The Great Adventure Part 16

CARVE. I must see her.

JANET. Oh, very well. (Exit WAITER.) She's telephoned each day to inquire how you were. She asked if you wanted a seat for the funeral. I told her you couldn't possibly go, but I was sure you'd like to be invited--whether it was the Abbey or not. Please don't forget your milk.

(Enter HONORIA LOOE in mourning, introduced by WAITER.)

HONORIA. (Coming in quickly, bowing to JANET and shaking hands with CARVE.) Good afternoon. Please don't rise. I've heard how ill you've been. I've only called because I simply had to.

CARVE. It's very kind of you.

HONORIA. Oh, Mr. Shawn, I know you didn't want him to be buried in the Abbey. I'm all for quiet funerals, too; but really this was an exceptional case, and I think if you'd seen it you'd have been glad they did decide on the Abbey. Oh, you've no idea how impressive it was! The Abbey is always so fine, isn't it? And it was crammed. You never saw such a mult.i.tude of distinguished people. I mean really distinguished--all in black, except, of course, the uniforms. Royalties, amba.s.sadors, representatives from all the academies all over Europe.

Rodin was there!! The whole of artistic London came. I don't mean only painters, but poets, novelists, sculptors, and musicians. The art students had a corner to themselves. And you should have seen the crowds outside. All traffic was stopped up as far as Trafalgar Square. I've had some difficulty in getting here. The sun was s.h.i.+ning through the stained gla.s.s. And the music was magnificent. And then when the coffin was carried down the nave--well, there was only one wreath on the pall--just one--a white crown. All the other wreaths were piled near the screen--scores and scores of them--the effect was tremendous. I nearly cried. A lot of people did cry. (Genuinely moved.) There was that great genius lying there. He'd never done anything except put paint on canvas, and yet--and yet.... Well, it made you feel somehow that England does care for art after all.

CARVE. (After a pause.) And whom have we to thank for this beautiful national manifestation of sympathy with art?

HONORIA. How do you mean?

CARVE. (With an attempt at cold irony, but yet in a voice imperfectly controlled.) Did your brother relent and graciously permit Lady Leonard Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or was it due solely to the influence of the newspapers written by people of refined culture like the man who gave his opinion the other day that I had got 'em? Or perhaps you yourself settled it with your esteemed uncle over a cup of tea?

HONORIA. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can see that you're artistic yourself, and artists are generally very sarcastic about the British public. I know I am.... Now, don't you paint?

CARVE. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I used to--a little.

HONORIA. I was sure of it. Well, you can be as sarcastic as you like, but do you know what I was thinking during the service? I was thinking if only he could have seen it--if only Ilam Carve could have seen it--instead of lying cold in that coffin under that wreath, he'd--(Hesitating.)

CARVE. (Interrupting her, in a different, resolved tone.) Miss Looe, I suppose you're on very confidential terms with your uncle.

HONORIA. Naturally. Why?

CARVE. Will you give him a message from me. He'll do perhaps better than anybody.

HONORIA. With pleasure.

CARVE. (Moved.) It is something important--very important indeed. In fact--

(JANET goes into bedroom, but keeping near the doorway does not actually disappear.)

HONORIA. (Soothingly, and a little frightened.) Now, please, Mr.

Shawn! Please don't frighten us as you did the other day. Please do try and keep calm!

CARVE. I--(He suddenly stands up and then falls back again into chair.)

(JANET returns quickly to the room)

HONORIA. (Alarmed, to JANET.) I'm afraid he isn't quite well yet.

CARVE. No, I can't tell you. At least, not now. Thanks very much for calling. (Rises brusquely and walks towards the bedroom door.)

JANET. (To HONORIA.) He's not really strong enough to see visitors.

HONORIA. (Going to door and trying to be confidential.) What is it?

JANET. (With tranquillity.) Oh, influenza. Sometimes it takes 'em in the head and sometimes in the stomach. It's taken him in the head.

HONORIA. Charming man! I don't suppose there's the least likelihood of it--he's evidently very well off--but if he should be wanting a situation similar to his last, I'm sure my uncle----

JANET. (Positively and curtly.) I don't think so.

HONORIA. Of course you know him very well?

JANET. Well, it's like this. I'm his cousin. We aren't exactly engaged to be married----

HONORIA. (In a changed tone.) Oh, I see! Good afternoon.

JANET. Good afternoon.

(Exit HONORIA.)

CARVE. (Who has hesitatingly wandered back towards centre; in a quite different tone now that he is alone again with JANET.) What's this about being engaged to be married?

JANET. (Smiling.) I was telling her we weren't engaged to be married.

That's true, I suppose?

CARVE. But are we cousins?

JANET. Yes. I've got my reputation to think about. I don't want to coddle it, but there's no harm in just keeping an eye on it.

CARVE. I see. (Sits down.)

JANET. If nothing comes of all this--

CARVE. All what?

JANET. All this illness and nursing and sitting up at nights,--then I'm just your cousin, and no harm done.

CARVE. But do you mean to say you'd--

JANET. (Stopping-him.) Not so fast! (Pause. She continues reflectively.) Do you know what struck me while her ladys.h.i.+p was telling you about all the grand doings at the funeral--What good has it ever done him to be celebrated and make a big splash in the world? Was he any happier for it? From all I can hear he was always trying to hide just as if the police were after him. He never had the slightest notion of comfort, and so you needn't tell me! And there's another thing--you needn't tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl or other, because I know he was. A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything else--morning, noon, and night. It stands to reason--and they can say what they like--I know. And now he's dead--probably because he'd no notion of looking after himself, and it's been in all the papers how wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very likely sat up half the night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with fas.h.i.+onable folk--and do you know what all those fas.h.i.+onable folk are thinking about just now--tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whisky and soda.

CARVE. But you mustn't forget that he was really very successful indeed.... Just look at the money he made, for instance.

JANET. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him he'd never have left two hundred thousand of them behind him--him with no family. No, he was no better than a fool with money. Couldn't even spend it.

CARVE. He had the supreme satisfaction of doing what he enjoyed doing better than anybody else could do it.

JANET. And what was that?

CARVE. Painting.

JANET. (Casually.) Oh! and couldn't he have had that without running about all over Europe? He might just as well have been a commercial traveller. Take my word for it, Mr. Shawn, there's nothing like a comfortable home and a quiet life--and the less you're in the newspapers the better.