You Never Can Tell · Act I (2/2) (1/4)
The Young Lady Handing him the glass. Thank you. In spite of the biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent.
The Dentist Putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of instruments. That was my first tooth.
The Young Lady Aghast. Your first! Do you mean to say that you began practising on me?
The Dentist Every dentist has to begin on somebody.
The Young Lady Yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay.
The Dentist Laughing. Oh, the hospital doesn’t count. I only meant my first tooth in private practice. Why didn’t you let me give you gas?
The Young Lady Because you said it would be five shillings extra.
The Dentist Shocked. Oh, don’t say that. It makes me feel as if I had hurt you for the sake of five shillings.
The Young Lady With cool insolence. Well, so you have! She gets up. Why shouldn’t you? it’s your business to hurt people. It amuses him to be treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds to clean and replace his instruments. She shakes her dress into order; looks inquisitively about her; and goes to the window. You have a good view of the sea from these rooms! Are they expensive?
The Dentist Yes.
The Young Lady You don’t own the whole house, do you?
The Dentist No.
The Young Lady Taking the chair which stands at the writing-table and looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg. Your furniture isn’t quite the latest thing, is it?
The Dentist It’s my landlord’s.
The Young Lady Does he own that nice comfortable Bath chair? Pointing to the operating chair.
The Dentist No: I have that on the hire-purchase system.
The Young Lady Disparagingly. I thought so. Looking about her again in search of further conclusions. I suppose you haven’t been here long?
The Dentist Six weeks. Is there anything else you would like to know?
The Young Lady The hint quite lost on her. Any family?
The Dentist I am not married.
The Young Lady Of course not: anybody can see that. I meant sisters and mother and that sort of thing.
The Dentist Not on the premises.
The Young Lady Hm! If you’ve been here six weeks, and mine was your first tooth, the practice can’t be very large, can it?
The Dentist Not as yet. He shuts the cabinet, having tidied up everything.
The Young Lady Well, good luck! She takes our her purse. Five shillings, you said it would be?
The Dentist Five shillings.
The Young Lady Producing a crown piece. Do you charge five shillings for everything?
The Dentist Yes.
The Young Lady Why?
The Dentist It’s my system. I’m what’s called a five shilling dentist.
The Young Lady How nice! Well, here! Holding up the crown piece. a nice new five shilling piece! your first fee! Make a hole in it with the thing you drill people’s teeth with and wear it on your watch-chain.
The Dentist Thank you.
The Parlor Maid Appearing at the door. The young lady’s brother, sir.
A handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady’s twin, comes in eagerly. He wears a suit of terra-cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut frock coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall hat and tan gloves to match. He has his sister’s delicate biscuit complexion, and is built on the same small scale; but he is elastic and strong in muscle, decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and trenchant in speech, and with perfect manners and a finished personal style which might be envied by a man twice his age. Suavity and self-possession are points of honor with him; and though this, rightly considered, is only the modern mode of boyish self-consciousness, its effect is none the less staggering to his elders, and would be insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. He is promptitude itself, and has a question ready the moment he enters.
The Young Gentleman Am I on time?
The Young Lady No: it’s all over.
The Young Gentleman Did you howl?
The Young Lady Oh, something awful. Mr. Valentine: this is my brother Phil. Phil: this is Mr. Valentine, our new dentist. Valentine* and Phil* bow to one another. She proceeds, all in one breath. He’s only been here six weeks; and he’s a bachelor. The house isn’t his; and the furniture is the landlord’s; but the professional plant is hired. He got my tooth out beautifully at the first go; and he and I are great friends.
Philip Been asking a lot of questions?
The Young Lady As if incapable of doing such a thing. Oh, no.
Philip Glad to hear it. To Valentine. So good of you not to mind us, Mr. Valentine. The fact is, we’ve never been in England before; and our mother tells us that the people here simply won’t stand us. Come and lunch with us. Valentine*, bewildered by the leaps and bounds with which their acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps; but he has no opportunity of speaking, as the conversation of the twins* is swift and continuous.
The Young Lady Oh, do, Mr. Valentine.
Philip At the Marine Hotel⁠—half past one.
The Young Lady We shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable Englishman has promised to lunch with us.
Philip Say no more, Mr. Valentine: you’ll come.
Valentine Say no more! I haven’t said anything. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of entertaining? It’s really quite impossible for me to lunch at the Marine Hotel with two perfect strangers.
The Young Lady Flippantly. Ooooh! what bosh! One patient in six weeks! What difference does it make to you?
Philip Maturely. No, Dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms Mr. Valentine’s judgment. He is right. Let me introduce Miss Dorothy Clandon, commonly called Dolly. Valentine* bows to Dolly*. She nods to him. I’m Philip Clandon. We’re from Madeira, but perfectly respectable, so far.
Valentine Clandon! Are you related to⁠—
Dolly Unexpectedly crying out in despair. Yes, we are.
Valentine Astonished. I beg your pardon?
Dolly Oh, we are, we are. It’s all over, Phil: they know all about us in England. To Valentine. Oh, you can’t think how maddening it is to be related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for our own sakes.
Valentine But excuse me: the gentleman I was thinking of is not celebrated.
Dolly Staring at him. Gentleman! Phil is also puzzled.
Valentine Yes. I was going to ask whether you were by any chance a daughter of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall.
Dolly Vacantly. No.
Philip Well come, Dolly: how do you know you’re not?
Dolly Cheered. Oh, I forgot. Of course. Perhaps I am.
Valentine Don’t you know?
Philip Not in the least.
Dolly It’s a wise child⁠—
Philip Cutting her short. Sh! Valentine* starts nervously; for the sound made by Philip, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet of silk in two with a flash of lightning. It is the result of long practice in checking Dolly’s* indiscretions. The fact is, Mr. Valentine, we are the children of the celebrated Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon, an authoress of great repute⁠—in Madeira. No household is complete without her works. We came to England to get away from them. The are called the Twentieth Century Treatises.
Dolly Twentieth Century Cooking.
Philip Twentieth Century Creeds.
Dolly Twentieth Century Clothing.
Philip Twentieth Century Conduct.
Dolly Twentieth Century Children.
Philip Twentieth Century Parents.
Dolly Cloth limp, half a dollar.
Philip Or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. No family should be without them. Read them, Mr. Valentine: they’ll improve your mind.
Dolly But not till we’ve gone, please.
Philip Quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. Our own minds are in that fresh and unspoiled condition.
Valentine Dubiously. Hm!
Dolly Echoing him inquiringly. Hm? Phil: he prefers people whose minds are improved.
Philip In that case we shall have to introduce him to the other member of the family: the Woman of the Twentieth Century; our sister Gloria!
Dolly Dithyrambically. Nature’s masterpiece!
Philip Learning’s daughter!
Dolly Madeira’s pride!
Philip Beauty’s paragon!
Dolly Suddenly descending to prose. Bosh! No complexion.
Valentine Desperately. May I have a word?
Philip Politely. Excuse us. Go ahead.
Dolly Very nicely. So sorry.
Valentine Attempting to take them paternally. I really must give a hint to you young people⁠—
Dolly Breaking out again. Oh, come: I like that. How old are you?
Philip Over thirty.
Dolly He’s not.
Philip Confidently. He is.
Dolly Emphatically. Twenty-seven.
Philip Imperturbably. Thirty-three.
Dolly Stuff!
Philip To Valentine. I appeal to you, Mr. Valentine.
Valentine Remonstrating. Well, really⁠—resigning himself. Thirty-one.
Philip To Dolly. You were wrong.
Dolly So were you.
Philip Suddenly conscientious. We’re forgetting our manners, Dolly.
Dolly Remorseful. Yes, so we are.
Philip Apologetic. We interrupted you, Mr. Valentine.
Dolly You were going to improve our minds, I think.
Valentine The fact is, your⁠—
Philip Anticipating him. Our appearance?
Dolly Our manners?
Valentine Ad misericordiam. Oh, do let me speak.
Dolly The old story. We talk too much.
Philip We do. Shut up, both. He seats himself on the arm of the opposing chair.
Dolly Mum! She sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes her lips tight with the tips of her fingers.
Valentine Thank you. He brings the stool from the bench in the corner; places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. They attend to him with extreme gravity. He addresses himself first to Dolly. Now may I ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an English seaside resort before? She shakes her head slowly and solemnly. He turns to Phil, who shakes his head quickly and expressively. I thought so. Well, Mr. Clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been voluble; and I have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither of you capable of conceiving what life in an English seaside resort is. Believe me, it’s not a question of manners and appearance. In those respects we enjoy a freedom unknown in Madeira. Dolly shakes her head vehemently. Oh, yes, I assure you. Lord de Cresci’s sister bicycles in knickerbockers; and the rector’s wife advocates dress reform and wears hygienic boots. Dolly furtively looks at her own shoe: Valentine catches her in the act, and deftly adds, No, that’s not the sort of boot I mean. Dolly’s shoe vanishes. We don’t bother much about dress and manners in England, because, as a nation we don’t dress well and we’ve no manners. But⁠—and now will you excuse my frankness? They nod. Thank you. Well, in a seaside resort there’s one thing you must have before anybody can afford to be seen going about with you; and that’s a father, alive or dead. He looks at them alternately, with emphasis. They meet his gaze like martyrs. Am I to infer that you have omitted that indispensable part of your social equipment? They confirm him by melancholy nods. Them I’m sorry to say that if you are going to stay here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me to accept your kind invitation to lunch. He rises with an air of finality, and replaces the stool by the bench.
Philip Rising with grave politeness. Come, Dolly. He gives her his arm.
Dolly Good morning. They go together to the door with perfect dignity.
Valentine Overwhelmed with remorse. Oh, stop, stop. They halt and turn, arm in arm. You make me feel a perfect beast.
Dolly That’s your conscience: not us.
Valentine Energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional manner. My conscience! My conscience has been my ruin. Listen to me. Twice before I have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in various parts of England. On both occasions I acted conscientiously, and told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be told. Result, ruin. Now I’ve set up as a dentist, a five shilling dentist; and I’ve done with conscience forever. This is my last chance. I spent my last sovereign on moving in; and I haven’t paid a shilling of rent yet. I’m eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as a Jew and as hard as nails; and I’ve made five shillings in six weeks. If I swerve by a hair’s breadth from the straight line of the most rigid respectability, I’m done for. Under such a circumstance, is it fair to ask me to lunch with you when you don’t know your own father?
Dolly After all, our grandfather is a canon of Lincoln Cathedral.
Valentine Like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon. What! Have you a grandfather?
Dolly Only one.
Valentine My dear, good young friends, why on earth didn’t you tell me that before? A cannon of Lincoln! That makes it all right, of course. Just excuse me while I change my coat. He reaches the door in a bound and vanishes. Dolly and Phil stare after him, and then stare at one another. Missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace at once.
Philip Throwing away Dolly’s arm and coming ill-humoredly towards the operating chair. That wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch⁠—probably the first square meal he has had for months. He gives the chair a kick, as if it were Valentine.
Dolly It’s too beastly. I won’t stand it any longer, Phil. Here in England everybody asks whether you have a father the very first thing.
Philip I won’t stand it either. Mamma must tell us who he was.
Dolly Or who he is. He may be alive.
Philip I hope not. No man alive shall father me.
Dolly He might have a lot of money, though.
Philip I doubt it. My knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that if he had a lot of money he wouldn’t have got rid of his affectionate family so easily. Anyhow, let’s look at the bright side of things. Depend on it, he’s dead. He goes to the hearth and stands with his back to the fireplace, spreading himself. The parlor maid appears. The twins, under observation, instantly shine out again with their former brilliancy.
The Parlor Maid Two ladies for you, miss. Your mother and sister, miss, I think.