The Mousetrap

JOHN. (Moving down Right) Well, there was only one thing to be done—break it off. I did. It wasn’t easy. All that was when we were in the South of France. (He crosses to the coffee table, picks up a magazine, then crosses and stands below the armchair Left Centre.) I broke with Veronica, and came back to London to work under Radley. (During the following speeches he occasionally glances idly at the magazine.)

HENRIETTA. And then you married Gerda?

JOHN. The following year. Yes.

HENRIETTA. Why?

JOHN. Why?

HENRIETTA. Yes. Was it because you wanted someone as different as possible from Veronica Craye?

JOHN. Yes, I suppose that was it. (He sits in the armchair Left Centre.) I didn’t want a raving beauty as a wife. I didn’t want a damned egoist out to grab everything she could get. I wanted safety and peace and devotion, and all the quiet enduring things of life. I wanted someone who’d take her ideas from me.

HENRIETTA. Well, you certainly got what you wanted. None could be more devoted to you than Gerda.

JOHN. That’s the irony of it. I picked Gerda for just the qualities she has, and now half the time I snap her head off because of them. How was I to know how irritating devotion can be?

HENRIETTA. (Rising and stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table) And what about Gerda? Is she satisfied?

JOHN. Oh, Gerda’s all right. She’s quite happy.

HENRIETTA. Is she?

JOHN. Oh, yes. She spends her life fussing about the house and the children. That’s all she thinks about. She’s the most incompetent housekeeper and the most injudicious mother that you can imagine. Still, it keeps her occupied.

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to Right ofJOHN) How horribly cruel you are, John.

JOHN. (Surprised) Me?

HENRIETTA. Do you never see or feel anything except from your own point of view? Why do you bring Gerda down here for weekends when you know it’s misery for her?

JOHN. Nonsense! Does her a world of good to get away. It makes a break for her.

HENRIETTA. Sometimes, John, I really hate you.

JOHN. (Startled) Henrietta. (He rises.) Darling—don’t say that. You know it’s only you who makes life possible for me.

HENRIETTA. I wonder. (She puts up a hand to touch him lovingly, then checks herself.)

(JOHN kisses her, then crosses and puts the magazine on the coffee table.)

JOHN. Who’s the Edward Angkatell?

HENRIETTA. A second cousin of mine—and of Henry’s.

JOHN. Have I met him?

HENRIETTA. Twice.

JOHN. I don’t remember. (He perches himself on the Left arm of the sofa.) Is he in love with you, Henrietta?

HENRIETTA. Yes.

JOHN. Well, you watch your step. You’re mine, you know.

(HENRIETTA looks at him in silence.)

And look here, what do you mean by doing that absurd statuette of Gerda? Hardly up to your standard, is it?

HENRIETTA. It’s technically quite good craftsmanship—a straightforward portrait statuette. It pleased Gerda.

JOHN. Oh, Gerda!

HENRIETTA. It was made to please her.

JOHN. Gerda doesn’t know the difference between a work of art and a coloured photograph. What about your pearwood figure for the International Group? Have you finished that?

HENRIETTA. Yes.

JOHN. Let’s have a look at it.

(HENRIETTA moves unwillingly to the alcove, opens the curtain, switches on the light, then stands Left of the arch and watches JOHN’s face. JOHN rises, crosses to the alcove and stands in the arch looking off Left.)

I say, that’s rather good. Why, what on earth . . . ? (Angrily) So that’s why you wanted Gerda to sit for you. How dare you!

HENRIETTA. (Thoughtfully) I wondered if you’d see it.

JOHN. See it? Of course I see it.

HENRIETTA. The face isn’t Gerda’s.

JOHN. No, it’s the neck—the shoulders—the whole attitude.

(The daylight starts to fade and continues to do so steadily until the end of the Act.)

HENRIETTA. Yes, that’s what I wanted.

JOHN. How could you do a thing like that? It’s indefensible.