The Importance of Being Esteban - Act I
The Importance of Being Esteban
A spoof in three acts
by The Author
Dedicated to
tootsiemuppet who poked and prodded encouraged and squeed so nicely (and demanded that I finishing writing it.)
Characters:
Stephen Maturin (Esteban Maturin y Domanova)
Jack Aubrey
Admiral Lord Keith
Bonden, Butler
Killick, Manservant
Mrs. Williams
Diana Villiers
Sophie
Queeney
Act I: Jack Aubrey’s house in Sussex
Act II: Garden at the castle near Lerida
Act III: Drawing room of the castle near Lerida
Act I
Morning-room in Jack’s house in Sussex. The room is sparsely furnished but perfectly tidy. The sound of a violin is heard in the adjoining room.
[Killick is polishing silver at the table, and after the music has ceased, Jack enters.]
Jack. Did you hear what I was playing, Killick?
Killick: Which it weren’t something I could dance to, so I didn’t listen, sir.
Jack: I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play accurately - anyone can play accurately - but I play with wonderful bowing technique. I managed to avoid hitting either the locker or the chairs with my elbow.
Killick: [mutters]
Jack: Have you got the toasted cheese sandwiches ready for Mrs. Williams?
Killick: Which they’ll be ready when they’re ready! [exits, re-enters with Stephen]
Killick: Dr. Maturin. [exits]
Jack: Stephen, joy! What brings you to Sussex?
Stephen: A business of the utmost secrecy, my dear.
Jack: You’re a deep old file, Stephen! And where have you been these months?
Stephen: At home, abroad.
Jack: What on earth do you do there? Or no, I mustn’t ask questions! By the way, Minorca is your home, isn’t it? Spain?
Stephen: Minorca, just so. Pray, Jack, why all these crumpets? Who are these crumpets for? Who is coming to tea?
Jack: Mrs. Williams and her niece Diana Villiers.
Stephen: That is most fortunate. I am attached to Mrs. Villiers and have come expressly to propose to her.
Jack: Well, you did say you were coming on secret business, and I do call that business.
Stephen: You are usually more romantic than that. I thought I was the unromantic one.
Jack: I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in love. It is romantic to promise never to marry anyone else, and to face obstacles to marriage. But there is nothing romantic about marriage itself. The very essence of romance is longing from afar for something you cannot have. If ever I get married, I certainly intend to leave my wife and go back to sea as soon as possible.
Stephen: Nevertheless, I wish to be married to Mrs. Villiers.
Jack: I don’t think you will ever be married to her.
Stephen: Why do you say that, pray?
Jack: Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they alternately flirt with and torment. Girls don’t think it right.
Stephen. Oh, that is nonsense.
Jack. It ain’t! In the second place, I don’t give my consent.
Stephen. Your consent!
Jack. My dear doctor, Diana is my first cousin. And before I allow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question of Sophie. Killick! Killick there!
Stephen. Sophie! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Jack, by Sophie! I do not know any one of the name of Sophie.
[Enter Killick.]
Jack. Bring me that laudanum bottle Dr. Maturin left in the observatory the last time he dined here.
Killick. Yes, sir. [Killick goes out.]
Stephen. Do you mean to say you have had my laudanum bottle all this time? I wish to the Dear you had let me know. I have been writing frantic letters to the admiralty about it.
[Enter Killick with the laudanum bottle on a silver tray. Jack takes it at once. Killick goes out.]
Jack. [Examines it.] But now that I look at the inscription on the side, I find that the thing isn’t yours after all.
Stephen. Of course it is mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written on the side. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private laudanum bottle.
Jack. Yes; but this isn’t your laudanum bottle. This laudanum bottle is a present from some one of the name of Sophie, and you said you didn’t know any one of that name.
Stephen. Well, if you want to know, Sophie happens to be my aunt.
Jack. Your aunt!
Stephen. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives in Mahon. Just give it back to me, Jack.
Jack. [Retreating to behind the pianoforte.] But why does she call herself little Sophie if she is your aunt and lives in Mahon? [Reading.] ‘From little Sophie with her fondest love.’
Stephen. [Moving to pianoforte and kneeling upon the bench.] My dear Jack, what on earth is there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. For all love give me back my laudanum bottle. [Follows Jack round the room.]
Jack. Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? ‘From little Sophie, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Esteban.’ There is no objection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt should call her own nephew her uncle, I can’t quite make out. Besides, your name isn’t Esteban at all; it’s Stephen.
Stephen. It’s not Stephen; it’s Esteban.
Jack. You have always told me it was Stephen. I have introduced you to every one as Stephen. You answer to the name of Stephen. You look as if your name was Stephen. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn’t Stephen. It’s on your cards. Here is one of them. [Taking it from case.] ‘Dr. Stephen Maturin, B. 4, The Grapes.’ I’ll keep this as a proof that your name is Stephen if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or to Diana, or to the admiralty, or to any one else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]
Stephen. Well, my name is Stephen in England and Esteban in Spain, and the laudanum bottle was given to me in Spain.
Jack: Well, go on! Tell me the whole thing. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Melburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.
Stephen. Melburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Melburyist?
Jack. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Stephen in England and Esteban in Spain.
Stephen. Well, produce my laudanum bottle first.
Jack. Here it is. [Hands laudanum bottle.] Now produce your explanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]
Stephen. [Drinks eagerly from bottle and sighs contentedly.] My dear Jack, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. In fact it is perfectly ordinary. Old Señor Maturin, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, Sophia. Sophie, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives in my castle in Spain under the charge of her admirable governess, Queeney.
Jack. Where is that castle in Spain, by the way?
Stephen. That is nothing to you, my dear. You are not going to be invited... I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Minorca.
Jack. I suspected that, my dear doctor! I have Melburyed all over Minorca on two separate occasions, when Molly Harte was in residence... Now, go on. Why are you Stephen in England and Esteban in Spain?
Stephen. My dear Jack, when one is placed in the position of guardian, physician and sometimes matchmaker, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness or one’s career in naval intelligence, in order to get to England I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Stephen, who lives at the Grapes, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes during his naturalist wanderings. That, my dear Jack, is the whole truth pure and simple.
Jack. What you really are is a Melburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Melburyist. You are one of the most advanced Melburyists I know.
Stephen. What do you mean?
Jack. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Stephen, in order that you may be able to come up to England as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Captain Melbury, in order that I may be able to go to sea whenever I choose. Melbury is perfectly invaluable. Now that I know you to be a confirmed Melburyist I naturally want to talk to you about Melburying. I want to tell you the rules.
Stephen. I am not a Melburyist at all. If Diana accepts me, I am going to kill my brother, indeed I think I shall kill him in any case. Sophie is a little too much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going to get rid of Stephen. And I strongly advise you to do the same with Captain... with your invalid friend who has the absurd name.
Jack. Nothing will induce me to part with Melbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know Melbury. A man who marries without knowing Melbury has a very tedious time of it.
Stephen. What stuff! If I marry a charming woman like Diana, I certainly shall not want to know Melbury.
Jack. Then your wife will. You don’t seem to realise, that in married life three is company and two is none. Just ask Molly Harte.
Stephen. That, my dear, is the theory that the corrupt French philosophy has been propounding for the last fifteen years.
Jack. Yes; and that the happy English navy has proved in half the time.
[Enter Killick]
Killick: Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Villiers [they enter]
Jack: Good afternoon, Aunt Williams, Diana.
Mrs. Williams: Good afternoon, dear Jack. [sees Stephen and bows to him with icy coldness]
Jack: [to Diana] Dear me, you are beautiful!
Diana: I am always beautiful! Am I not, Dr. Maturin?
Stephen: You are quite provocative, Mrs. Villiers.
Mrs. Williams: And now, Jack, I’ll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice toasted cheese sandwiches you promised me.
Jack: Certainly, Aunt Williams. [picks up empty silver dish in horror] Good heavens! Killick, why is there no toasted cheese? I ordered it specially!
Killick: [sullenly] Which there were no cheese in the market this morning, sir. I went down twice.
Jack: No cheese!
Killick: No, sir. Not even for ready money.
Jack: That will do, Killick, thank you.
Killick: Thank you, sir. [goes out]
Jack: I am greatly distressed, Aunt Williams, about there being no cheese, not even for ready money.
Mrs. Williams: It really makes no matter, Jack.
Jack: I am also afraid, Aunt Williams, I shall have to give up the pleasure of dining with you tonight. It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me, but the fact is I’ve just had a letter to say that my poor friend Melbury is very ill again. [Exchanges glances with Stephen.] They seem to think I should be with him.
Mrs. Williams. It is very strange. This Captain Melbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health.
Jack. Yes; poor Melbury is a dreadful invalid.
Mrs. Williams. Well, I must say, Jack, I should be much obliged if you would ask Captain Melbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last ball, and one wants something that will encourage dancing, particularly at the end of the season when every one has already danced with everyone else.
Jack. I’ll speak to Melbury, Aunt Williams, if he’s still conscious, and I think I can promise you he’ll be all right by Saturday. Of course the music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music, people become enthusiastic and begin tapping their feet or beating the time, irritating their neighbors and leading to blows and challenges; and if one plays bad music people don’t dance. But I’ll run over the programme I’ve drawn out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment.
Mrs. Williams. Thank you, Jack. It is very thoughtful of you. [Rising, and following Jack.] I’m sure the programme will be delightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot possibly allow. People always seem to think that they are revolutionary, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or cheer, which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, I believe is so. Diana,, you will accompany me.
Diana. Certainly, Aunt.
[Mrs. Williams and Jack go into the music-room, Diana remains behind.]
Stephen. Charming day it has been, Villiers.
Diana. Pray don’t talk to me about the weather, Dr. Maturin. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me so nervous.
Stephen. I do mean something else.
Diana. I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong.
Stephen. [Nervously.] Mrs. Villiers, ever since I met you I have admired you more than any woman... I have ever met since... I met you.
Diana. Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact. And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative so my other suitors would know of your feelings. For me you have always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far from indifferent to you. [Stephen looks at her in amazement.] We live, as I hope you know, Dr. Maturin, in an age of ideals, and my ideal has always been to love some one of the name of Stephen. There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Jack first mentioned to me that he had a friend called Stephen, I knew I was destined to love you.
Stephen. You really love me, Diana?
Diana. Passionately!
Stephen. Honey love! You do not know how happy you have made me.
Diana. My own Stephen!
Stephen. But you do not really mean to say that you could not love me if my name was not Stephen?
Diana. But your name is Stephen.
Stephen. Just so. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to say you could not love me then? Personally, my dear, to speak quite candidly, I do not much care about the name of Stephen... I do not think the name suits me at all.
Diana. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. It produces vibrations.
Stephen. Well, really, Villiers, I must say that I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Esteban, for instance, a charming name.
Diana. Esteban?... No, there is very little music in the name Esteban, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations... I have known several Estebans, and they all, without exception, were more than usually vulgar. Besides, Esteban is a foreign name! And I pity any woman who is married to a man with a foreign name. The only really safe name is Stephen
Stephen. Diana, I must get christened at once - I mean we must get married at once. There is not a moment to be lost.
Diana. Married, Dr. Maturin?
Stephen. [Astounded.] Well... surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, Mrs. Villiers, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me - unless it was only your kindness to me that let my mind run too far…
Diana. I like you very much. But you haven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.
Stephen. Well... may I propose to you now?
Diana. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Dr. Maturin (for I would never ever disappoint you), I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that I am fully determined to more or less insinuate that I intend to accept your offer without saying as much.
Stephen. Diana! Will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]
Diana. Of course I will, Maturin. How long you have been about it! I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose.
Stephen. My own one, I have never loved any one in the world but you, or at least, there was one other young lady, but it ended badly, and I am not accustomed to making offers of marriage, hence the elephant I rode on today.
[Enter Mrs. Williams.]
Mrs. Williams. Dr. Maturin! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.
Diana. Aunt! I am engaged to Dr. Maturin. [They rise together.]
Mrs. Williams. Pardon me, you are not engaged to any one. When you do become engaged to some one, I will inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on a young widow as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a matter that she could be allowed to arrange for herself... And now I have a few questions to put to you, Dr. Maturin. While I am making these inquiries, you, Diana, will wait for me below in the carriage.
Diana. [Reproachfully.] Aunt Williams!
Mrs. Williams. In the carriage, Diana!
Diana. Yes, Aunt. [Goes out, looking back at Stephen.]
Mrs. Williams. [Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Dr. Maturin.
[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]
Stephen. Thank you, Mrs. Williams, I prefer standing.
Mrs. Williams. [Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men - a naval surgeon! However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate aunt requires. Do you smoke?
Stephen. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke. I also take laudanum, coca, bhang, qat, nitrous oxide and hashish.
Mrs. Williams. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?
Stephen. Somewhere in my thirties.
Mrs. Williams. A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?
Stephen. [After some hesitation.] I know everything, Mrs. Williams.
Mrs. Williams. I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that lessens a sense of intellectual superiority to one’s companions. What is your income?
Stephen. I have ten thousand pounds, and my pay, two or three hundred a year.
Mrs. Williams. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments?
Stephen. In investments, chiefly.
Mrs. Williams. That is satisfactory. What between silver dross mines and vultures, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it up. That’s all that can be said about land.
Stephen. I have a castle in Spain with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I do not depend on that for my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the sheep are the only people who make anything out of it.
Mrs. Williams. A castle in Spain! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like Diana, could hardly be expected to reside in Spain.
Stephen. Well, I have rooms at the Grapes.
Mrs. Williams. And what are your politics?
Stephen. I am afraid I really have too many to name. I have been a supporter of the Revolution (until ’93), a United Irishman until the rising, a Voltairean, an advocate for Catalan independence, and a profound opponent of Bonaparte.
Mrs. Williams. Oh, that counts as a Tory. Tories dine with us. Or come in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living?
Stephen. I have lost both my parents.
Mrs. Williams. To lose one parent, Dr. Maturin, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth.
Stephen. I am afraid I really do not know. The fact is, Mrs. Williams, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me... I do not actually know who I am by birth. I was... well, I was found.
Mrs. Williams. Found!
Stephen. The late Señor Maturin, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Maturin y Domanova, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Domanova in his pocket at the time. Domanova is a place in Catalonia. It is a hilltop hermitage.
Mrs. Williams. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this hilltop hermitage find you?
Stephen. [Gravely.] In a reticule.
Mrs. Williams. A reticule?
Stephen. [Very seriously.] Yes, Mrs. Williams. I was in a reticule - a somewhat large, black silk lady’s reticule, with tassels to it - an ordinary reticule in fact.
Mrs. Williams. In what locality did this Mr. Maturin come across this ordinary reticule?
Stephen. In Joselito’s coffee house in Port Mahon. It was given to him in mistake for his own hand-bag.
Mrs. Williams. In Joselito’s coffee house?
Stephen. Yes. Near the waterside.
Mrs. Williams. The waterside is immaterial. Dr. Maturin, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a reticule, whether it had tassels or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to?
Stephen. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Diana’s happiness.
Mrs. Williams. I would strongly advise you, Dr. Maturin, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.
Stephen. Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the reticule at any moment. It is in my dissecting-room at the Grapes. I really think that should satisfy you, Mrs. Williams.
Mrs. Williams. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I would dream of allowing my only niece - a young widow brought up with the utmost care - to marry into a coffee house, and form an alliance with a bag? Good morning, Dr. Maturin!
[Mrs. Williams sweeps out in majestic indignation.]
Stephen. Good morning! [Jack, from the other room, strikes up the Wedding March on his violin. Stephen looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] For all love, do not play that ghastly tune, Jack!
[The music stops and Jack enters cheerily.]
Jack. Didn’t it go off all right, my plum? You don’t mean to say Diana refused you? I know it is a way she has. She is always refusing people, or seeming to accept them and then running off with someone else. I think it is most ill-natured of her.
Stephen. Oh, Diana is as right as a trivet. As far as she is concerned, we are engaged. Her aunt is perfectly unbearable. Never met such a Gorgon... grim of aspect, glaring terribly, and about her are Terror and Rout. In any case, she is a monster, without being a myth, which is rather difficult to classify in modern taxonomy. I beg your pardon, Jack, I suppose I should not speak of your own aunt in such a manner before you.
Jack. My dear Stephen, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the only thing that makes me put up with them at all. By the way, did you tell Diana the truth about your being Stephen in England, and Esteban in Spain?
Stephen. My dear, Diana has her own sort of truth.
Jack. What about your brother? What about the profligate Stephen?
Stephen. Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I shall say that he died in Paris of the fever. Many people die quite suddenly of fever.
Jack. Yes, but is it hereditary? Is it a sort of thing that runs in families? Hadn’t you much better say apoplexy?
Stephen. My dear, the fever is not hereditary, or anything of the kind.
Jack. Ain’t it?
Stephen. It is not. My poor brother Stephen to be carried off suddenly, in Paris, by a fever. That gets rid of him.
Jack. But I thought you said that... Miss Sophia was a little too much interested in your poor brother Stephen? Won’t she feel his loss a good deal?
Stephen. Oh, that is all right. Sophie is not a silly romantic girl, I am glad to say. She has a capital appetite (how she does love a crumpet!), goes on long walks, and pays no attention at all to her lessons, the honey-bun.
Jack. I would rather like to see Sophie.
Stephen. I shall take very good care you never do. She is excessively pretty, and she is only just twenty-eight.
Jack. Have you told Diana yet that you have an excessively pretty ward who is only just twenty-eight?
Stephen. Oh! One does not blurt these things out to people. Sophie and Diana are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. I should wager that half an hour after they have met, they will be calling each other cousin.
Jack. Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of other things first. Now, my dear, if we want to get a good table at the Crown, we really must go and dress. Do you know it is nearly seven?
Stephen. [Irritably.] Oh! It always is nearly seven.
Jack. Well, I’m hungry.
Stephen. I never knew you when you were not.
[Enter Killick.]
Killick. Mrs. Villiers.
[Enter Diana.]
Jack. Diana, upon my word!
Diana. Jack, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular to say to Dr. Maturin.
Jack. Really, Diana, I don’t think I can allow this at all.
Diana. Jack, I never knew you were such a scrub. [Jack retires to the fireplace.]
Stephen. My own darling!
Diana. Stephen, we may never be married. From the expression on my aunt’s face I fear we never shall. But although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry some one else, and marry often, or be taken into keeping, or play the fool and run away with other men, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.
Stephen. Dear Diana!
Diana. The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by my aunt, with unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination. The complexity of your character and your remarkable intelligence makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me. Your England address at the Grapes I have. What is your address in Spain?
Stephen. The Castle, Recasens, Lerida, Catalonia.
[Jack, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff with ink. Killick mutters.]
Diana. How long do you remain in England?
Stephen. Till Monday.
Diana. Good! Jack, you may turn round now.
Jack. Thanks, I’ve turned round already.
Stephen. You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?
Diana. Certainly.
Stephen. [To Killick.] I will see Mrs. Villiers.
Killick. Yes, sir. [Stephen and Diana go off.]
[Killick presents several letters on a salver to Jack. It is to be surmised that they are from creditors, as Jack, after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.]
Jack. A glass of wine, Killick.
Killick. Yes, sir.
Jack. To-morrow, Killick, I’m going Melburying.
Killick. [grimaces]
Jack. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my list slippers, my flowered silk robe, and all the Melbury dress uniforms . . .
Killick. Yes, sir. [Handing wine.]
Jack. I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Killick.
Killick. It never is, sir.
Jack. Killick, you’re a perfect pessimist.
Killick. [mutters]
[Enter Stephen. Killick goes off.]
Stephen. There’s a sensible, intellectual woman! The only woman I ever cared for in my life, except for that one young lady in Ireland. [Jack is laughing immoderately.] At what are you so amused?
Jack. Oh, I’m a little anxious about poor Melbury, that is all.
Stephen. If you do not take care, your friend Melbury will get you into a serious scrape some day.
Jack. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never serious.
Stephen. That is nonsense, Jack. You never talk anything but nonsense.
Jack. Nobody ever does.
[Stephen glares with reptilian malevolence, and leaves the room. Jack lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]
CURTAIN
Act 2
Act 3