CHARLES LEARNS HIS LESSON

©1997 by John Robinson Wheeler. All rights reserved.

 

SCENE FOUR.

 

In the rose garden, morning. Charles is asleep on a stone bench, curled up fetally under his thin blanket. He's still in his robe and slippers, but he is now also wearing his wool cap and scarf.

Enter PHELPS.

PHELPS:

Master Charles? Sir? Oh, goodness me.

Exit PHELPS.

 

Charles hears the door shut and stirs, coughing and snuffling. He sits up on one elbow, squinting at the rising sunlight.

Enter PHELPS.

PHELPS:

Oh, you're awake, sir. I've brought you a warmer quilt. I hope I didn't disturb your sleep.

CHARLES:

Thank you, Phelps. I guess I'll be going in now that it's morning.

PHELPS:

Have you been out here all night, sir?

CHARLES:

Most of it. I was waiting for the bloody ghosts to show up again, but they seem to have stiffed me.

PHELPS:

They are not known to be especially trustworthy, sir.

CHARLES:

Yes, I've gathered that. Have you seen Auntie? Is she up and about?

PHELPS:

Yes, sir. She complained of some sort of toothache, so I prescribed some analgesic powder.

CHARLES:

Toothache! That's a laugh. I slapped her like I was going for the winning play at Wimbledon.

PHELPS:

Oh, I say. Whatever for?

CHARLES:

For looking like a bleeding poltergeist, that's what. I'd already met one, you see, that copped her looks down to the wig on her head.

PHELPS:

If I may say, sir, it sounds as if you were played for a fool.

CHARLES:

That's the rummy thing about it, Phelps. They came on strong with this line about forcing me to change my evil ways, and then when it comes down to it they bugger off and leave me high and dry. Here it is, morning, and all I've got is a stiff neck and an absolute masher of a headache.

PHELPS:

I shall fetch a remedy, sir.

CHARLES:

No, hang on a moment. I want to suffer it a bit.

PHELPS:

You needn't, sir.

CHARLES:

I know. Just let's chat for another few minutes.

PHELPS:

Yes, sir.

CHARLES:

Do you know what they told me, Phelps? They said that last night was my last chance to redeem myself or I'd be cursed forever. I'd lose my birthright, my place — everything.

PHELPS:

That seems rather unlikely to happen, sir.

CHARLES:

Does it? It sounded more than a little compelling at the time.

PHELPS:

One wonders, sir, if perhaps the spirits you met had something other than your redemption in mind.

CHARLES:

Like what?

PHELPS:

It is not for me to precisely say, sir. I do recall that they maneuvered you into a position of unwariness and vulnerability. Persons of noble intentions are not known to use guileful means. Rather, they approach forthrightly.

CHARLES:

Steady on. What do you mean they maneuvered me?

PHELPS:

I did not mean to imply, sir, any weakness on your part. I share some culpability in acceding to their behests. Recall, sir, that when you first heard the voices, I was of a mind to stay at your side.

CHARLES:

And then they chased you off!

PHELPS:

It was their first priority, if memory serves.

CHARLES:

And you had sense enough to be a bit put out by their presence, while I was getting curious and letting my guard down.

PHELPS:

When I left, sir, you were welcoming their conversation. I wish, sir, I had not left you. Had I stayed, I might have lent you the protection of a sense of prudence about the affair. However, I let my fear overcome me, and I deserted you.

CHARLES:

I get the sense, Phelps, that you've been lying awake all night feeling guilty about it.

PHELPS:

I admit as much, sir. Do forgive me.

CHARLES:

Forgiven, dear chap. Absolutely. Hang on, this is your day off, Phelps. What are you doing here? Don't tell me you came all the way out here this morning just to apologize for making a clean getaway last night?

PHELPS:

I'd prefer a less criminal idiom, sir.

CHARLES:

You must know, Phelps, that I'd never stand for your hanging guilt on yourself over this. I more or less commanded you to go.

PHELPS:

It was technically my night off, sir. I had the freedom to stay if I wished.

CHARLES:

Well, it's all forgotten.

PHELPS:

Thank you, sir.

CHARLES:

You're welcome, Phelps. You're a good man. Salt of the earth, what?

PHELPS:

You as well, sir.

CHARLES:

Me? Don't talk nonsense. I'm as posh and spoiled as they come.

PHELPS:

Not at all, sir. You oughtn't keep saying so.

 

Charles steps forward, front and center stage.

CHARLES:

And you oughtn't keep denying the obvious, Phelps. Look at me. Look where I live. Look at this rose garden. A full gardening staff works under me a whole year round for who knows what minimal wages, sowing and growing and tending and trimming and watering, and this is the first time in fifteen years that I've even been bothered to step out here to take it in. I don't know the names of the gardeners. I don't have to know. I don't have to care that I don't know. I was born into a position of noble ignorance of the working people who strive and sweat to earn tuppence a fortnight and have to make sure to warn soft, scone-bloated, upper-eschelon bigots like me to be careful of the bees during my whimsical, prurient, nighttime romps lest I get stung on the royal wee-wees and cry, "Off with their 'eads!" What did I do to deserve a life of fluffed cushions, massages, manicures, pedicures, tennis lessons at the dull white men's club, raisinless biscuits, and perfectly-heated tea? Nothing. Rot. Zippo. Absolute double-oh-scratch!

PHELPS:

Of course you didn't, sir. It's a gift.

CHARLES:

You really know how to put the needle to a man's balloons, you know that, Phelps?

PHELPS:

I beg your pardon, sir. It was a most stirring soliloquy. However, it is a circular argument. How would you feel, sir, were your circumstances of birth different? Would you feel more satisfied with life if you were one of the gardening staff?

CHARLES:

Lord, no. There'd be no end to the pissing and moaning you'd hear from me at the end of each day. Provided I were still, you know, "me."

PHELPS:

No doubt, sir. It would ill-suit your temperament.

CHARLES:

Well, how about you, Phelps? What would you think of living in my place?

PHELPS:

I would enjoy its luxury immensely, sir.

CHARLES:

Really? I say, I half expected you to cop out of that one.

PHELPS:

It is tempting to be disingenuous and claim that I would feel out of sorts with no work to do, and that I would eventually feel bored and stifled. While perhaps that could be the case, it is more truthful to admit the possibility that I would end up all too indulgent in the riches and the power of the position. In a word, sir, I would be spoiled.

CHARLES:

Surely not! You're the good stuff. Incorruptible.

PHELPS:

Much as I am loathe to tarnish the bright image you hold of me, sir, I must tell you this is not the case. My taste for the finer things is quite well known among my close family. In fact, it informed my decision to buttle, as it brought me nearest to them. Were I to have been given unimpeded, absolute access to them from my birth, I may not have ever reached my present age. I would have choked to death on the fat of the land.

CHARLES:

You paint a vivid picture of your own shortcomings, Phelps.

PHELPS:

Here is wisdom: that each man know his shortcomings, and be able to name them all.

CHARLES:

That's from the Bible, I take it.

PHELPS:

Not directly, sir. In any case, I am able to name mine, and it leads me to be happy where I am.

CHARLES:

So you really don't see me as spoiled?

PHELPS:

You are not, sir. You have the conscience to appreciate how you would feel if you were born into more challenging circumstances, which makes you quite rarely qualified to be to the manor born and yet not spoiled by its gross luxuries. Before you began to question yourself and feel ashamed for the life you were given, you were quite content and happy with it, as content and happy as I am with mine. The circumstances of your birth have allowed you to become the best man you could be, and the same for me — and in your case, it is quite a treasure to find a master whose heart is with his servants, who has been pampered unceasingly and yet has not lost his sense of perspective. No, sir, it is quite a pleasure to serve you, as you are always flattered by the service.

CHARLES:

Dash it, Phelps. Must you be more eloquent than me on top of it all? If I'd known you were saving all that up, I'd have put a little more juice into my soliloquy.

PHELPS:

Well sir, you may have the last word, if you wish.

CHARLES:

Really? All right. Wait a tic...

 

Charles paces, briefly.

CHARLES:

Hang it, I'm spent. I haven't enough left to say to fill a matchbox. Let's go in, I'm starved.

PHELPS:

Very good, sir. And how is your headache?

CHARLES:

Bit of all right now, it seems. I say, Phelps. I just realized. I wanted you to meet me on your day off so we could chat man-to-man and you pooh-poohed the idea — and now we've managed to do it anyway.

PHELPS:

Yes, sir. It was a fine idea after all.

CHARLES:

Yes, I quite agree. There's a good chap —

 

Charles extends his hand. Phelps takes a moment to consider the gesture before taking the hand and shaking it. Charles grins broadly, managing to convince Phelps to smile a bit, albeit with propriety of place, in return.

CHARLES:

Good talking to you, old man.

PHELPS:

And you, sir.

 

After they break, there is a brief, awkward moment.

CHARLES:

Well! I could eat a goat — horns, beard and all.

PHELPS:

That won't be necessary, sir. We have sausage and chips.

CHARLES:

Sounds heavenly. Well, after you.

PHELPS:

Oh no, sir. After you, sir. Please.

CHARLES:

Yes, I suppose so. Me first and all that. Right.

Exit CHARLES.

 

Phelps notices the family Bible lying where Charles dropped it earlier last night. He picks it up, dusts it off, glances at the sky, and smiles.

Exit PHELPS.

 

THE END.