Penelope. W. Somerset Maugham
And now, my dear, that you’ve disposed of them, tell me all about the Archduchess Anastasia.
Penelope.
[Looking at him blankly.] The Archduchess Anastasia? But I invented her.
Barlow.
What d’you mean, you invented her? I know her well, I’ve known her for years. I know her whole family.
Penelope.
[Rather embarrassed, but trying not to laugh.] Well, you see—I wanted you to come, too. And. …
Barlow.
I don’t understand what you mean at all, Penelope. You mention one of my most intimate friends, and then you tell me you invented her.
Penelope.
I’m awfully sorry. I really didn’t know there was such a person, and I thought I’d made her up out of my own head. … [With a chuckle.] I think it was rather clever of me to hit upon some one you know so well.
Barlow.
I don’t know why you should think the mere mention of the Archduchess’s name would make me come here.
Penelope.
Well, you see, I know that you go out a great deal, and you know such crowds of people. I felt quite sure that if there were an Archduchess Anastasia you’d know her, and [with a wave of the hand] well, there it is you see.
[Barlow fumes silently, but does not answer.
Mrs. Golightly.
Now, Penelope, tell us what you really do want.
Penelope.
[In matter-of-fact tones.] I want to divorce Dickie.
Mrs. Golightly.
What!
Golightly.
My dear child.
Barlow.
Good gracious!
[These three speeches are said simultaneously.
Penelope.
[Ruefully.] I intended to make such a scene, and now you’ve made me blurt it all out in three words.
Mrs. Golightly.
But I don’t understand.
Penelope.
I’ll say it again, shall I? I want to divorce Dickie.
Beadsworth.
You don’t really mean it, do you?
Penelope.
[Indignantly.] Of course I mean it. I’m never going to speak to him again. That’s to say, I shall have a scene with him first. I’m quite determined to have a scene with somebody.
Golightly.
And where is Dickie now?
Penelope.
He’s on his way home with the usual story. [With a sudden break in her voice.] Oh, if you only knew how utterably miserable I am.
Mrs. Golightly.
My darling, is it really serious?
Penelope.
[Desperately.] Oh, what can I do to make you all understand?
Golightly.
The best way would be to begin at the beginning, and tell us all about it coherently.
Barlow.
[Pompously.] My dear Charles, this is not the kind of matter in which you can be of any use. You’re a mathematician, and you’re not expected to know anything about practical affairs.
Golightly.
[Faintly ironic.] I apologise profusely.
Mrs. Golightly.
[To Penelope, to ask her to speak.] Darling?
Penelope.
Well, the first thing is that I simply dote upon Dickie. I’ve never loved any one else, and I never shall.
Beadsworth.
That’s a very satisfactory confession after four years of matrimony.
Penelope.
Five years, three months, and two days. And every day I’ve loved Dickie more.
Beadsworth.
I’ve never seen a more devoted couple.
Penelope.
We’ve never had a quarrel. We’ve never even been cross with one another. It’s been a honeymoon that’s never come to an end.
Mrs. Golightly.
Well?
Penelope.
And now I’ve discovered that he’s been lying to me for the last month. He’s been coming home dreadfully late, and when I’ve asked him where he’s been, he’s said that he had to see a patient who was very ill—such an interesting case—and it worried him so much that he was obliged to go to his club and have a rubber to settle his nerves. And the interesting case and the rubber of bridge are Ada Fergusson.
Barlow.
[Pompously.] But who is Ada Fergusson? I’ve never heard of her.
Penelope.
Ada Fergusson’s a great friend of mine. And I hate her. I always knew she was a cat. For the last four weeks Dickie’s been spending every afternoon with her from four till seven.
Golightly.
[Raising his eyebrows.] But do you always ask your husband where he’s been when he comes in?
Penelope.
[Impatiently.] My dear papa, what has that got to do with it? We all know that you’re an old dear, and the greatest mathematician in the world, but you know nothing about life at all.
Golightly.
I apologise again.
Mrs. Golightly.
Give him a sheet of paper and a pencil, Penelope, and he’ll amuse himself by doing sums while we talk the matter out.
Penelope.
[Pushing writing materials over to him.] There you are, papa.
Beadsworth.
But how did you find out?
Penelope.
[Impatiently.] Oh, what does it matter how I found out! I’ve got all sorts of proofs.
Mrs. Golightly.
You could knock me down with a feather.
Golightly.
[With a smile.] My dear!
Barlow.
I am not in the least surprised.
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport!
Barlow.
I have expected it all along. You will remember, Isabel, that I was against the marriage from the beginning. I said, one doesn’t marry a doctor. One sometimes meets them in society when they’ve had their angles rubbed off a little and perhaps have been knighted, but one never meets their wives. We suppose they do marry, but they don’t marry any one we know. I may be old-fashioned, but I stick to my opinion that there are only three possible professions for