You Never Can Tell · Act I (2/2) (2/4)

| | Mrs. Clandon* and Gloria come in. Mrs. Clandon is between forty and fifty, with a slight tendency to soft, sedentary fat, and a fair remainder of good looks, none the worse preserved because she has evidently followed the old tribal matronly fashion of making no pretension in that direction after her marriage, and might almost be suspected of wearing a cap at home. She carries herself artificially well, as women were taught to do as a part of good manners by dancing masters and reclining boards before these were superseded by the modern artistic cult of beauty and health. Her hair, a flaxen hazel fading into white, is crimped, and parted in the middle with the ends plaited and made into a knot, from which observant people of a certain age infer that Mrs. Clandon had sufficient individuality and good taste to stand out resolutely against the now forgotten chignon in her girlhood. In short, she is distinctly old fashioned for her age in dress and manners. But she belongs to the forefront of her own period (say 1860⁠–⁠80) in a jealously assertive attitude of character and intellect, and in being a woman of cultivated interests rather than passionately developed personal affections. Her voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane; and she lends herself conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations of fondness by which her children mark their esteem for her; but displays of personal sentiment secretly embarrass her: passion in her is humanitarian rather than human: she feels strongly about social questions and principles, not about persons. Only, one observes that this reasonableness and intense personal privacy, which leaves her relations with Gloria and Phil much as they might be between her and the children of any other woman, breaks down in the case of Dolly. Though almost every word she addresses to her is necessarily in the nature of a remonstrance for some breach of decorum, the tenderness in her voice is unmistakable; and it is not surprising that years of such remonstrance have left Dolly hopelessly spoiled. | | | Gloria, who is hardly past twenty, is a much more formidable person than her mother. She is the incarnation of haughty highmindedness, raging with the impatience of an impetuous, dominative character paralyzed by the impotence of her youth, and unwillingly disciplined by the constant danger of ridicule from her lighter-handed juniors. Unlike her mother, she is all passion; and the conflict of her passion with her obstinate pride and intense fastidiousness results in a freezing coldness of manner. In an ugly woman all this would be repulsive; but Gloria is an attractive woman. Her deep chestnut hair, olive brown skin, long eyelashes, shaded grey eyes that often flash like stars, delicately turned full lips, and compact and supple, but muscularly plump figure appeal with disdainful frankness to the senses and imagination. A very dangerous girl, one would say, if the moral passions were not also marked, and even nobly marked, in a fine brow. Her tailor-made skirt-and-jacket dress of saffron brown cloth, seems conventional when her back is turned; but it displays in front a blouse of sea-green silk which upsets its conventionality with one stroke, and sets her apart as effectually as the twins from the ordinary run of fashionable seaside humanity. | | | Mrs. Clandon comes a little way into the room, looking round to see who is present. Gloria, who studiously avoids encouraging the twins by betraying any interest in them, wanders to the window and looks out with her thoughts far away. The parlor maid, instead of withdrawing, shuts the door and waits at it. | | Mrs. Clandon | Well, children? How is the toothache, Dolly? | | Dolly | Cured, thank Heaven. I’ve had it out. She sits down on the step of the operating chair. Mrs. Clandon takes the writing-table chair. | | Philip | Striking in gravely from the hearth. And the dentist, a first-rate professional man of the highest standing, is coming to lunch with us. | | Mrs. Clandon | Looking round apprehensively at the servant. Phil! | | The Parlor Maid | Beg pardon, ma’am. I’m waiting for Mr. Valentine. I have a message for him. | | Dolly | Who from? | | Mrs. Clandon | Shocked. Dolly! Dolly catches her lips with her finger tips, suppressing a little splutter of mirth. | | The Parlor Maid | Only the landlord, ma’am. | | | Valentine, in a blue serge suit, with a straw hat in his hand, comes back in high spirits, out of breath with the haste he has made. Gloria turns from the window and studies him with freezing attention. | | Philip | Let me introduce you, Mr. Valentine. My mother, Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon. Mrs. Clandon bows. Valentine bows, self-possessed and quite equal to the occasion. My sister Gloria. Gloria bows with cold dignity and sits down on the sofa. Valentine falls in love at first sight and is miserably confused. He fingers his hat nervously, and makes her a sneaking bow. | | Mrs. Clandon | I understand that we are to have the pleasure of seeing you at luncheon today, Mr. Valentine. | | Valentine | Thank you⁠—er⁠—if you don’t mind⁠—I mean if you will be so kind⁠—to the parlor maid testily What is it? | | The Parlor Maid | The landlord, sir, wishes to speak to you before you go out. | | Valentine | Oh, tell him I have four patients here. The Clandons look surprised, except Phil, who is imperturbable. If he wouldn’t mind waiting just two minutes, I⁠—I’ll slip down and see him for a moment. Throwing himself confidentially on her sense of the position. Say I’m busy, but that I want to see him. | | The Parlor Maid | Reassuringly. Yes, sir. She goes. | | Mrs. Clandon | On the point of rising. We are detaining you, I am afraid. | | Valentine | Not at all, not at all. Your presence here will be the greatest help to me. The fact is, I owe six weeks’ rent; and I’ve had no patients until today. My interview with my landlord will be considerably smoothed by the apparent boom in my business. | | Dolly | Vexed. Oh, how tiresome of you to let it all out! And we’ve just been pretending that you were a respectable professional man in a first-rate position. | | Mrs. Clandon | Horrified. Oh, Dolly, Dolly! My dearest, how can you be so rude? To Valentine. Will you excuse these barbarian children of mine, Mr. Valentine? | | Valentine | Thank you, I’m used to them. Would it be too much to ask you to wait five minutes while I get rid of my landlord downstairs? | | Dolly | Don’t be long. We’re hungry. | | Mrs. Clandon | Again remonstrating. Dolly, dear! | | Valentine | To Dolly. All right. To Mrs. Clandon. Thank you: I shan’t be long. He steals a look at Gloria as he turns to go. She is looking gravely at him. He falls into confusion. I⁠—er⁠—er⁠—yes⁠—thank you. He succeeds at last in blundering himself out of the room; but the exhibition is a pitiful one. | | Philip | Did you observe? Pointing to Gloria. Love at first sight. You can add his scalp to your collection, Gloria. | | Mrs. Clandon | Sh⁠—sh, pray, Phil. He may have heard you. | | Philip | Not he. Bracing himself for a scene. And now look here, mamma. He takes the stool from the bench; and seats himself majestically in the middle of the room, taking a leaf out of Valentine’s book. Dolly, feeling that her position on the step of the operating chair is unworthy of the dignity of the occasion, rises, looking important and determined; crosses to the window; and stands with her back to the end of the writing-table, her hands behind her and on the table. Mrs. Clandon looks at them, wondering what is coming. Gloria becomes attentive. Philip straightens his back; places his knuckles symmetrically on his knees; and opens his case. Dolly and I have been talking over things a good deal lately; and I don’t think, judging from my knowledge of human nature⁠—we don’t think that you speaking very staccato, with the words detached quite appreciate the fact⁠— | | Dolly | Seating herself on the end of the table with a spring. That we’ve grown up. | | Mrs. Clandon | Indeed? In what way have I given you any reason to complain? | | Philip | Well, there are certain matters upon which we are beginning to feel that you might take us a little more into your confidence. | | Mrs. Clandon | Rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly broken up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike but implacable⁠—the manner of the Old Guard of the Women’s Rights movement⁠—coming upon her. Phil: take care. Remember what I have always taught you. There are two sorts of family life, Phil; and your experience of human nature only extends, so far, to one of them. Rhetorically. The sort you know is based on mutual respect, on recognition of the right of every member of the household to independence and privacy her emphasis on “privacy” is intense in their personal concerns. And because you have always enjoyed that, it seems such a matter of course to you that you don’t value it. But with biting acrimony there is another sort of family life: a life in which husbands open their wives’ letters, and call on them to account for every farthing of their expenditure and every moment of their time; in which women do the same to their children; in which no room is private and no hour sacred; in which duty, obedience, affection, home, morality and religion are detestable tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of punishments and lies, coercion and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion, recrimination⁠—Oh! I cannot describe it to you: fortunately for you, you know nothing about it. She sits down, panting. Gloria has listened to her with flashing eyes, sharing all her indignation. | | Dolly | Inaccessible to rhetoric. See Twentieth Century Parents, chapter on Liberty, passim. | | Mrs. Clandon | Touching her shoulder affectionately, soothed even by a gibe from her. My dear Dolly: if you only knew how glad I am that it is nothing but a joke to you, though it is such bitter earnest to me. More resolutely, turning to Philip. Phil, I never ask you questions about your private concerns. You are not going to question me, are you? | | Philip | I think it due to ourselves to say that the question we wanted to ask is as much our business as yours. | | Dolly | Besides, it can’t be good to keep a lot of questions bottled up inside you. You did it, mamma; but see how awfully it’s broken out again in me. | | Mrs. Clandon | I see you want to ask your question. Ask it. | | Dolly and Philip | Beginning simultaneously. Who⁠—They stop. | | Philip | Now look here, Dolly: am I going to conduct this business or are you? | | Dolly | You. | | Philip | Then hold your mouth. Dolly does so literally. The question is a simple one. When the ivory snatcher⁠— | | Mrs. Clandon | Remonstrating. Phil! | | Philip | Dentist is an ugly word. The man of ivory and gold asked us whether we were the children of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall. In pursuance of the precepts in your treatise on Twentieth Century Conduct, and your repeated personal exhortations to us to curtail the number of unnecessary lies we tell, we replied truthfully the we didn’t know. | | Dolly | Neither did we. | | Philip | Sh! The result was that the gum architect made considerable difficulties about accepting our invitation to lunch, although I doubt if he has had anything but tea and bread and butter for a fortnight past. Now my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that we had a father, and that you probably know who he was. | | Mrs. Clandon | Her agitation returning. Stop, Phil. Your father is nothing to you, nor to me. Vehemently. That is enough. The twins are silenced, but not satisfied. Their faces fall. But Gloria, who has been following the altercation attentively, suddenly intervenes. | | Gloria | Advancing. Mother: we have a right to know. | | Mrs. Clandon | Rising and facing her. Gloria! “We!” Who is “we”? | | Gloria | Steadfastly. We three. Her tone is unmistakable: she is pitting her strength against her mother for the first time. The twins instantly go over to the enemy. | | Mrs. Clandon | Wounded. In your mouth “we” used to mean you and I, Gloria. | | Philip | Rising decisively and putting away the stool. We’re hurting you: let’s drop it. We didn’t think you’d mind. I don’t want to know. | | Dolly | Coming off the table. I’m sure I don’t. Oh, don’t look like that, mamma. She looks angrily at Gloria*. | | Mrs. Clandon | Touching her eyes hastily with her handkerchief and sitting down again. Thank you, my dear. Thanks, Phil. | | Gloria | Inexorably. We have a right to know, mother. | | Mrs. Clandon | Indignantly. Ah! You insist. | | Gloria | Do you intend that we shall never know? | | Dolly | Oh, Gloria, don’t. It’s barbarous. | | Gloria | With quiet scorn. What is the use of being weak? You see what has happened with this gentleman here, mother. The same thing has happened to me. | | | All together. | | Mrs. Clandon | What do you mean? | | Dolly | Oh, tell us. | | Philip | What happened to you? | | Gloria | Oh, nothing of any consequence. She turns away from them and goes up to the easy chair at the fireplace, where she sits down, almost with her back to them. As they wait expectantly, she adds, over her shoulder, with studied indifference. On board the steamer the first officer did me the honor to propose to me. | | Dolly | No, it was to me. | | Mrs. Clandon | The first officer! Are you serious, Gloria? What did you say to him? Correcting herself. Excuse me: I have no right to ask that. | | Gloria | The answer is pretty obvious. A woman who does not know who her father was cannot accept such an offer. | | Mrs. Clandon | Surely you did not want to accept it? | | Gloria | Turning a little and raising her voice. No; but suppose I had wanted to! | | Philip | Did that difficulty strike you, Dolly? | | Dolly | No, I accepted him. | | | All crying out together. | | Gloria | Accepted him! | | Mrs. Clandon | Dolly! | | Philip | Oh, I say! | | Dolly | Naively. He did look such a fool! | | Mrs. Clandon | But why did you do such a thing, Dolly? | | Dolly | For fun, I suppose. He had to measure my finger for a ring. You’d have done the same thing yourself. | | Mrs. Clandon | No, Dolly, I would not. As a matter of fact the first officer did propose to me; and I told him to keep that sort of thing for women who were young enough to be amused by it. He appears to have acted on my advice. She rises and goes to the hearth. Gloria: I am sorry you think me weak; but I cannot tell you what you want. You are all too young. | | Philip | This is rather a startling departure from Twentieth Century principles. | | Dolly | Quoting. “Answer all your children’s questions, and answer them truthfully, as soon as they are old enough to ask them.” See Twentieth Century Motherhood⁠— | | Philip | Page one⁠— | | Dolly | Chapter one⁠— | | Philip | Sentence one. | | Mrs. Clandon | My dears: I did not say that you were too young to know. I said you were too young to be taken into my confidence. You are very bright children, all of you; but I am glad for your sakes that you are still very inexperienced and consequently very unsympathetic. There are some experiences of mine that I cannot bear to speak of except to those who have gone through what I have gone through. I hope you will never be qualified for such confidences. But I will take care that you shall learn all you want to know. Will that satisfy you? | | Philip | Another grievance, Dolly. | | Dolly | We’re not sympathetic. | | Gloria | Leaning forward in her chair and looking earnestly up at her mother. Mother: I did not mean to be unsympathetic. | | Mrs. Clandon | Affectionately. Of course not, dear. Do you think I don’t understand? |