NEWTE. Had been unfortunate. Didn't go into particulars. Didn't seem to be any need for it. That your mother had died when you were still only a girl and that you had gone to live with relatives. [He looks for approval.]
FANNY. Yes.
NEWTE. That you hadn't got on well with them--artistic temperament, all that sort of thing--that, in consequence, you had appealed to your father's old theatrical friends; and that they--that they, having regard to your talent--and beauty -FANNY. Thank you.
NEWTE. Had decided that the best thing you could do was to go upon the stage. [He finishes, tolerably well pleased with himself.]
FANNY. That's all right. Very good indeed. What else?
NEWTE [after an uncomfortable pause]. Well, that's about all I knew.
FANNY. Yes, but what did you TELL him?
NEWTE. Well, of course, I had to tell him something. A man doesn't marry without knowing just a little about his wife's connections.
Wouldn't be reasonable to expect him. You'd never told me anything-- never would; except that you'd liked to have boiled the lot. What was I to do? [He is playing with a quill pen he has picked up.]
FANNY [she takes it from him]. What DID you do?
NEWTE [with fine frankness]. I did the best I could for you, old girl, and he was very nice about it. Said it was better than he'd expected, and that I'd made him very happy--very happy indeed.
FANNY [she leans across, puts her hand on his]. You're a dear, good fellow, George--always have been. I wouldn't plague you only it is absolutely necessary I should know--exactly what you did tell him.
NEWTE [a little sulkily]. I told him that your uncle was a bishop.
FANNY [sits back--staring at him]. A what?
NEWTE. A bishop. Bishop of Waiapu, New Zealand.
FANNY. Why New Zealand?
NEWTE. Why not? Had to be somewhere. Didn't want him Archbishop of Canterbury, did you?
FANNY. Did he believe it?
NEWTE. Shouldn't have told him had there been any fear that he wouldn't.
FANNY. I see. Any other swell relations of mine knocking about?
NEWTE. One--a judge of the Supreme Court in Ohio. Same name, anyhow, O'Gorman. Thought I'd make him a cousin of yours. I've always remembered him. Met him when I was over there in ninety- eight--damn him!
A silence.
FANNY [she rises]. Well, nothing else for it! Got to tell him it was all a pack of lies. Not blaming you, old boy--my fault. Didn't know he was going to ask any questions, or I'd have told him myself.
Bit of bad luck, that's all.
NEWTE. Why must you tell him? Only upset him.
FANNY. It's either my telling him or leaving it for them to do. You know me, George. How long do you see me being bossed and bullied by my own servants? Besides, it's bound to come out in any case.
NEWTE [he rises. Kindly but firmly he puts her back into her chair.
Then pacing to and fro with his hands mostly in his trousers pockets, he talks]. Now, you listen to me, old girl. I've been your business manager ever since you started in. I've never made a mistake before--[he turns and faces her]--and I haven't made one this time.
FANNY. I don't really see the smartness, George, stuffing him up with a lot of lies he can find out for himself.
NEWTE. IF HE WANTS TO. A couple of telegrams, one to His Grace the Bishop of Waiapu, the other to Judge Denis O'Gorman, Columbus, Ohio, would have brought him back the information that neither gentlemen had ever heard of you. IF HE HADN'T BEEN CAREFUL NOT TO SEND THEM.
He wasn't marrying you with the idea of strengthening his family connections. He was marrying you because he was just gone on you.
Couldn't help himself.
FANNY. In that case, you might just as well have told him the truth.
NEWTE. WHICH HE WOULD THEN HAVE HAD TO PASS ON TO EVERYONE ENTITLED TO ASK QUESTIONS. Can't you understand? Somebody, in the interest of everybody, had to tell a lie. Well, what's a business manager for?
FANNY. But I can't do it, George. You don't know them. The longer I give in to them the worse they'll get.
NEWTE. Can't you square them?
FANNY. No, that's the trouble. They ARE honest. They're the "faithful retainers" out of a melodrama. They are working eighteen hours a day on me not for any advantage to themselves, but because they think it their "duty" to the family. They don't seem to have any use for themselves at all.
NEWTE. Well, what about the boy? Can't HE talk to them?
FANNY. Vernon! They've brought him up from a baby--spanked him all round, I expect. Might as well ask a boy to talk to his old schoolmaster. Besides, if he did talk, then it would all come out.
As I tell you, it's bound to come out--and the sooner the better.
NEWTE. It must NOT come out! It's too late. If we had told him at the beginning that he was proposing to marry into his own butler's family--well, it's an awkward situation--he might have decided to risk it. Or he might have cried off.
FANNY. And a good job if he had.
NEWTE. Now talk sense. You wanted him--you took a fancy to him from the beginning. He's a nice boy, and there's something owing to him.
[It is his trump card, and he knows it.] Don't forget that. He's been busy, explaining to all his friends and relations why they should receive you with open arms: really nice girl, born gentlewoman, good old Church of England family--no objection possible. For you to spring the truth upon him NOW--well, it doesn't seem to me quite fair to HIM.
FANNY. Then am I to live all my life dressed as a charity girl?
NEWTE. You keep your head and things will gradually right themselves. This family of yours--they've got SOME sense, I suppose?
FANNY. Never noticed any sign of it myself.
NEWTE. Maybe you're not a judge. [Laughs.] They'll listen to reason. You let ME have a talk to them, one of these days; see if I can't show them--first one and then the other--the advantage of leaving to "better" themselves--WITH THE HELP OF A LITTLE READY MONEY. Later on--choosing your proper time--you can break it to him that you have discovered they're distant connections of yours, a younger branch of the family that you'd forgotten. Give the show time to settle down into a run. Then you can begin to make changes.
