A Two-Act version of this play was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre on April 7, 1917, with the following cast:
Robert Crawshaw--NIGEL PLAYFAIR. Margaret Crawshaw--HELEN HAYE. Viola Crawshaw--PEGGY KURTON. Richard Meriton--MARTIN LEWIS. Denis Clifton--DION BOUCICAULT. Lancelot Dodd--BERTRAM SIEMS.
WURTZEL-FLUMMERY
[SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Morning.]
[It is a June day before the war in the morning-room of ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference, and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we must leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes.]
RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.
VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury.
RICHARD. No.
VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.
RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your last guess.
VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.
RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the fireplace.) How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.)
VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father.
RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway. Anything in the paper?
VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that--
RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.
VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.
RICHARD. It would be.
VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.
RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.
VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as father.
RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that before. ... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?
VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other day.
RICHARD. No, I don't, really.
VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.
RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.
VIOLA. Of course not.
RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.
VIOLA. Then why does he say it?
RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say things like that at Basingstoke. ... But really, darling, we're very good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it awfully good of him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up. (Seriously) I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"-- the girl I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; now--oh, why won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like this.
VIOLA, Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would, as they say in novels, show you the door. (Smiling) And I want you this side of the door for a little bit longer.
RICHARD (firmly). I shall tell him before I go.
VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days. You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates poor people.
RICHARD (viciously). Damn money!
VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual instability.
RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes to him and--) Oh, Lord, look out!
VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches?
RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW comes in.)
(CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he undoubtedly is.)
CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at breakfasts?
CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?
VIOLA (making for the door). I don't know, father; do you want her?
CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.
VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [She goes out.]
(RICHARD Picks up "The Times" and sits down again.)
CRAWSHAW (sitting down in a business-like way at his desk). Richard, why don't you get something to do?
RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.
CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah-- work in the House.
RICHARD (a trifle cool). I have something to do.
CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a directorship or something in the City.
RICHARD. I hate the City.
CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke.
RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me.
CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing personal. (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere with his private friendships.
RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
[Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, but