Part 1
=Transcriber’s Note:= A page of adverts has been moved to the end of the book.
HAY FEVER
A LIGHT COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
BY NOEL COWARD
[Illustration]
LONDON: ERNEST BENN LIMITED _8 Bouverie Street, E.C. 4_ 1925
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Impression_ _June, 1925_ _Second Impression_ _August, 1925_
_Copyright 1925 by Noel Coward. All rights reserved._
_Application regarding performing rights should be addressed to the author, care of the publishers._
TO LORN LORAINE
CHARACTERS
JUDITH BLISS DAVID BLISS SOREL BLISS SIMON BLISS MYRA ARUNDEL RICHARD GREATHAM JACKIE CORYTON SANDY TYRELL CLARA
_The action of the play takes place in the hall of the BLISSES’ house at Cookham, in June._
ACT I: _Saturday afternoon._ ACT II: _Saturday evening._ ACT III: _Sunday morning._
ACT I
ACT I
SCENE: _The hall of DAVID BLISS’S house is very comfortable and extremely untidy. There are several of SIMON’S cartoons scattered about the walls, masses of highly coloured American and classical music strewn about the piano, and lots of flowers and comfortable furniture. A staircase ascends to a small balcony leading to the bedrooms, DAVID’S study and SIMON’S room. There is a door leading to the library down R. A service door above it under the stairs. There are French windows at back, and the front door on the L._
[_When the curtain rises it is about three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in June._
[_SIMON, in an extremely dirty tennis shirt and baggy grey flannel trousers, is crouched in the middle of the floor, cutting out squares from cartridge paper._
[_SOREL, more neatly dressed, is stretched on the sofa, reading a very violently bound volume of poems which have been sent to her by an aspiring friend._
SOREL: Listen to this, Simon. (_She reads._) “Love’s a Trollop stained with wine—Clawing at the breasts of Adolescence—Nuzzling, tearing, shrieking, beating—God, why were we fashioned so!” (_She laughs._)
SIMON: The poor girl’s potty.
SOREL: I wish she hadn’t sent me the beastly book. I must say something nice about it.
SIMON: The binding’s very dashing.
SOREL: She used to be such fun before she married that gloomy little man.
SIMON: She was always a fierce _poseuse_. It’s so silly of people to try and cultivate the artistic temperament. _Au fond_ she’s just a normal, bouncing Englishwoman.
SOREL: You didn’t shave this morning.
SIMON: I know I didn’t, but I’m going to in a minute, when I’ve finished this.
SOREL: I sometimes wish we were more normal and bouncing, Simon.
SIMON: Why?
SOREL: I should like to be a fresh, open-air girl with a passion for games.
SIMON: Thank God you’re not.
SOREL: It would be so soothing.
SIMON: Not in this house.
SOREL: Where’s Mother?
SIMON: In the garden, practising.
SOREL: Practising?
SIMON: She’s learning the names of the flowers by heart.
SOREL: What’s she up to?
SIMON: I don’t know.—Damn! that’s crooked.
SOREL: I always distrust her when she becomes the Squire’s lady.
SIMON: So do I.
SOREL: She’s been at it hard all day—she tapped the barometer this morning.
SIMON: She’s probably got a plan about impressing somebody.
SOREL (_taking a cigarette_): I wonder who.
SIMON: Some dreary, infatuated young man will appear soon, I expect.
SOREL: Not to-day? You don’t think she’s asked anyone down to-day, do you?
SIMON: I don’t know. Has Father noticed anything?
SOREL: No; he’s too immersed in work.
SIMON: Perhaps Clara will know.
SOREL: Yell for her.
SIMON (_calling_): Clara! Clara!...
SOREL: Oh, Simon, I _do_ hope she hasn’t asked anyone down to-day.
SIMON: Why? Have you?
SOREL: Yes.
SIMON (_crossly_): Why on earth didn’t you tell me?
SOREL: I didn’t think you’d care one way or another.
SIMON: Who is it?
SOREL: Richard Greatham.
SIMON: How exciting! I’ve never heard of him.
SOREL: I shouldn’t flaunt your ignorance if I were you—it makes you look silly.
SIMON (_rising_): Well, that’s done. (_He rolls up the cartridge paper._)
SOREL: Everybody’s heard of Richard Greatham.
SIMON (_amiably_): How lovely for them.
SOREL: He’s a frightfully well-known diplomatist—I met him at the Mainwarings’ dance.
SIMON: He’ll need all his diplomacy here.
SOREL: I warned him not to expect good manners, but I hope you’ll be as pleasant to him as you can.
SIMON (_gently_): I’ve never met any diplomatists, Sorel, but as a class I’m extremely prejudiced against them. They’re so suave and polished and debonair.
SOREL: You could be a little more polished without losing caste.
SIMON: Will he have the papers with him?
SOREL: What papers?
SIMON (_vaguely_): Oh, any papers.
SOREL: I wish you’d confine your biting irony to your caricatures, Simon.
SIMON: And I wish you’d confine your girlish infatuations to London, and not force them on your defenceless family.
SOREL: I shall keep him out of your way as much as possible.
SIMON: Do, darling.
[_Enter CLARA. She is a hot, round, untidy little woman._
SIMON: Clara, has Mother asked anyone down this week-end?
CLARA: I don’t know, dear. There isn’t much food in the house, and Amy’s got toothache.
SOREL: I’ve got some oil of cloves somewhere.
CLARA: She tried that, but it only burnt her tongue. The poor girl’s been writhing about in the scullery like one o’clock.
SOREL: You haven’t forgotten to put those flowers in the Japanese room?
SIMON: The Japanese room is essentially feminine, and entirely unsuited to the Pet of the Foreign Office.
SOREL: Shut up, Simon.
CLARA: The room looks lovely, dear—you needn’t worry. Just like your mother’s dressing-room on a first night.
SIMON: How restful!
CLARA (_to SOREL_): Have you told her about your boy friend?
SOREL (_pained_): Not boy friend, Clara.
CLARA (_going round, picking up things_): Oh, well, whatever he is.
SIMON: I think Sorel’s beginning to be ashamed of us all, Clara—I don’t altogether blame her; we are very slapdash.
CLARA: Are you going to leave that picture in the guests’ bathroom, dear? I don’t know if it’s quite the thing—lots of pink, naked women rolling about in a field.
SIMON (_severely_): Nudity can be very beautiful, Clara.
CLARA: Oh, can it! Perhaps being a dresser for so long ’as spoilt me eye for it. (_She goes out._)
SIMON: Clara’s looking tired. We ought to have more servants and not depend on her so much.
SOREL: You know we can never keep them. You’re right about us being slapdash, Simon. I wish we weren’t.
SIMON: Does it matter?
SOREL: It must, I think—to other people.
SIMON: It’s not our fault—it’s the way we’ve been brought up.
SOREL: Well, if we’re clever enough to realise that, we ought to be clever enough to change ourselves.
SIMON: I’m not sure that I want to.
SOREL: We’re so awfully bad-mannered.
SIMON: Not to people we like.
SOREL: The people we like put up with it because they like us.
SIMON: What do you mean, exactly, by bad manners? Lack of social tricks and small-talk?
SOREL: We never attempt to look after people when they come here.
SIMON: Why should we? It’s loathsome being looked after.
SOREL: Yes, but people like little attentions. We’ve never once asked anyone if they’ve slept well.
SIMON: I consider that an impertinence, anyhow.
SOREL: I’m going to try to improve.
SIMON: You’re only going on like this because you’ve got a mania for a diplomatist. You’ll soon return to normal.
SOREL (_earnestly_): Abnormal, Simon—that’s what we are. Abnormal. People stare in astonishment when we say what we consider perfectly ordinary things. I just remarked at Freda’s lunch the other day how nice it would be if someone invented something to make all our faces go up like the Chinese, because I was so bored with them going down—and they all thought I was mad!
SIMON: It’s no use worrying, darling; we see things differently, I suppose, and if people don’t like it they must lump it.
SOREL: Mother’s been awfully restless lately.
SIMON: Yes, I know.
SOREL: Life must be terribly dull for her now, with nothing to do.
SIMON: She’ll go back soon, I expect; people never retire from the stage for long.
SOREL: Father will be livid if she does.
SIMON: That won’t matter.
[_Enter JUDITH from the garden. She is carrying an armful of flowers and wearing a tea-gown, a large garden hat, gauntlet gloves and goloshes._
JUDITH: You look awfully dirty, Simon. What have you been doing?
SIMON (_nonchalantly_): Not washing very much.
JUDITH: You should, darling, really. It’s so bad for your skin to leave things about on it. (_She proceeds to take off her goloshes._)
SOREL: Clara says Amy’s got toothache.
JUDITH: Poor dear! There’s some oil of cloves in my medicine cupboard. Who is Amy?
SOREL: The scullery-maid, I think.
JUDITH: How extraordinary! She doesn’t look Amy a bit, does she? Much more Flossie.—Give me a cigarette.
[_SOREL gives her a cigarette and lights it._
Delphiniums are those stubby red flowers, aren’t they?
SIMON: No, darling, they’re tall and blue.
JUDITH: Yes, of course. The red ones are somebody’s name—Asters, that’s it. I knew it was something opulent. I do hope Clara has remembered about the Japanese room.
SOREL: Japanese room!
JUDITH: Yes; I told her to put some flowers in it and take Simon’s flannels out of the wardrobe drawer.
SOREL: So did I.
JUDITH (_ominously_): Why?
SOREL (_airily_): I’ve asked Richard Greatham down for the week-end—I didn’t think you’d mind.
JUDITH: Mind! How dared you do such a thing?
SOREL: He’s a diplomatist.
JUDITH: That makes it much worse. We must wire and put him off at once.
SOREL: It’s too late.
JUDITH: Well, we’ll tell Clara to say we’ve been called away.
SOREL: That would be extremely rude, and, anyhow, I _want_ to see him.
JUDITH: You mean to stand there in cold blood and tell me you’ve asked a complete stranger down for the week-end, and that you want to see him!
SOREL: I’ve often done it before.
JUDITH: I fail to see how that helps matters. Where’s he going to sleep?
SOREL: The Japanese room.
JUDITH: Oh, no, he isn’t—Sandy Tyrell is sleeping in it.
SIMON: There now! What did I tell you?
SOREL: Sandy—what?
JUDITH: Tyrell, dear.
SIMON: Why didn’t you tell us, Mother?
JUDITH: I did. I’ve talked of nothing but Sandy Tyrell for days. I adore Sandy Tyrell.
SIMON: You’ve never mentioned him.
SOREL: Who is he, Mother?
JUDITH: He’s a perfect darling, and madly in love with me—at least, it isn’t me really, it’s my Celebrated Actress glamour—but it gives me a divinely cosy feeling. I met him at Nora Trent’s.
SOREL: Mother, I wish you’d give up this sort of thing.
JUDITH: What exactly do you mean by “this sort of thing,” Sorel?
SOREL: You know perfectly well what I mean.
JUDITH: Are you attempting to criticise me?
SOREL: I should have thought you’d be above encouraging silly callow young men who are infatuated by your name.
JUDITH: That may be true, but I shall allow nobody but myself to say it. I hoped you’d grow up a good daughter to me, not a critical aunt.
SOREL: It’s so terribly cheap.
JUDITH: Cheap! Nonsense! What about your diplomatist?
SOREL: Surely that’s a little different, dear?
JUDITH: If you mean that because you happen to be a vigorous _ingénue_ of nineteen you have the complete monopoly of any amorous adventure there may be about, I feel it my firm duty to disillusion you.
SOREL: But, Mother——
JUDITH: Anyone would think I was eighty, the way you go on. It was a great mistake not sending you to boarding schools, and you coming back and me being your elder sister.
SIMON: It wouldn’t have been any use. Everyone knows we’re your son and daughter.
JUDITH: Only because I was stupid enough to dandle you about in front of cameras when you were little. I knew I should regret it.
SIMON: I don’t see any point in trying to be younger than you are.
JUDITH: At your age, dear, it would be indecent if you did.
SOREL: But, Mother darling, don’t you see, it’s awfully undignified for you to go flaunting about with young men?
JUDITH: I don’t flaunt about—I never have. I’ve been morally an extremely nice woman all my life—more or less—and if dabbling gives me pleasure, I don’t see why I shouldn’t dabble.
SOREL: But it oughtn’t to give you pleasure any more.
JUDITH: You know, Sorel, you grow more damnably feminine every day. I wish I’d brought you up differently.
SOREL: I’m proud of being feminine.
JUDITH (_kissing her_): You’re a darling, and I adore you; and you’re very pretty, and I’m madly jealous of you.
SOREL (_with her arms round her_): Are you really? How lovely.
JUDITH: You will be nice to Sandy, won’t you?
SOREL (_breaking away_): Can’t he sleep in “Little Hell”?
JUDITH: My dear, he’s frightfully athletic, and all those hot-water pipes will sap his vitality.
SOREL: They’ll sap Richard’s vitality too.
JUDITH: He won’t notice them; he’s probably used to scorching tropical Embassies with punkahs waving and everything.
SIMON: He’s sure to be deadly, anyhow.
SOREL: You’re getting far too blasé and exclusive, Simon.
SIMON: Nothing of the sort. Only I loathe being hearty with your men friends.
SOREL: You’ve never been even civil to any of my friends, men or women.
JUDITH: Don’t bicker.
SIMON: Anyhow, the Japanese room’s a woman’s room, and a woman ought to have it.
JUDITH: I promised it to Sandy—he loves anything Japanese.
SIMON: So does Myra.
JUDITH: Myra!
SIMON: Myra Arundel. I’ve asked her down.
JUDITH: You’ve—what?
SIMON: I’ve asked Myra down for the week-end—she’s awfully amusing.
SOREL: Well, all I can say is, it’s beastly of you. You might have warned me. What on earth will Richard say?
SIMON: Something exquisitely non-committal, I expect.
JUDITH: This is too much! Do you mean to tell me, Simon——
SIMON (_firmly_): Yes, Mother, I do. I’ve asked Myra down, and I have a perfect right to. You’ve always brought us up to be free about things.
JUDITH: Myra Arundel is straining freedom to its utmost limits.
SIMON: Don’t you like her?
JUDITH: No, dear, I detest her. She’s far too old for you, and she goes about using Sex as a sort of shrimping net.
SIMON: Really, Mother——!
JUDITH: It’s no use being cross. You know perfectly well I dislike her, and that’s why you never told me she was coming until too late to stop her. It’s intolerable of you.
SOREL (_grandly_): Whether she’s here or not is a matter of extreme indifference to me, but I’m afraid Richard won’t like her very much.
SIMON: You’re afraid he’ll like her too much.
SOREL: That was an offensive remark, Simon, and rather silly.
JUDITH (_plaintively_): Why on earth don’t you fall in love with nice young girls, instead of self-conscious vampires?
SIMON: She’s not a vampire, and I never said I was in love with her.
SOREL: He’s crazy about her. She butters him up and admires his sketches.
SIMON: What about you picking up old gentlemen at dances?
SOREL (_furiously_): He’s _not_ old!
JUDITH: You’ve both upset me thoroughly. I wanted a nice, restful week-end, with moments of Sandy’s ingenuous affection to warm the cockles of my heart when I felt in the mood, and now the house is going to be full of discord—not enough food, everyone fighting for the bath—perfect agony! I wish I were dead!
SIMON: You needn’t worry about Myra and me. We shall keep out of everyone’s way.
SOREL: I shall take Richard on the river all day to-morrow.
JUDITH: In what?
SOREL: The punt.
JUDITH: I absolutely forbid you to go near the punt.
SIMON: It’s sure to rain, anyhow.
JUDITH: What your father will say I tremble to think. He needs complete quiet to finish off “The Sinful Woman.”
SOREL: I see no reason for there to be any noise, unless Sandy What’s-his-name is given to shouting.
JUDITH: If you’re rude to Sandy I shall be extremely angry.
SOREL: } Now, look here, Mother—— SIMON: } Why you should expect—— JUDITH: } He’s coming all the way down specially to be nice to me——
[_Enter DAVID down stairs. He looks slightly irritable._
DAVID: Why are you all making such a noise?
JUDITH: I think I’m going mad.
DAVID: Why hasn’t Clara brought me my tea?
JUDITH: I don’t know.
DAVID: Where is Clara?
JUDITH: Do stop firing questions at me, David.
DAVID: Why are you all so irritable? What’s happened?
[_Enter CLARA, with a tray of tea for one._
CLARA: Here’s your tea. I’m sorry I’m late with it. Amy forgot to put the kettle on—she’s got terrible toothache.
DAVID: Poor girl! Give her some oil of cloves.
SOREL: If anyone else mentions oil of cloves, I shall do something desperate.
DAVID: It’s wonderful stuff. Where’s Zoe?
SIMON: She was in the garden this morning.
DAVID: I suppose no one thought of giving her any lunch?
CLARA: I put it down by the kitchen table as usual, but she never came in for it.
SOREL: She’s probably mousing.
DAVID: She isn’t old enough yet. She might have fallen into the river, for all you care. I think it’s a shame!
CLARA: Don’t you worry your head—Zoe won’t come to any harm; she’s too wily.
DAVID: I don’t want to be disturbed. (_He takes his tray and goes upstairs; then he turns._) Listen, Simon. There’s a perfectly sweet flapper coming down by the four-thirty. Will you go and meet her and be nice to her? She’s an abject fool, but a useful type, and I want to study her a little in domestic surroundings. She can sleep in the Japanese room.
[_He goes off, leaving behind him a deathly silence._
JUDITH: I should like someone to play something very beautiful to me on the piano.
SIMON: Damn everything! Damn! Damn! Damn!
SOREL: Swearing doesn’t help.
SIMON: It helps me a lot.
SOREL: What does Father mean by going on like that?
JUDITH: In view of the imminent reception, you’d better go and shave, Simon.
SOREL (_bursting into tears of rage_): It’s perfectly beastly! Whenever I make any sort of plan about anything it’s always done in by someone. I wish I were earning my own living somewhere—a free agent—able to do whatever I liked without being cluttered up and frustrated by the family——
JUDITH (_picturesquely_): It grieves me to hear you say that, Sorel.
SOREL: Don’t be infuriating, Mother.
JUDITH (_sadly_): A change has come over my children of late. I have tried to shut my eyes to it, but in vain. At my time of life one must face bitter facts!
SIMON: This is going to be the blackest Saturday till Monday we’ve ever spent.
JUDITH (_tenderly_): Sorel, you mustn’t cry.
SOREL: Don’t sympathise with me; it’s only temper.
JUDITH (_clasping her_): Put your head on my shoulder, dear.
SIMON (_bitterly_): Your head like the golden fleece....
SOREL: Richard’ll have to have “Little Hell” and that horrible flapper the Japanese room.
JUDITH: Over my dead body!
SIMON: Mother, what _are_ we to do?
JUDITH (_drawing him forcibly into her arms so that there is a charming little motherly picture_): We must all be very, very kind to everyone!
SIMON: Now then, Mother, none of that!
JUDITH (_aggrieved_): I don’t know what you mean, Simon.
SIMON: You were being beautiful and sad.
JUDITH: But I am beautiful and sad.
SIMON: You’re not particularly beautiful, darling, and you never were.
JUDITH (_glancing at herself in the glass_): Never mind; I made thousands think I was.
SIMON: And as for being sad——
JUDITH: Now, Simon, I will not be dictated to like this. If I say I’m sad, I _am_ sad. You don’t understand, because you’re precocious and tiresome.... There comes a time in all women’s lives——
SOREL: Oh dear!
JUDITH: What did you say, Sorel?
SOREL (_recovering_): I said, “Oh dear!”
JUDITH: Well, please don’t say it again, because it annoys me.
SOREL: You’re such a lovely hypocrite.
JUDITH (_casting up her eyes_): I’m sure I don’t know what I’ve done to be cursed with such ungrateful children. It’s very cruel at my time of life——
SIMON: There you go again!
JUDITH (_inconsequently_): You’re getting far too tall, Sorel.
SOREL: Sorry, Mother.
JUDITH: Give me another of those disgusting cigarettes—I don’t know where they came from.
SIMON (_giving her one_): Here. (_He lights it for her._)
JUDITH: I’m going to forget entirely about all these dreadful people arriving. My mind henceforward shall be a blank on the subject.
SOREL: It’s all very fine, Mother, but——
JUDITH: I made a great decision this morning.
SIMON: What kind of decision?
JUDITH: It’s a secret.
SOREL: Aren’t you going to tell us?
JUDITH: Of course. I meant it was a secret from your Father.
SIMON: What is it?
JUDITH: I’m going back to the stage.
SIMON: I knew it!
JUDITH: I’m stagnating, you see. I won’t stagnate as long as there’s breath left in my body.
SOREL: Do you think it’s wise? You retired so very finally last year. What excuse will you give for returning so soon?
JUDITH: My public, dear—letters from my public!
SIMON: Have you had any?
JUDITH: One or two. That’s what decided me, really—I ought to have had hundreds.
SOREL: We’ll write some lovely ones, and you can publish them in the papers.
JUDITH: Of course.
SOREL: You will be dignified about it all, won’t you, darling?
JUDITH: I’m much more dignified on the stage than in the country—it’s my _milieu_. I’ve tried terribly hard to be “landed gentry,” but without any real success. I long for excitement and glamour. Think of the thrill of a first night; all those ardent playgoers willing one to succeed; the critics all leaning forward with glowing faces, receptive and exultant—emitting queer little inarticulate noises as some witty line tickles their fancy. The satisfied grunt of the _Daily Mail_, the abandoned gurgle of the _Sunday Times_, and the shrill, enthusiastic scream of the _Daily Express_! I can distinguish them all——
SIMON: Have you got a play?
JUDITH: I think I shall revive “Love’s Whirlwind.”
SOREL (_collapsing on to sofa_): Oh, Mother! (_She gurgles with laughter._)
SIMON (_weakly_): Father will be furious.
JUDITH: I can’t help that.
SOREL: It’s such a fearful play.
JUDITH: It’s a marvellous part. You mustn’t say too much against it, Sorel. I’m willing to laugh at it a little myself, but, after all, it _was_ one of my greatest successes.
SIMON: Oh, it’s appalling—but I love it. It makes me laugh.
JUDITH: The public love it too, and it doesn’t make them laugh—much. (_She recites_) “You are a fool, a blind, pitiable fool. You think because you have bought my body that you have bought my soul!” You must say that’s dramatic.—“I’ve dreamed of love like this, but I never realised, I never knew how beautiful it could be in reality!” That line always brought a tear to my eye.
SIMON: The Second Act _is_ the best, there’s no doubt about that.
JUDITH: From the moment Victor comes in it’s strong—tremendously strong.... Be Victor a minute, Sorel——
SOREL: Do you mean when he comes in at the end of the act?
JUDITH: Yes, you know—“Is this a game?”
SOREL (_with feeling_): “Is this a game?”
JUDITH (_with spirit_): “Yes—and a game that must be played to the finish.”
SIMON: “Zara, what does this mean?”
JUDITH: “So many illusions shattered—so many dreams trodden in the dust!”
SOREL: I’m George now—“I don’t understand! You and Victor—My God!”
JUDITH: “Sssh! Isn’t that little Pam crying?”
SIMON (_savagely_): “She’ll cry more, poor mite, when she realises her mother is a——”
JUDITH (_shrieking_): “Don’t say it—don’t say it!”
SOREL: “Spare her that.”