THE COLLECTED PLAYS OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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      I can't imagine what's happened to John. He promised to fetch me here.

      Hilda.

      He's sure to come if you'll only wait patiently.

      Mabel.

      But I hate waiting patiently.

      Hilda.

      You shouldn't have let him out of your sight.

      Mabel.

      He went to Putney after luncheon to see your friend Mr. Kent. Have you seen him lately?

      Hilda.

      John? I saw him at the Martins yesterday.

      Mabel.

      [Slyly.] I meant Mr. Kent.

      Hilda.

      [Indifferently.] Yes. He called the other day. [To change the conversation.] You're unusually silent, Mr. Brackley.

      Brackley.

      [Smiling.] I have nothing whatever to say.

      Mabel.

      That's usually when clever people talk most.

      Hilda.

      Are you doing anything now?

      Brackley.

      Oh yes, I'm writing a play in blank verse.

      Hilda.

      You brave man. What is it about?

      Brackley.

      Cleopatra.

      Hilda.

      Dear me! Shakespeare wrote a play about Cleopatra, didn't he?

      Brackley.

      I daresay. I haven't read it. Shakespeare bores me. He lived so long ago.

      Mabel.

      Of course there are people who read him.

      Brackley.

      Are there? What do they look like?

      Hilda.

      [Smiling.] They bear no distinctive mark of their eccentricity.

      Brackley.

      The English are so original.

      Mabel.

      I think I shall go and ring up the flat. I wonder if John has gone straight home.

      Brackley.

      Do. I'm growing very uneasy about him.

      Mabel.

      [Laughing.] You absurd creature.

      [She goes out.

      Hilda.

      You talk more nonsense than anyone I ever met.

      Brackley.

      That's my stock in trade. You don't imagine people would read my poems if they knew that I was sober, industrious, and economical. As a matter of fact I lead the virtuous life of a clergyman's daughter, but not a reviewer would notice me if he knew it.

      Hilda.

      And the little things that the indiscreet read of in the papers....

      Brackley.

      Are merely another proof of my passion for duty. The British public wants its poets to lead romantic lives.

      Hilda.

      Are you ever serious?

      Brackley.

      May I come to lunch with you on Thursday?

      Hilda.

      [A little surprised.] Certainly. But why on Thursday?

      Brackley.

      Because on that day I intend to ask you to marry me.

      Hilda.

      [With a smile.] I'm sorry, I've just remembered that I'm lunching out.

      Brackley.

      You break my heart.

      Hilda.

      On the contrary, I provide you with the materials for a sonnet.

      Brackley.

      Won't you marry me?

      Hilda.

      No.

      Brackley.

      Why not?

      Hilda.

      [Amused.] I'm not in the least in love with you.

      Brackley.

      People who propose to marry should ask themselves if they can look forward with equanimity to breakfasting opposite one another for an indefinite number of years.

      Hilda.

      You're very unromantic.

      Brackley.

      My dear lady, if you want romance I'll send you my complete works bound in vellum. I've ground out ten volumes of romance to Phyllis and Chloe and heaven knows who. The Lord save me from a romantic wife.

      Hilda.

      But I'm afraid I'm hopelessly romantic.

      Brackley.

      Well, six months of marriage with a poet will cure you.

      Hilda.

      I'd rather not be cured.

      Brackley.

      Won't you be in to luncheon on Thursday?

      Hilda.

      No.

      [The Butler comes in.

      Butler.

      Mr. Halliwell, Mr. Kent.

      [Basil and John appear, and at the СКАЧАТЬ