CHARLES LEARNS HIS LESSON

©1997 by John Robinson Wheeler. All rights reserved.

 

SCENE ONE.

 

The sitting room of a manor house in the English countryside. CAROLWIGGINBOTHAM is being served tea by her butler, PHELPS. CHARLES, her nephew, enters with the afternoon paper.

CHARLES:

Damn the work unions. Damn the papers. Damn everybody!

CAROL:

Not in front of the help, dear.

PHELPS:

Can I get you anything else, madam?

CAROL:

Are there any raisin biscuits?

PHELPS:

There may be a few left, madam.

CAROL:

Do you want a raisin biscuit, Charles?

CHARLES:

Damn the biscuits! I'll have some honey for my tea, Phelps.

PHELPS:

Very good, sir.

CAROL:

Just one biscuit for me, if there are any, thank you.

PHELPS:

Very good, madam.

Exit PHELPS.

CAROL:

Now Charles, what are you on about? You know you really should watch your language in front of the staff. It makes for class friction. We're supposed to set a better standard of manners.

CHARLES:

Damn the classes and damn the standard of manners. Who decided what manners were good and what were bad, anyway? It's all damned nonsense if you ask me.

CAROL:

When your mother died, Charles, I promised I would raise you properly like a good Christian. I seem to have missed the mark.

CHARLES:

The manners don't make the man, Auntie. Just because I say "damn" now and again doesn't make me a bad Christian, does it? If you ask me, if more Christians went around damning things that could damn well use a good damning, we'd have a better world. And damn anyone who says otherwise.

CAROL:

Damning things doesn't make them go away, Charles. It just makes them spoil and rot. Maybe someone's out there saying, "Damn Charles," and that's why you're so damned spoiled.

Enter PHELPS.

CHARLES:

Spoiled? I? Hardly. Phelps, you wouldn't call me spoiled, would you?

PHELPS:

It wouldn't be my place, sir.

CHARLES:

No, no, no, damn that class rot. Talk to me like a man, Phelps. If I weren't your master, would you call me spoiled?

PHELPS:

You are quite well-mannered, sir. All of the staff think very highly of you.

CHARLES:

There, you see?

CAROL:

Phelps, where did I go wrong with him? Do you remember what he was like as a boy?

PHELPS:

Indeed, madam. Exuberant and strong-willed.

CAROL:

Do you think I let him go too far? Should I have worked harder to curb his temper?

PHELPS:

Forgive me, madam, but I have to attend the gardening staff.

Exit PHELPS.

CHARLES:

It's no use asking Phelps, Auntie. He'd never in a hundred years say anything against me.

CAROL:

Damn him, then, too, right?

CHARLES:

Lord, no. Bless him! Good man, that. Doesn't he have a family?

CAROL:

He has a boy, a little older than you. And not the least spoiled, not like you.

CHARLES:

You are tiresome, Auntie. While we've argued my tea's grown cold.

CAROL:

See? You are spoiled. Won't even drink your perfectly good tea if it's a few degress off.

CHARLES:

You think so, do you? Fine. There. I've drunk it.

CAROL:

You're spoiled, Charles. Spoiled rotten, and it's going to haunt you, mark my word.

CHARLES:

I don't think so.

CAROL:

You don't think you're spoiled or you don't think it will haunt you?

CHARLES:

Even if I were spoiled, and I've already said I'm not, then what?

CAROL:

You reap what you sow, Charles.

CHARLES:

Being spoiled is rather a victimless crime, don't you think? So I'm a little snooty now and then. What does that harm anyone?

CAROL:

One day, you'll learn your lesson and then you'll come crying to me like the spoiled child you are, wanting my help out of a scrape. And you know what, Charles? That's when I'll finally fail to coddle you. I'll refuse to help you! Then you'll learn, and learn it well and good.

CHARLES:

Don't be so damned melodramatic. Life is appallingly more dull than novelists make it out to be, and I shouldn't be at all surprised if I live eighty more years in absolute boredom with no dramatic comeuppance to speak off. One day I'll just slump over my strained carrots and that'll be that. Some lesson that will be! Time's up, mate! Guess what? Death's just as much as a pathetic yawn as the rest of it was.

CAROL:

I'm going into town this evening, Charles, and the servants will be off. You'll be all alone.

CHARLES:

At last I'll be able to prance around naked in the rose garden like I've desperately wished.

CAROL:

Don't talk like a pervert, Charles. It's unbecoming.

CHARLES:

Oh, it's all the rage amongst the passionate youth, Auntie. Haven't you heard? It seems there's a set of trading cards you can buy, with a different perversion on each. You trade them with friends. The market report says that some day they'll be worth something to collectors.

CAROL:

I really don't know what you're on about, Charles, but it is tedious.

CHARLES:

Oh, what the heck. Why wait till everyone's gone to get naked? I'll start now.

CAROL:

Charles! Don't you dare unbutton your shirt in front of me.

CHARLES:

Come on, Auntie. You used to give me baths. There's nothing you haven't seen.

CAROL:

You weren't a grown man, then, Charles. Oh! Where did I go wrong? I'm sorry, Deanna — I meant to raise him properly.

CHARLES:

If my mother can hear you, Auntie, I'm sure she's not interested in hearing you complain about the way I turned out. It's all genetics, anyway.

CAROL:

You've got a soul, Charles. Maybe you'll put it to some good use one day.

CHARLES:

Ta ta, Auntie. I thank you, and my burning, intemperate soul thanks you.

CAROL:

Humph!

Exit CAROL.

CHARLES:

Look, she didn't even finish her biscuit. Maybe I will have a nip.

Enter PHELPS.

PHELPS:

Excuse me, sir. I've come to collect the tray, but if you're still partaking, I can come back later.

CHARLES:

No, by all means, thank you. I was just having a nip of Auntie's biscuit. I'm not much of a fan of raisins, though. You wouldn't have any without?

PHELPS:

No sir. I could pluck out the raisins for you if you like.

CHARLES:

Could you? No, no, that wouldn't be sport. I can't ask you to do that for me.

PHELPS:

It is no trouble, sir.

CHARLES:

You're not just saying that, are you?

PHELPS:

Not at all, sir. I've plucked many a raisin in my time.

CHARLES:

Have you, then?

PHELPS:

My boy, sir, was a most finicky eater as a child.

CHARLES:

You say! What didn't he like?

PHELPS:

Raisins, walnuts, fish bones, mushrooms, tomatoes...

CHARLES:

Rather tedious work, though, wouldn't you say?

PHELPS:

One becomes accustomed to the task, sir.

CHARLES:

I can't say as I'd ever want to do it.

PHELPS:

Here you are, sir.

CHARLES:

Look at that. Not a raisin in the dough and it's still in one piece.

PHELPS:

It's all in the wrist, sir.

CHARLES:

Is that a joke?

PHELPS:

Perhaps my wit is too dry, sir.

CHARLES:

No no, I'm just not used to hearing you tell one.

PHELPS:

Very good, sir. Is that all, sir?

CHARLES:

I don't suppose you could heat the tea up just a notch, could you?

PHELPS:

It would be my pleasure, sir.

CHARLES:

And perhaps another biscuit, sans raisins.

PHELPS:

Of course, sir. Right away.

CHARLES:

You're a good man, Phelps.

PHELPS:

I do my very best, sir.

CHARLES:

Phelps.

PHELPS:

Yes, sir?

CHARLES:

Are you quite sure I'm not spoiled?

PHELPS:

You are quite well-mannered, sir. All of the staff think very highly of you.

CHARLES:

You said that before.

PHELPS:

Did I, sir?

CHARLES:

Yes, you did. Those same words.

PHELPS:

They must be true, then, sir.

CHARLES:

I suppose so. Well, off you go.

PHELPS:

I shall return shortly, sir, with hot tea and your biscuit, sans  raisins.

CHARLES:

Thank you.

Exit PHELPS.

CHARLES:

No, no, no. Hang on. Phelps!

Enter PHELPS.

PHELPS:

Yes, sir?

CHARLES:

This is just not off.

PHELPS:

Pardon, sir?

CHARLES:

I can't possibly ask you to pluck the raisins out of a raisin biscuit for me.

PHELPS:

It is no trouble, I assure you, sir.

CHARLES:

Yes, but that's not the point. It's spoiled of me to even ask you to do it, regardless of whether it's any trouble for you.

PHELPS:

It is no trouble, I assure you, sir.

CHARLES:

Just bring me a raisin biscuit and I'll take the raisins out myself.

PHELPS:

As you wish, sir.

CHARLES:

Thank you.

Exit PHELPS.

CHARLES:

"One raisin biscuit, please, Phelps, sans raisins." Damn my eyes, Auntie's right. I'm spoiled rotten. I'm sorry, mum. It's not Auntie's fault. Don't blame her.

 

A crash is heard from the kitchen.

CHARLES:

Good lord! Phelps? Phelps, are you all right, man?

Enter PHELPS.

PHELPS:

Did you call for me, sir?

CHARLES:

What the devil was that noise?

PHELPS:

I apologize, sir. I burned myself on the stove while reheating your tea, and involuntarily dropped the tea-set. I will clean it up immediately.

CHARLES:

Are you all right? Do you need medical attention?

PHELPS:

It is only a minor burn, sir. I shall not need the nurse.

CHARLES:

Good grief, I didn't need hotter tea that badly. I'm sorry you got hurt.

PHELPS:

It is quite all right, sir. Would you care for your biscuit now, or would you like to wait until I prepare a fresh pot of tea?

CHARLES:

I'll have it with the tea.

PHELPS:

Very good, sir.

CHARLES:

No, wait. Forget the tea. Forget the biscuit. Go see to your hand. I'll make my own tea and fetch myself a biscuit.

PHELPS:

That really wouldn't do, sir.

CHARLES:

Nonsense. I know how to make tea. I'll get it myself.

PHELPS:

I must insist, sir, that you allow me to perform my duties.

CHARLES:

Is it really as sticky as all that for you?

PHELPS:

It is what I am retained for, sir. I should not like to become useless.

CHARLES:

Oh, no. Heavens, no. Don't feel that way. I didn't mean that.

PHELPS:

I understand perfectly, sir. So shall I fetch your biscuit with the tea or have you decided against having either?

CHARLES:

I'm not sure anymore. Oh, very well. I'll have the biscuit with the tea.

PHELPS:

Very good, sir. Sans raisins?

CHARLES:

Sans raisins.

PHELPS:

Very good, sir. I shall be only a few minutes.

Exit PHELPS.

CHARLES:

The blighter won't even let me stop being spoiled. Damn the class separations! Damn the whole lot. Damn me for being in amongst the posh strata! Mum, if you're up there, tell God to teach me my lesson. I don't want to be spoiled any more. Auntie's right. Do you hear me? Auntie's absolutely right.

Enter PHELPS.

PHELPS:

Excuse me, sir.

CHARLES:

Yes, what is it? Is the tea off?

PHELPS:

The water for your tea is heating at the moment. I have just remembered another matter that I need to discuss, if it is not improper of me.

CHARLES:

Not at all. What is it?

PHELPS:

On her way out, madam informed me of your plans for this evening. The gardening staff wishes to express their desire that, should you stroll nude in the rose garden, you might be careful of straying from the path, as there are lately bees about. They shouldn't want you stung in a, shall we say, vulnerable area. Sir.

CHARLES:

Thank you, I'll keep that in mind.

PHELPS:

And I might add, sir, that the air tonight is apt to be rather on the brisk side. You might wish to wear a scarf or a woollen cap, if it is not too much against the spirit of the venture, such as it is.

CHARLES:

Two things, Phelps — one, I was only kidding when I told Auntie that. Two, how can you even talk to me about this without blushing?

PHELPS:

Training, sir. I shall blush later on, in private.

CHARLES:

That's another joke, isn't it?

PHELPS:

Oh no, sir.

CHARLES:

You save up your emotions all week and then let them go on your night off?

PHELPS:

Something like that, sir.

CHARLES:

So if I were to kick you in the shins, you wouldn't even make a sound until you were on your own time, and then you'd let out a holler?

PHELPS:

I hazard that I might wince a bit upon being initially struck, sir.

CHARLES:

Is this why you aren't doing anything about that burn?

PHELPS:

Partly, sir. As I said, it is not a serious injury.

CHARLES:

You're an interesting man, Phelps. We should talk more often.

PHELPS:

I am always here, sir.

CHARLES:

Yes, but there's this damned master-servant relationship in the way of it.

PHELPS:

The relationship of master and servant is a venerable institution, sir, and one that I am proud to uphold with dignity and grace.

CHARLES:

Yes, yes. No. Do you really see it that way?

PHELPS:

I do, sir. Very much so.

CHARLES:

I for one don't get it at all. I mean, from my point of view, it looks rather like you've got the short end of the stick.

PHELPS:

That is not entirely accurate, sir.

CHARLES:

You're not saying we're equals?

PHELPS:

Oh no, sir. The servant has his place, and the master his. Have you read the New Testament, sir?

CHARLES:

You mean the Bible?

PHELPS:

Specifically, the New Testament, sir. There are numerous passages concerning the relationship of master and servant, should you be interested in higher wisdom on the subject than I am able to impart on my own. If you will excuse me, sir, your tea is ready.

Exit PHELPS.

CHARLES:

Damn, what a stumper. Phelps is a Bible scholar on top of it all. He's got me completely cornered. Even when he's admitting that he's the servant and I'm his master, he denies that he's got the short end of the stick, says he's proud to be who he is, and I'm left being spoiled and without a clue about my place in the scheme of things. I don't feel proud or dignified being above other people. Especially a smashing sort like Phelps.

Enter PHELPS.

PHELPS:

Here you are, sir.

CHARLES:

Thank you. I say, Phelps. You wouldn't consider meeting me on your day off, would you?

PHELPS:

I would be unlikely to see you on my day off, sir, by virtue of its being my day off.

CHARLES:

No, what I mean is — I thought maybe we could have a drink together and talk. Not as "master" and "servant," but just sort of man-to-man. You know? Then maybe we could get to know each other better.

PHELPS:

I know you quite well, sir.

CHARLES:

Yes, but I don't know you from Adam. I mean to say, maybe we could get to be sort of friends.

PHELPS:

There is a certain comeraderie to our relationship, sir, that needs no further amendment. Please respect our relationship by not confusing its boundaries.

CHARLES:

Oh. I see.

PHELPS:

I hope I have not offended you, sir. I apologize, sir.

CHARLES:

No, I apologize to you. I didn't quite see how it, you know, worked.

PHELPS:

There is a reason we are who we are, sir.

CHARLES:

Is there?

PHELPS:

Yes, sir.

CHARLES:

And what is that?

PHELPS:

Again, sir, I refer you to the Bible. And now, if you will excuse me, there are preparations to make before the staff are let out for the evening. Good night, sir.

CHARLES:

Good night. Thank you for talking to me. And for the raisins.

PHELPS:

Not at all, sir. It was my pleasure.

Exit PHELPS.

CHARLES:

Maybe I will take that dash through the rose garden tonight. A good bee sting on the Johnson might make me come to my senses. Hard not to be humble when you've got such an embarrassing injury! Ah, damn the lot of it. I am who I am. Where the hell's our family Bible? Phelps! Where's our family Bible?

Exit CHARLES.

 

Scene 2