Three Plays by Granville-Barker Part 35

ABUD. I'll hold the light . . the stairs are steep.

_He lights her up the stairs._

The Voysey Inheritance

1903-5

THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE

_The Office of Voysey and Son is in the best part of Lincoln's Inn. Its panelled rooms give out a sense of grand-motherly comfort and security, very grateful at first to the hesitating investor, the dubious litigant.

Mr. Voysey's own room into which he walks about twenty past ten of a morning radiates enterprise besides. There is polish on everything; on the windows, on the mahogany of the tidily packed writing table that stands between them, on the bra.s.swork of the fireplace in the other wall, on the gla.s.s of the fire-screen which preserves only the pleasantness of a sparkling fire, even on Mr. Voysey's hat as he takes it off to place it on the little red curtained shelf behind the door.

Mr. Voysey is sixty or more and masterful; would obviously be master anywhere from his own home outwards, or wreck the situation in his attempt. Indeed there is a buccaneering air sometimes in the twist of his glance, not altogether suitable to a family solicitor. On this bright October morning, Peacey, the head clerk, follows just too late to help him off with his coat, but in time to take it and hang it up with a quite unnecessary subservience. Mr. Voysey is evidently not capable enough to like capable men about him. Peacey, not quite removed from Nature, has made some attempts to acquire protective colouring. A very drunken client might mistake him for his master. His voice very easily became a toneless echo of Mr. Voysey's; later his features caught a line or two from that mirror of all the necessary virtues into which he was so constantly gazing; but how his clothes even when new contrive to look like old ones of Mr. Voysey's is a mystery, and to his tailor a most annoying one. And Peacey is just a respectful number of years his master's junior. Relieved of his coat, Mr. Voysey carries to his table the bunch of beautiful roses he is accustomed to bring to the office three times a week and places them for a moment only near the bowl of water there ready to receive them while he takes up his letters. These lie ready too, opened mostly, one or two private ones left closed and discreetly separate. By this time the usual salutations have pa.s.sed, Peacey's "Good morning, sir;" Mr. Voysey's "Morning, Peacey." Then as he gets to his letters Mr. Voysey starts his day's work._

MR. VOYSEY. Any news for me?

PEACEY. I hear bad accounts of Alguazils preferred, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . from whom?

PEACEY. Merrit and James's head clerk in the train this morning.

MR. VOYSEY. They looked all right on . . Give me the Times. [PEACEY _goes to the fireplace for the Times; it is warming there_. MR. VOYSEY _waves a letter, then places it on the table_.] Here, that's for you . .

Gerrard Cross business. Anything else?

PEACEY. [_as he turns the Times to its Finance page._] I've made the usual notes.

MR. VOYSEY. Thank'ee.

PEACEY. Young Benham isn't back yet.

MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward must do as he thinks fit about that. Alguazils, Alg--oh, yes.

_He is running his eye down the columns._ PEACEY _leans over the letters_.

PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it?

MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson. . Yes. Alguazils. Mr. Edward's here, I suppose.

PEACEY. No, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. [_his eye twisting with some sharpness._] What!

PEACEY. [_almost alarmed._] I beg pardon, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward.

PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I thought you said Headley; he's not due back till Thursday.

MR. VOYSEY _discards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters_.

MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come.

PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else?

MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't it?

PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chislehurst.

PEACEY. So early!

MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call through about the rest of the letters.

PEACEY _goes, having secured a letter or two, and_ MR. VOYSEY _having sorted the rest (a proportion into the waste paper basket) takes up the forgotten roses and starts setting them into a bowl with an artistic hand. Then his son_ EDWARD _comes in_. MR. VOYSEY _gives him one glance and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily_. .

MR. VOYSEY. Good morning, my dear boy.

EDWARD _has little of his father in him and that little is undermost. It is a refined face but self-consciousness takes the place in it of imagination and in suppressing traits of brutality in his character it looks as if the young man had suppressed his sense of humour too. But whether or no, that would not be much in evidence now, for_ EDWARD _is obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is no better word). He looks not to have slept for a night or two, and his standing there, clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly but half accusingly too, his whole being altogether so unstrung and desperate, makes_ MR.

VOYSEY'S _uninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken._

EDWARD. Father . .

MR. VOYSEY. Well?

EDWARD. I'm glad to see you.

_This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that the commonplace phrase sounds ridiculous at such a moment._

MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there.

EDWARD. Yes.

MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them?

EDWARD. As you wished me . .

MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD _doesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems to overwhelm him with shame._ MR. VOYSEY _goes on with cheerful impatience_.] Come, come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this.

You're puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come down to me on Sat.u.r.day night? I expected you . . I told you to come. Then your mother was wondering, of course, why you weren't with us for dinner yesterday.