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Sweethearts by W. S. Gilbert
Dramatis Personae Mr. Harry Spreadbrow read by Algy Pug
Ms. Jenny Northcott read by Amanda Friday Wilcox, a gardener as read by Matt Perard
Ruth, a maid servant read by Elizabeth Klett
Narration by Chris Cartwright
ACT I DATE — 1844.
Scene — The garden of a pretty country villa. The house is new, and the garden shows signs
of having been recently laid out; the shrubs are small, and the few trees about are moderate
in size; small creepers are trained against the house; an open country in the distance;
a little bridge over a stream forms the entrance to the garden.
Wilcox is discovered seated on the edge of the garden wheelbarrow, preparing his "bass" for tying up plants;
he rises and comes down with sycamore sapling in his hand; it is carefully done up in matting,
and has a direction label attached to it.
Wilcox (reading the label): "For Miss Northcott, with Mr. Spreadbrow's kindest regards." "Acer
Pseudo Platanus." Ay, Ay! sycamore, I suppose, though it ain't genteel to say so. Humph!
sycamores are common enough in these parts; there ain't no call, as I can see, to send
a hundred and twenty mile for one. Ah, Mr. Spreadbrow, no go — no go; it ain't to be
done with "Acer Pseudo Platanuses." Miss Jenny's sent better men nor you about their business
afore this, and as you're agoin' about your'n of your own free will to-night, and a good
long way too, why I says, no go, no go! If I know Miss Jenny, she's a good long job,
and you've set down looking at your work too long; and now that it's come to going, you'll
need to hurry it; and Miss Jenny ain't a job to be hurried over, bless her. Take another
three months, and I don't say there mightn't be a chance for you; but it'll take all that
— ah, thank goodness, it'll take all that!
Enter Jenny from behind the house, prepared for gardening.
Well, Wilcox, what have you got there? [He touches his forehead and gives her the sycamore.]
Not my sycamore? Yes, miss; Mr. Spreadbrow left it last night
as the mail passed. Then he's returned already? Why, he was not
expected for a week, at least. He returned quite sudden last night, and left
this here plant, with a message that he would call at twelve o'clock to-day, miss.
I shall be very glad to see him. So this is really a shoot of the dear old tree!
Come all the way from Lunnon, too. There's lots of 'em hereabouts, miss; I could have
got you a armful for the asking. Yes, I dare say; but this comes from the dear
old house at Hampstead. Do it, now?
You remember the old sycamore on the lawn where Mr. Spreadbrow and I used to sit and
learn our lessons years ago? — well, this is a piece of it. And as Mr. Spreadbrow was
going to London, I asked him to be so kind as to call, and tell the new people, with
his compliments, that he wanted to cut a shoot from it for a young lady who had a very pleasant
recollection of many very happy hours spent under it. It was an awkward thing for a nervous
young gentleman to do, and it's very kind of him to have done it. [Gives back the plant
which he places against upper porch of house.] So he's coming this morning?
Yes, miss, to say good-bye. (Jenny busies herself at stand of flowers).
Good-bye! "How d'ye do?" you mean. No, miss, good-bye. I hear Mr. Spreadbrow's
off to Ingy. Yes; I believe he is going soon.
Soon? Ah, soon enough! He joins his ship at Southampton to-night — so he left word yesterday.
To-night? No; not for some weeks yet? [Alarmed.] To-night, miss. I had it from his own lips,
and he's coming to-day to say good-bye. [Jenny, aside]. To-night!
And a good job too, say I, though he's a nice young gentleman too.
I don't see that it's a good job. I don't want no young gentleman hanging about
here, miss. I know what they comes arter; — they comes arter the flowers.
The flowers? What nonsense! No, it ain't nonsense. The world's a haphazard
garden where common vegetables like me, and hardy annuals like my boys, and sour crabs
like my old 'ooman, and pretty delicate flowers like you and your sisters grow side by side.
It's the flowers they come arter. Really, Wilcox, if papa don't object I don't
see what you have to do with it. No, your pa don't object; but I can't make
your pa out, miss. Walk off with one of his tuppenny toolips and he's your enemy for life.
Walk off with one of his darters and he settles three hundred a year on you. Tell 'ee what,
miss; if I'd a family of grown gals like you, I'd stick a conservatory label on each of
them — "Please not to touch the specimens!" — and I'd take jolly good care they didn't.
At all events, if Mr. Spreadbrow is going away to-night, you need not be alarmed on
my account. I am a flower that is not picked in a minute.
Well said, miss! And as he is going, and as you won't see him no more, I don't mind saying
that a better-spoken young gentleman I don't know. A good, honest, straight-for'ard young
chap he is — looks you full in the face with eyes that seem to say, "I'm an open book
— turn me over — look me through and through — read every page of me, and if you find
a line to be ashamed on, tell me of it, and I'll score it through."
I dare say Mr. Spreadbrow is much as other young men are.
As other young men? No, no — Lord forbid, miss! Come— say a good word for him, miss,
poor young gentleman. He's said many a good word of you, I'll go bail.
Of me? [Wilcox, takes ladder which is leaning against
the house and places it against upper porch of house, and, going a little way up it, speaks
this speech from it. Jenny remains seated.] Ay. Why, only is Toosday, when I was at work
again the high road, he rides up on his little bay 'oss, and he stands talking to me over
the hedge and straining his neck to catch a sight of you at a window; that was Toosday.
"Well, Wilcox," says he, "it's a fine day!"— it rained hard to-day, but it's always a fine
day with him. "How's Miss Northcott?" says he.
"Pretty well, sir," says I. "Pretty she always is; and well she ought to be if the best of
hearts and the sweetest of natures will do it!" Well, I knew that, so off I goes to another
subject, and tries to interest him in drainage, and subsoils, and junction pipes; but no,
nothing would do for him, but he must bring the talk back to you. So at last I gets sick
of it, and I up and says: "Look ye here, Mr. Spreadbrow," says I, "I'm only the gardener.
This is Toosday, and Miss Northcott's pa's in the study, and I dessay he'll be happy
to hear what you've got to say about her." Lord, it'd had done your heart good to see
how he flushed up as he stuck his spurs into the bay and rode off fifteen miles to the
hour. [Laughing.] That was Toosday. He had no right to talk about me to a servant.
[Wilcox, coming down from, ladder]. But, bless you, don't be *** him, he couldn't help
it, miss. But don't you be alarmed, he's going away to-night, for many and many a long year,
and you won't never be troubled with him again. He's going with a heavy heart, take my word
for it, and I see his eyes all wet, when he spoke about saying good-bye to you; he'd the
sorrow in his throat, but he's a brave lad, and he gulped it down, though it was as big
as an apple. [Ring.] There he is. Soothe him kindly, miss — don't
you be afraid, you're safe enough — he's a good lad, and he can't do no harm now. [Exit
Wilcox] What does he want to go to-day for? he wasn't
going for three months. He could remain if he liked; India has gone on very well without
him for five thousand years: it could have waited three months longer; but men are always
in such a hurry. He might have told me before — he would have done so if he really, really
liked me! I wouldn't have left him — yes I would — but then that's different. Well,
if some people can go, some people can remain behind, and some other people will be only
too glad to find some people out of their way!
Enter Spreadbrow, followed by Wilcox. [Jenny suddenly changes her manner, rises
and crosses]. Oh, Mr. Spreadbrow, how-d'ye-do? Quite well?
I'm so glad! Sisters quite well? That's right— how kind of you to think of my tree! So you
are really and truly going to India to- night? That is sudden!
Yes, very sudden — terribly sudden. I only heard of my appointment two days ago, in London,
and I'm to join my ship to-night. It's very sudden indeed — and — and I've come to
say good-bye. Good-bye. [Offering her hand.]
Oh, but not like that, Jenny! Are you in a hurry?
Oh dear no, I thought you were; won't you sit down? [They sit.] And so your sisters
are quite well? Not very; they are rather depressed at my
going so soon. It may seem strange to you, but they will miss me.
I'm sure they will. I should be terribly distressed at your going —if I were your sister. And
you're going for so long! I'm not likely to return for a great many
years. I'm so sorry we shall not see you again. Papa
will be very sorry. More sorry than you will be?
Well, no, I shall be very sorry, too — very, very sorry — there!
How very kind of you to say so. We have known each other so long — so many
years, and we've always been good friends, and it's always sad to say good-bye for the
last time to anybody! It's so very sad when one knows for certain that it must be the
last time. I can't tell you how happy I am to hear you
say it's so sad. But my prospects are not altogether hopeless, there's one chance for
me yet. I'm happy to say I'm extremely delicate, and there's no knowing, the climate may not
agree with me, and I may be invalided home! Oh! but that would be very dreadful.
Oh, yes, of course it would be dreadful in one sense; but it — it would have its advantages.
(Looking uneasily at Wilcox, who is hard at work.) Wilcox is hard at work, I see.
Oh, yes, Wilcox is hard at work. He is very industrious.
Confoundedly industrious! He is working in the sun without his hat.
Poor fellow. Isn't it injudicious, at his age?
Oh, I don't think it will hurt him. I really think it will. [He motions to her
to send him away.] Do you? Wilcox, Mr. Spreadbrow is terribly
distressed because you are working in the sun.
That's mortal good of him. [Aside, winking.] They want me to go. All right; he can't do
much harm now. [Aloud.] Well, sir, the sun is hot, and I'll go and look after the cucumbers
away yonder, right at the other end of the garden. [Wilcox going — Spreadbrow is delighted.]
No, no, no! — don't go away! Stop here, only put on your hat. That's what Mr. Spreadbrow
meant. [Wilcox puts on his hat.] There, now are you happy?
I suppose it will soon be his dinner-time? Oh, he has dined. You have dined, haven't
you, Wilcox? Oh, yes, miss, I've dined, thank ye kindly.
Yes; he has dined! Oh! I quite forgot! What?
I must interrupt you for a moment, Wilcox; I quite forgot that I promised to send some
flowers to Captain Dampier this afternoon. Will you cut them for me?
Yes, miss. Out of the conservatory, I suppose, miss? [Wilcox going, Spreadbrow again delighted.]
No, these will do. [Pointing to open-air flower beds — Spreadbrow again disappointed.]
Stop, on second thoughts perhaps you had better take them out of the conservatory, and cut
them carefully — there's no hurry. [Wilcox, aside.] I understand! Well, poor
young chap, let him be, let him be; he's going to be turned, off to-night, and his last meal
may as well be a hearty one. [Exit Wilcox]. [Spreadbrow rises in great delight].
How good of you — how very kind of you! To send Captain Dampier some flowers?
Do you really want to send that fellow some flowers?
To be sure I do. Why should I have asked Wilcox to cut them?
I thought — I was a great fool to think so — but I thought it might have been because
we could talk more pleasantly alone. I really wanted some flowers; but, as you
say, we certainly can talk more pleasantly alone. [She busies herself with preparing
the sycamore.] I've often thought that nothing is such a
check on — pleasant conversation— as the presence of — of — a gardener — who
is not interested in the subject of conversation. [Jenny gets the tree, and cuts off the matting
with which it is bound with garden scissors which she has brought with her from the table].
Oh, but Wilcox is very interested in everything that concerns you. Do let me call him back.
No, no; not on my account! He and I were having quite a discussion about
you when you arrived. [Digging a hole for tree.]
About me? Yes; indeed we almost quarrelled about you.
What, was he abusing me then? Oh, no; he was speaking of you in the highest
terms. Then — you were abusing me!
N — no, not exactly that; I — I didn't agree with all he said — [he is much depressed,
she notices this] at least, not openly. Then you did secretly?
I shan't tell you. Why?
Because it will make you dreadfully vain. There!
Really — very dreadfully vain? [he takes her hand].
Very dreadfully vain indeed. Don't! [Withdraws her hand. During this she is digging the hole,
kneeling on the edge of the flower bed; he advances to her and kneels on edge of bed
near her.] Do you know it's most delightful to hear you
say that? It's without exception the most astonishingly pleasant thing I've ever heard
in the whole course of my life! Is that the tree I brought you? [Rises from his knees.]
Yes. I'm going to plant it just in front of the drawing-room window, so that I can see
it whenever I look out. Will you help me? [He prepares to do so; she puts it into the
hole.] Is that quite straight? Hold it up, please,
while I fill in the earth. [He holds it while she fills in the earth; gradually his hand
slips down till it touches hers.] It's no use, Mr. Spreadbrow, our both, holding
it in the same place! [He runs his hand up the stem quickly.]
I beg your pardon — very foolish of me. Very.
I'm very glad there will be something here to make you think of me when I'm many many
thousand miles away, Jenny. For I shall be always thinking of you.
Really, now that's very nice! It will be so delightful, and so odd to know that there's
somebody thinking about me right on the other side of the world!
Yes. It will be on the other side of the world! But that's the delightful part of it— right
on the other side of the world! It will be such fun! Fun?
Of course, the farther you are away the funnier it will seem. [He is approaching her again.]
Now keep on the other side of the world. It's just the distance that gives the point to
it. There are dozens and dozens of people thinking of me close at hand. [She rises.]
[Spreadbow, taking her hand]. But not as I think of you, Jenny — dear, dear Jenny — not
as I've thought of you for years and years, though I never dared tell you so till now.
I can't bear to think that anybody else is thinking of you kindly, earnestly, seriously,
as I think of you. You may be quite sure, Harry, quite, quite
sure that you will be the only one who is thinking of me kindly, seriously, and earnestly
in India. [He relapses — she withdraws her hand.]
And when this tree, that we have planted together, is a big tree, you must promise me that you
will sit under it every day, and give a thought now and then to the old play-fellow who gave
it to you. A big tree! Oh, but this little plant will
never live to be a big tree, surely? Yes, if you leave it alone, it grows very
rapidly. Oh, but I'm not going to have a big tree right in front of the drawing-room window!
It will spoil the view, it will be an eyesore. We had better plant it somewhere else.
No, let it be, you can cut it down when it becomes an eyesore. It grows very rapidly,
but it will, no doubt, have lost all interest in your eyes long before it becomes an eyesore.
But Captain Dampier says that a big tree in front of a window checks the current of fresh
air. Oh, if Captain Dampier says so, remove it.
Now don't be ridiculous about Captain Dampier; I've a very great respect for his opinion
on such matters. I'm sure you have. You see a great deal of
Captain Dampier, don't you? Yes, and we shall see a great deal more of
him. He is going to take the Grange next door. That will be very convenient.
Very. You seem to admire Captain Dampier very much.
I think he is very good-looking. Don't you? He's well enough — for a small man.
Perhaps he'll grow. Is Captain Dampier going to live here always?
Yes, until he marries. Is — is he likely to marry?
I don't know. Perhaps he may. But whom — whom?
Haven't you heard? I thought you knew! No, no, I don't know; I've heard nothing.
Jenny — dear Jenny — tell me the truth, don't keep anything from me, don't leave me
to find it out; it will be terrible to hear of it out there; and, if you have ever liked
me— and I'm sure you have — tell me the whole truth at once!
Perhaps, as an old friend, I ought to have told you before; but indeed, indeed I thought
you knew. Captain Dampier is engaged to be married to — to — my cousin Emmie.
To your cousin Emmie. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh, my dear, dear Jenny, do
— do let me take your hand. [Takes her hand and shakes it enthusiastically.]
Are you going? No. [Releasing it — much cast down.] I was
going to ask you to do me a great favour, and I thought I could ask it better if I had
hold of your hand. I was going to ask you if you would give me a flower — any flower,
I don't care what it is. A flower? Why, of course I will. But why?
That I may have a token of you and of our parting wherever I go; that I may possess
an emblem of you that I shall never — never part with, that I can carry about with me
night and day wherever I go, throughout my whole life.
[Jenny, apparently much affected, crosses slowly, stoops and takes up large geranium
in pot]. Will this be too big?
But. I mean a flower — only a flower. Oh, but do have a bunch! Wilcox shall pick
you a beauty. No, no; I want you to pick it for me. I don't
care what it is — a daisy will do — if you pick it for me!
What an odd notion! [Crossing to flower-stand, and picking a piece of mignonette — he puts
down flower-pot by bed.] There! [picking a flower and giving it to
him] will that do? I can't tell you how inestimably I shall prize
this flower. I will keep it while I live, and whatever good fortune may be in store
for me, nothing can ever be so precious in my eyes.
I had no idea you were so fond of flowers. Oh, do have some more!
No, no — but — you must let me give you this in return; I brought it for you, Jenny
dear — dear Jenny! Will you take it from me? [Takes a rose from his button-hole, and
offers it.] Oh yes! [Takes it and puts it down on the
table carelessly — he notices this with much emotion.]
Well, I've got to say good-bye; there's no reason why it shouldn't be said at once. [Holding
out his hand.] Good-bye, Jenny!
Good-bye! [He stands for a moment with her hand in his — she crosses to porch.]
Haven't — haven't you anything to say to me?
[Jenny, after thinking it over]. No, I don't think there's anything else. No
— nothing. [She leans against the porch — he stands
over her.] Jenny, I'm going away to-day, for years and
years, or I wouldn't say what I'm going to say — at least not yet. I'm little more
than a boy, Jenny; but if I were eighty, I couldn't be more in earnest — indeed I couldn't!
Parting for so many years is like death to me; and if I don't say what I'm going to say
before I go, I shall never have the pluck to say it after. We were boy and girl together,
and — and I loved you then — and every year I've loved you more and more; and now
that I'm a man, and you are nearly a woman, I — I — Jenny dear — I've nothing more
to say! How you astonish me!
Astonish you? Why, you know that I loved you. Yes, yes; as a boy loves a girl — but now
that I am a woman it's impossible that you can care for me.
Impossible — because you are a woman! You see it's so unexpected.
Unexpected? Yes. As children it didn't matter, but it
seems so shocking for grown people to talk about such things. And then, not gradually,
but all at once — in a few minutes. It's awful!
Oh, Jenny, think. I've no time to delay— my having to go has made me desperate. One
kind word from you will make me go away happy: without that word, I shall go in unspeakable
sorrow. Jenny, Jenny, say one kind word! Tell me what to say?
It must come from you, my darling; say whatever is on your lips — whether for good or ill
— I can bear it now. Well, then: I wish you a very very pleasant
voyage — and I hope you will be happy and prosperous — and you must take great care
of yourself — and you can't think how glad I shall be to know that you think of me, now
and then, in India. There! Is that all?
Yes, I think that's all. Yes — that's all. Then — there's nothing left but to say good-bye
— [Music in orchestra till end of Act, "Good-bye, Sweetheart"] — and I hope you will always
be happy, and that, when you marry, you will marry a good fellow who will — who will
— who will Good-bye! [Exit, rapidly. Jenny watches him out — sits
down, leaving the gate open — hums an air gaily — looks round to see if he is coming
back — goes on humming — takes up the flower he has given her — plays with it
— gradually falters, and at last bursts into tears, laying her head on the table over
the flower he has given her] and sobbing violently. End of Act I
Act II Scene — The same as in Act I, with such
additions and changes as may be supposed to have taken place in thirty years. The house,
which was bare in Act I, is now entirely covered with Virginia and other creepers; the garden
is much more fully planted than in Act I, and trees that were small in Act I are tall
and bushy now; the general arrangement of the garden is the same, except that the sycamore
planted in Act I has developed into a large tree, the boughs of which roof in the stage;
the landscape has also undergone a metamorphosis, inasmuch as that which was open country in
Act I is now covered with picturesque semi-detached villas, and there are indications of a large
town in the distance. The month is September, and the leaves of the Virginia creepers wear
their autumn tint.
Jenny discovered seated on a bench at the foot of the tree, and Ruth is standing by
her side, holding a skein of cotton, which Jenny is winding. Jenny is now a pleasant-looking
middle-aged lady. Have you any fault to find with poor Tom?
No, miss, I've no fault to find with Tom. But a girl can't marry every young man she
don't find fault with, can she now, miss? Certainly not, Ruth. But Tom seems to think
you have given him some cause to believe that you are fond of him.
It's like his impudence, miss, to say so! Fond of him indeed!
He hasn't said so, Ruth, but I'm quite sure he thinks so. I have noticed of late that
you have taken a foolish pleasure in playing fast and loose with poor Tom, and this has
made him very unhappy — very unhappy indeed; so much so that I think it is very likely
that he will make up his mind to leave my service altogether.
Oh, miss, if Tom can make up his mind to go, I'm sure I wouldn't stand in his way for worlds.
But I think you would be sorry if he did. Oh yes, miss, I should be sorry to part with
Tom! Then I think it's only right to tell you that
the foolish fellow talks about enlisting for a soldier, and if he does it at all, he will
do it to-night. Oh, miss, for that, I do like Tom very much
indeed; but if he wants to 'list, of course he's his own master, and if he's really fond
of me, what does he want to go and 'list for? One would think he would like to be where
he could talk to me, and look at me — odd times! I'm sure I don't want Tom to go and
'list! Then take the advice of an old lady, who knows
some- thing of these matters, and tell him so before it's too late — you foolish, foolish
girl! Ah, Ruth, I've no right to be *** you! I've been a young and foolish girl like
yourself in my time, and I've done many thoughtless things that I've learnt to be very sorry for.
I'm not reproaching you — but I'm speaking to you out of the fullness of my experience,
and take my word for it, if you treat poor Tom lightly, you may live to be very sorry
for it too! [Taking her hand.] There, I'm not angry with you, my dear, but
if I'd taken the advice I'm giving you, I shouldn't be a lonely old lady at a time of
life when a good husband has his greatest value. [Ring.]
Go and see who's at the gate! [Exit Jenny. Ruth goes to the gate t wiping
her eyes on her apron — she opens it. Enter Spreadbrow (now Sir Henry).]
My dear, is this Mr. Braybrook's? Yes, sir.
Is he at home? No, sir, he is not; but mistress is.
Will you give your mistress my card? [Feeling for his card-case.] Dear me, I've left my
cards at home! Never mind — will you tell your mistress that a gentleman will be greatly
indebted to her, if she will kindly spare him a few minutes of her time? Do you think
you can charge yourself with that message? Mistress is in the garden, sir; I'll run and
tell her, if you'll take a seat. [Exit Ruth.] That's a good girl! [He sits on seat.] I couldn't
make up my mind to pass the old house without framing an excuse to take a peep at it. [Looks
round.] Very nice — very pretty — but, dear me,
on a very much smaller scale than I'd fancied. Remarkable changes in thirty years.
[Rises and walks round trees, looking about.] Why, the place is a town, and a railway runs
right through it. And this is really the old garden in which I spent so many pleasant hours?
Poor little Jenny! — I wonder what's become of her? Pretty little girl, but with a tendency
to stoutness; if she's alive, I'll be bound she's fat.
So this is Mr. Braybrook's, is it? I wonder who Bray brook is — I don't remember any
family of that name hereabouts. [Looking off.] This, I suppose, is Mrs. Braybrook. Now, how
in the world am I to account for my visit? [Enter Jenny — she curtsies formally, he
bows.] I beg your pardon, I hardly know how to explain
this intrusion. Perhaps I had better state my facts, they will plead my apology: — I
am an old Indian civilian, who, having returned to England after many years' absence, is whiling
away a day in his native place, and amusing himself with polishing old memories — bright
enough once, but sadly tarnished — sadly tarnished!
Indeed? May I hope that you have succeeded? Indifferently well — indifferently well.
The fact is, I hardly know where I am, for all my old landmarks are swept away; I assure
you I am within the mark, when I say that this house is positively the only place I
can identify. The town has increased very rapidly of late.
Rapidly! When I left, there were not twenty houses in the place, but that was long before
your time. I left a village, I find a town — I left a beadle, I find a mayor and corporation
— I left a pump, I find a statue to a borough member. The inn is a "Palace Hotel Company"
— the alms- house a county jail — the pound is a police station, and the common
a colony of semi-detached bungalows! Everything changed, including myself— everything new,
except myself — ha, ha! I shall be glad to offer you any assistance
in my power, I should be a good guide, for I have lived here thirty-two years!
Thirty-two years! is it possible? Then surely I ought to know you? [He feels for his glasses.]
My name is Spreadbrow — Sir Henry Spreadbrow! Spreadbrow! [Putting on spectacles.] Is it
possible? Why, my very dear old friend [offering both her hands], don't you recollect me?
[He puts on his double eye-glass, takes both her hands]. God bless me! — is it possible?
— and this is really you! — you don't say so! Dear me, dear me! Well, well, well!
I assure you I am delighted, most unaffectedly delighted, to renew our friendship!
[Shaking hands again, they sit under tree and look at each other curiously.]
Not changed a bit! My dear Jane, you really must allow me. [They shake hands again.] And
now tell me, how is Mr. Braybrook? Oh, Mr. Braybrook is very well; I expect him
home presently; he will be very glad to see you, for he has often heard me speak of you.
Has he indeed? It will give me the greatest — the very greatest possible pleasure, believe
me, to make his acquaintance. I'm sure he will be delighted.
Now tell me all about yourself. Any family? I beg your pardon?
Any family? Mr. Braybrook?
"Well — yes. Mr. Braybrook is a bachelor.
A bachelor? Then let me understand — am I not speaking to Mrs. Braybrook?
No, indeed you are not! Ha, ha! Mr. Braybrook is my nephew; the place belongs to him now.
Oh! then, my dear Jane, may I ask who you are?
I am not married. Not married!
No; I keep house for my nephew. Why, you don't mean to sit there and look
me in the face and tell me, after thirty years, that you are still Jane Northbrook?
Northcott. Northcott, of course. I beg your pardon — I
should have said Northcott. And you are not Mrs. Braybrook? You are not even married!
Why, what were they about — what were they about? Not married! Well, now, do you know,
I am very sorry to hear that. I am really more sorry and disappointed than I can tell
you. You'd have made an admirable wife, Jane, and an admirable mother. I can't tell you
how sorry I am to find that you are still Jane Northbrook — I should say, Northcott.
The same in name — much changed in everything else.
Changed? Not a bit — I won't hear of it. I knew you the moment I saw you! We are neither
of us changed. Mellowed perhaps — a little mellowed, but what of that? Who shall say
that the blossom is pleasanter to look upon than the fruit? Not I for one, Jane — not
I for one. Time has dealt very kindly with us, but we're
old folks now, Henry Spreadbrow. [Rises.] I won't allow it, Jane — I won't hear it.
[Rises.] What constitutes youth? A head of hair? Not at all; I was as bald as an egg
at five and twenty — babies are always bald. Eyesight? Some people are born blind. Years?
Years are an arbitrary impertinence. Am I an old man or you an old woman, because the
earth contrives to hurry round the sun in three hundred and sixty-five days? Why, Saturn
can't do it in thirty years. If I had been born on Saturn I should be two years old,
ma'am — a public nuisance in petticoats. Let us be thankful that I was not born on
Saturn. No — no, as long as I can ride to cover twice a week, walk my five and twenty
miles without turning a hair, go to bed at twelve, get up at six, turn into a cold tub
and like it, I'm a boy, Jane — a boy — a boy!
And you are still unmarried? I? Oh dear, yes — very much so. No time
to think of marriage. Plenty of opportunity, mind, but no leisure to avail myself of it.
I've had a bustling time of it, I assure you, Jane, working hard at the Bar and on the Bench,
with some success — with some success; [sits again] and now that I've done my work, I throw
myself back in my easy-chair, fold my hands, cross my legs, and prepare to enjoy myself.
Life is before me, and I'm going to begin it. Ha, ha! And so we are really Jane Northcott
still? Still Jane Northcott.
I'm indignant to hear it — I assure you that I am positively indignant to hear it.
You would have made some fellow so infernally happy; [rises] I'm sorry for that fellow's
sake — I don't know him, but still I am sorry. Ah, I wish I had remained in England.
I do wish, for the very first time since I left it, that I had remained in England.
Indeed! And why? Why? Because I should have done my best to
remove that reproach from society. I should indeed, Jane! Ha, ha! After all, it don't
much matter, for you wouldn't have had me. Oh yes! you had no idea of it; but, do you
know, I've a great mind to tell you — I will tell you. Do you know, I was in love
with you at one time. Boy and girl, you know — boy and girl. Ha, ha! you'd no idea of
it, but I was! Oh yes; I knew it very well.
You knew it? You knew that I was attached to you!
Why, of course I did! Did you, indeed! Bless me, you don't say so!
Now that's amazingly curious. Leave a woman alone to find that out! It's instinctive,
positively instinctive. Now, my dear Jane, I'm a very close student of human nature,
and in pursuit of that study I should like above all things to know by what signs you
detected my secret admiration for you. [Takes her hand.]
Why, bless the man! There was no mystery in the matter! You told me all about it!
I told you all about it? Certainly you did — here, in this garden.
That I admired you — loved you? Most assuredly! Surely you've not forgotten
it. [He drops her hand.] I haven't. I remember that I had the impertinence to
be very fond of you. I forgot that I had the impertinence to tell you so. I remember it
now. I made a fool of myself. I remember it by that. I told you that I adored you, didn't
I? — that you were as essential to me as the air I breathed — that it was impossible
to support existence without you — that your name should be the most hallowed of earthly
words, and so forth. Ha, ha! my dear Jane, before I'd been a week on board I was saying
the same thing to a middle-aged governess whose name has entirely escaped me. [She has
exhibited signs of pleasure during the earlier part of this speech, and disappointment at
the last two lines.] What fools we make of ourselves!
And of others! Oh, I meant it, Jane; I meant every word I
said to you. And the governess?
And the governess! I would have married you, Jane.
And the governess? And the governess! I'd have married her, if
she had accepted me — but she didn't. Perhaps it was as well — she was a widow with five
children — I cursed my destiny at the time, but I've forgiven it since. I talked of blowing
out my brains. I'm glad I didn't do it, as I've found them useful in my profession. Ha!
ha! [Looking round; Jenny stands watching him.]
This place has changed a good deal since my time — improved — improved — we've all
three improved. I don't quite like this tree, though — it's in the way. What is it? A
kind of beech, isn't it? No, it's a sycamore.
Ha! I don't understand English trees — but it's a curious place for a big tree like this,
just outside the drawing-room window. Isn't it in the way?
It is rather in the way. I don't like a tree before a window, it checks
the current of fresh air — don't you find that?
It does check the current of fresh air. Then the leaves blow into the house in autumn,
and that's a nuisance— and besides, it impedes the view.
It is certainly open to these objections. Then cut it down, my dear Jane. Why don't
you cut it down? Cut it down! I wouldn't cut it down for worlds.
That tree is identified in my mind with many happy recollections.
Remarkable the influence exercised by associations over a woman's mind. Observe — you take
a house, mainly because it commands a beautiful view. You apportion the rooms principally
with reference to that view. You lay out your garden at great expense to harmonize with
that view, and, having brought that view into the very best of all possible conditions for
the full enjoyment of it, you allow a gigantic and wholly irrelevant tree to block it all
out for the sake of the sentimental ghost of some dead and gone sentimental reality!
Take my advice and have it down. If I had had anything to do with it, you would never
have planted it. I shouldn't have allowed it!
You had so much to do with it that it was planted there at your suggestion.
At mine? Never saw it before in my life. We planted it together thirty years ago — the
day you sailed for India. It appears to me that that was a very eventful
day in my career. We planted it together! I have no recollection of having ever planted
a gigantic sycamore anywhere. And we did it together! Why, it would take a dozen men to
move it. It was a sapling then — you cut it for me.
From the old sycamore in the old garden at Hampstead! Why, I remember; I went to London
expressly to get it for you. And the next day I called to say good-bye, and I found
you planting it, and I helped; and as I was helping I found an opportunity to seize your
hand. [Does so.) I grasped it — pressed it to my lips — [does so], and said, "My
dear, dear Jenny" [he drops her hand suddenly], and so forth. Never mind what I said — but
I meant it — I meant it! [Laughs heartily — she joins him, but her
laughter is evidently forced — eventually she shows signs of tears, which he doesn't
notice.] It all comes back with a distinctness which
is absolutely photographic. I begged you to give me a flower — you gave me one — a
sprig of geranium. Mignonette.
Was it mignonette? I think you're right — it was mignonette. I seized it — pressed it
to my trembling lips — placed it next my fluttering heart, and swore that come what
might I would never, never part with it! — I wonder what I did with that flower! — And
then I took one from my button hole — begged you to take it — you took it, and —ha,
ha, ha! — you threw it down carelessly on the table, and thought no more about it, you
heartless creature — ha, ha, ha! Oh, I was very angry! I remember it perfectly; it was
a camellia. Not a camellia, I think.
Yes, a camellia, a large white camellia. I don't think it was a camellia; I rather
think it was arose. Nonsense, Jane — come, come, you hardly
looked at it, miserable little flirt that you were; and you pretend, after thirty years,
to stake your recollection of the circumstance against mine? No, no, Jane, take my word for
it, it was a camellia. I'm sure it was a rose!
No, I'm sure it was a camellia. Indeed — indeed, it was a rose. [Produces
a withered rose from a pocket-book — he is very much impressed — looks at it and
at her, and seems much affected.] Why, Jane, my dear Jane, you don't mean to
say that this is the very flower? That is the very flower! [Rising.]
Strange! You seemed to attach no value to it when I gave it to you, you threw it away
as something utterly insignificant; and when I leave, you pick it up, and keep it for thirty
years! [Rising.] My dear Jane, how like a woman!
And you seized the flower I gave you — pressed it to your lips, and swore that wherever your
good or ill fortune might carry you, you would never part with it; and — and you quite
forgot what became of it! My dear Harry, how like a man!
I was deceived, my dear Jane — deceived! I had no idea that you attached so much value
to my flower. We were both deceived, Henry Spreadbrow.
Then is it possible that in treating me as you did, Jane, you were acting a part?
We were both acting parts — but the play is over, and there's an end of it. Let us
talk of something else. No, no, Janet, the play is not over — we
will talk of nothing else — the play is not nearly over. [Music in orchestra, "John
Anderson my Jo"] My dear Jane — [rising and taking her hand], my very dear Jane — believe
me, for I speak from my hardened old heart, so far from the play being over, the serious
interest is only just beginning. [He kisses her hand —they walk towards the house.]
End of Act II End of Sweethearts
by W. S. Gilbert