and a mine and things.

Bobbie. Has he answered your cable?

Mrs. Dermott. No, but of course he may have been out prospecting or broncho-breaking or something when it arrived. They live such restless lives out there—oh, no, I don't think he'll fail me, he's my only brother.

Evangeline. I wonder how much he has got.

Mrs. Dermott. Perhaps Tibbets will know—we'll ask him.

Bobbie. Why, is he Uncle Daniel's lawyer as well?

Mrs. Dermott. No, dear, but you know lawyers are always clever at knowing other people's business—I shall never forget——

Bobbie. Yes—but mother, what will happen if he isn't rich, and doesn't help us after all?

Mrs. Dermott. I really don't know, darling. It's terribly upsetting, isn't it?

Joyce. It will be awful having to give up the house.

Mrs. Dermott. Well, Tibbets says we needn't for another two years. It's paid for until then or something.

Sylvia (sits on the Chesterfield). Thank heaven! What a relief!

Mrs. Dermott. But we shall have to be awfully careful. Oh, darlings (she breaks down), thank God I've got you. (Weeps on Bobbie's knee.)

Sylvia. Buck up mother, it isn't as bad as all that. After all, we can work.

Bobbie (without enthusiasm). Yes, we can work. (Moving from table to R.)

Evangeline. I shall write things, really artistic little fragments——

Bobbie. We want to make money, Vangy.

Mrs. Dermott. But, darlings, you know you can't make money unless you're Socialists and belong to Unions and things.

Evangeline. Well, I know I should make money in time. There's a great demand for really good stuff now.

Sylvia. Do you think yours is really good?

Evangeline. I'm sure it is.

(Mrs. Dermott reads a magazine.)

Bobbie. Well, God help the bad.

Evangeline (rising). Look here, Bobbie, I'm tired of your silly jeering at me. Just stop trying to be funny. (Moves to L.C.)

Bobbie (hotly). I realize the futility of endeavour when I see how funny others can be without trying (following her.)

Evangeline. Ill-bred little pip squeak!

Joyce (jumping up; firing). He's not a pip squeak. Fanny Harris says he's the most good-looking boy she's ever seen.

Evangeline. She can't have seen many then. (Moves to fireplace.)

Bobbie. Oh! Don't betray your jealousy of my looks, Evangeline. It's so degrading.

Evangeline. I tell you——

Mrs. Dermott. Children, stop quarelling at once. I think it's most inconsiderate of you under the circumstances.

(Bobbie sits on table back to audience. There is silence for a moment.
Enter Griggs from hall with a telegram.)

Griggs. For you, madam.

(All show an interest.)

Mrs. Dermott (taking it). Thank you, Griggs. (She opens it and reads it.) There is no answer, Griggs.

(Exit Griggs, r.)

My dears!

Joyce. What is it, mother, quick?

Mrs. Dermott (reading). Arrive this afternoon—about tea time, Daniel.

Sylvia. Uncle Daniel!

Evangeline. In England!

Mrs. Dermott. I suppose so. It was handed in at Charing Cross.

Bobbie. What luck! (Gets off table.)

Mrs. Dermott. We're saved—oh, my darlings! (She breaks down again.)

Joyce. He may not have any money after all.

Mrs. Dermott. He'd never have got across so quickly if he hadn't. (She sniffs.) Oh, it's too, too wonderful—I have not seen him for six years.

Bobbie. As a matter of fact it is jolly decent of him to be so prompt.

Mrs. Dermott. Where's Oliver? He ought to be here to welcome him too.

Bobbie (c.). Oliver has gone for a brisk walk, to keep fit he said, as if it made any difference whether he kept fit or not.

Mrs. Dermott. It makes a lot of difference, dear. He is the athletic one of the family. (Bobbie is annoyed.) I don't like the way you speak of him, Bobbie. We can't all compose songs and be brilliant. You must try and cultivate a little toleration for others, darling. (Oliver passes window from l.) Oliver is a great comfort to me. Tibbets only said——

Evangeline (glancing out of the window). Here he is, anyhow. Who's going to tell him the news?

Mrs. Dermott (rising, goes to stairs). Well, I've no time now, I must change my dress for Daniel. Turn on the lights, Bobbie; make everything look as cosy and festive as you can. (On stairs.) Run into the kitchen, Joyce dear, and tell cook to make an extra supply of hot cakes for tea. I'm sure Daniel will love them after being so long abroad and living on venison and bully beef and things. (Ascending, then turns.) You will all wash before tea, won't you, darlings? It's always so important to make a good first impression, and he hasn't seen any of you since you've been grown up. (Glances in mirror.) Oh! look at my face, I look quite happy now.

(Exit Mrs. Dermott upstairs.)

Sylvia. I think mother is rather mixing up North and South America; they don't have such awful hardships where Uncle Daniel comes from.

(Enter Oliver from hall; he is a thick-set, determined-looking man
of twenty-five.)

Oliver. Hallo! (Crossing to table, L.C.)

Joyce (going to him, excitedly). Something wonderful has happened, Oliver.

Oliver. What is it?

Joyce. We're ruined. I've just got to go and order extra teacakes. Isn't it all thrilling?

(Exit Joyce into hall.)

Oliver. What on earth's she talking about?

Sylvia. It's perfectly true. We haven't any money, but Uncle Daniel's coming to-day, and we're sure he'll help us.

Oliver (dazed). Haven't any money, but——

Evangeline (at fire). Mother's been rather vague as usual, but we gather that we're practically penniless, and that we shall have to give up the house after two years unless something happens.

Sylvia. Luckily Uncle Daniel is happening—this afternoon. Mother's just had a wire from him—he's certain to be rich, mother says.

(Bobbie leaning against stairs.)

Oliver. Why?

Sylvia. Because he's a bachelor, and has been living in South America for five years.

Bobbie. Six years.

Sylvia. Five years.

Bobbie. Six years—mother said so.

Sylvia. No, she didn't——

Oliver. Well, it doesn't matter. How does mother know we're penniless?

Bobbie (coming C.). She heard from Tibbets this morning, he's coming down to-night.

Oliver (sinking into chair). By Jove, what a muddle!

(Joyce re-enters, crosses to chair L.C., takes coat and exits up stairs.)

Sylvia. It's all quite clear when you think it out.

Bobbie (C.). We've all got to wash and make ourselves look clean and sweet for Uncle Daniel. Your collar's filthy; you'd better go and change it quickly. He may be here at any minute.

Sylvia. Turn on the lights, Bobbie—and do let's hurry.

(Bobbie turns up the lights and goes upstairs followed by Oliver.
Evangeline goes up slowly after them.)

Oliver. What a muddle! What a muddle! (As he crosses to stairs.)

Evangeline (following him). What a muddle! What a muddle! (Turns on stairs.) Shall I put on my emerald green tea gown? (To Sylvia.)

Sylvia. No, dear; it's ever so much too old for you.

Evangeline (piqued). I don't think it's at all too old for me. I shall certainly put it on.

(She disappears upstairs. Sylvia is left alone. Suddenly there comes a loud peal at the front door bell. Sylvia sees some half-made crêpe-de-chine underclothes on form, takes them, hides them under cushions on window seat L. Draws curtains to window L., then L.C. as enter Griggs, followed by Uncle Daniel in an opulent-looking fur coat—he is a tall, stoutish man of about forty-five. Sylvia shrinks back by stairs.)

Griggs (assisting him off with his coat). If you will wait, sir, I'll tell Mrs. Dermott you are here.

Daniel. Thank you. (Goes round to fireplace, warms hands, turns.)

(Griggs has meanwhile taken his coat into the lobby. Sylvia creeps cautiously from behind and goes towards stairs. Daniel looks round and sees her. He watches her in silence for a moment, as she goes up a few stairs.)

Excuse me—have you been stealing anything?

Sylvia (jumping). Oh, Uncle Daniel—I didn't want you to see me.

Daniel. Why not?

Sylvia. I wanted to change my frock and do my hair.

Daniel. It looks quite charming as it is—I suppose you are Evangeline?

Sylvia. No I'm not, I'm Sylvia. (Coming to him.)

Daniel (below Chesterfield). Sylvia! I didn't know there was a Sylvia.

Sylvia (R.C., laughing). I was having concussion last time you were here, having cut my head open on a door scraper at school. Naturally you wouldn't remember me.

Daniel. Oh, but I do now, you were the sole topic of conversation at lunch. How foolish of me to have let you slip my memory. Where are all the others?

Sylvia. They're upstairs improving on the Almighty's conception of them as much as possible in your honour; I was just going to do the same when you caught me.

Daniel. You looked extraordinarily furtive.

Sylvia. And untidy. We've just been having a sort of family conference. It was very heating.

Daniel. I think you might have waited for me—I'm a most important factor. What were you discussing?

Sylvia. Oh—er—ways and means.

Daniel. I see, it's as bad as that!

Sylvia. But you wait until mother comes. She'll explain everything. I'll go and hurry her up. (She goes up stairs.)

Daniel. Don't leave me all alone. I'm a timid creature.

Sylvia (turns). After all that Broncho busting! I don't think!

(Exit Sylvia upstairs.)

Daniel. Broncho busting! What on earth does she mean? (He walks slowly to fireplace and stands with his back to it.)

(Enter Mrs. Dermott down stairs. They meet C.)

Mrs. Dermott. Danny! Danny! darling——

Daniel (C.). Anne! (He kisses her fondly.)

Mrs. Dermott. Oh, my dear, you have been away such a long time.

Daniel (he turns her round to R.). Well, this is splendid—you do look fit! Do you know I've often longed to be home. I've imagined winter afternoons just like this—with a nice crackly fire and tea and muffins in the grate. (Pulling her on Chesterfield.)

Mrs. Dermott. Oh well, they're not in the grate yet, dear, but they will be soon. I ordered a special lot because I knew you loved them.

(He sits beside her; she is nearest the fire.)

Mrs. Dermott. I can never thank you enough for sending the cheque, Danny.

Daniel. Oh, rubbish.

Mrs. Dermott. It was the greatest help in the world.

Daniel. I started for home the very moment I heard you were in trouble; has everything been very, very trying?

Mrs. Dermott. Only during the last few days. You see, George hadn't been near me for four years before he died, so it wasn't such a terrible shock as it might have been. Of course, he was my husband, and it was upsetting, but still——

Daniel. He behaved like a beast to you, and——

Mrs. Dermott. Well, he's dead now—but don't let's discuss my affairs. Tell me about yourself; what have you been doing?

Daniel. That can wait. Considering that the sole object of my coming to England was to help you, I think we ought to concentrate. Tell me now, has he left you very badly off?

Mrs. Dermott. Well, Tibbets says we're ruined, but you know what Tibbets is. Such a pessimist!

Daniel. Tibbets?

Mrs. Dermott. Yes, our lawyer, you know.

Daniel. Do I? How much have you got?

Mrs. Dermott. I think Tibbets said about fifteen hundred; of course we can't keep the house and family going on that, can we?

Daniel. Of course we can't. What do the children intend to do?

Mrs. Dermott. Well, they don't quite know, poor darlings.

Daniel. Poor darlings! Is Oliver at home?

Mrs. Dermott. Yes. He's going to be a barrister or an engineer. He's very vague about it, but has been learning Pelmanism, so I know he's going to be something.

Daniel. I see. Bobbie?

Mrs. Dermott. Oh, Bobbie, he's so young. Of course, it's not his fault.

Daniel. Naturally.

Mrs. Dermott. He composes, you know—beautiful little songs,—mostly about moonlight. Evangeline writes the words. She is very artistic, and——

Daniel. What does Sylvia do?

Mrs. Dermott. Oh, she helps me.

Daniel. In what way?

Mrs. Dermott. Oh—er—she—well—she does the flowers, and comes calling with me, and she's invaluable at jumble sales, when we have them.

Daniel. And the youngest?

Mrs. Dermott. Joyce? Oh, she's still at school—she's going to Roedean next year to be finished.

Daniel. Finished? Oh, I see! Well! They sound a pretty hopeless lot.

Mrs. Dermott. Oh, Danny, how can you be so horrid? Why, they're all darlings! You can't expect them to work. They've not been brought up to it.

Daniel. I think it's about time they started.

(Enter Evangeline down stairs, followed by Oliver, Bobbie and
Joyce. Sylvia comes last.)

Mrs. Dermott (rising, back to audience). Here they are. Children this is Uncle Daniel.

(Daniel rises, stands L. of Chesterfield.)

Evangeline (gracefully embracing him). I remember you quite well.

Daniel. Splendid. Evangeline?

Evangeline. Yes, Evangeline. (Crosses to fire, down stage.)

Oliver (shaking hands). So do I. (Moves to above Evangeline.)

Bobbie (shaking hands). I don't remember you a bit, but I may later when we all start reminiscencing. (Goes L.)

Joyce (kissing him). We've been simply longing for you to come home.

Daniel. Little Joyce—— (Joyce moves to top of table)

Sylvia (kissing him). D'you know you haven't changed a bit since I last saw you!

(Daniel smiles at her.)

Daniel. May I say that it gives me immeasurable joy to be here once more in the bosom of my family. (Sits on Chesterfield.)

Bobbie. We're not really your family, but never mind.

Daniel. I don't. But I have looked forward to this moment through the long sun-scorched nights with the great dome of the sky above me—shapes have drifted out of the surrounding blackness and beckoned to me, crying "Home, home" in depressing voices. I have heard the sand-bug calling to its mate. "Home," it said, and bit me——

(Sylvia sits on arm of chair, R.C.)

Mrs. Dermott. Silly old darling, Danny. (Sits R. of Chesterfield.)

Joyce. What did you do out there, Uncle?

Daniel. Lots of things—gold mining, ranching, auction——

Bobbie. Auction? (Leaning on table.)

Mrs. Dermott. Is it a very wonderful life, Danny?

Daniel. Occasionally—on good days.

Bobbie. How do you mean, good days?

Daniel (rather embarrassed). Well—er—just good days.

Mrs. Dermott. Do come and sit down, all of you; you look so terribly restless.

(They sit, Oliver on arm of Chesterfield, Joyce crosses to form R., Evangeline on club-fender, Bobbie chair below table, Sylvia arm-chair.)

Daniel. I feel restless. It must be the home surroundings after all these years.

Bobbie. I should love to go abroad.

Daniel. It would make a man of you, my boy.

Bobbie. I should simply loathe that.

Daniel. So should I between ourselves, but still——. Oh, by the way, I—I have something rather important to say to you, you must prepare yourselves for a shock—I—I—— (He dabs his eyes with his handkerchief.)

Mrs. Dermott. What on earth is it, Danny?

Daniel. I—I—— (Another dab.)

Sylvia. Oh, uncle, tell us.

Daniel. I—er—it's this. I consulted my doctor just before I sailed.

Mrs. Dermott. Yes?

Daniel. He—he gave me just three years to live.

Mrs. Dermott. Danny, what do you mean?

Daniel (firmly). It's true—three years, he said.

Mrs. Dermott. It's the most awful thing. Tell us why—what's the matter with you? (Quickly.)