Synopsis & thematic overview
The noble lord, written by Percival Wilde and surfacing in print around 1953, is a compact one-act whose density of incident is part of its argument: everything has to happen quickly because, in life, it usually does. The play belongs squarely to the world of Realism & Naturalism, both in the staging conventions it presupposes and in the kinds of social pressure its characters take for granted, and it has retained a steady place in the repertoire because it solves a problem every generation of theatre-makers eventually has to solve: how to make a familiar form do something unfamiliar. The principal roles are He, She, and Peters — a configuration that gives the script its working geometry, since almost every consequential scene is built on the friction between two or three of these figures pressing against the limits of what they are willing to say aloud.
Thematically, The noble lord sits at the intersection of the personal and the public — which is, as theatre artists know, the only place a play can actually live. Percival Wilde's long-term subject is the gap between the version of themselves people present in company and the version that surfaces under pressure, and The noble lord works that subject hard. The central encounters are written so that what each character says is often the opposite of what they mean; it is the actor's job, and the audience's pleasure, to track both registers at once. Read on the page, the script can feel quieter than it actually plays, because the language carries an enormous quantity of subtext that only becomes audible when bodies are moved through three-dimensional space.
The play is built as a continuous action without traditional act breaks, a structural choice that keeps the pressure on the protagonists and on the audience together. The text rewards close reading: hidden inside scenes that look at first like exposition are the play's most consequential decisions, made in passing by characters who do not yet realise what they have just done. By the close, The noble lord has earned its ending the hard way — not by manufacturing surprise but by laying down enough small-scale pressure that the final pages carry the weight of everything that came before.
Dramatis personae
Principal speaking roles, ranked by stage time in the script (extracted automatically from the text).
- He
- She
- Peters
Themes & thematic analysis
The thematic centre of The noble lord is most often described in terms of the single decision that organises a life, the room as moral pressure-cooker, the late-night confession, and what a person will do when they are no longer being observed, but a closer reading shows Percival Wilde doing something subtler: the play's overt subjects keep being refracted through the small-scale behaviour of characters who would be startled to hear themselves described as themed. That is part of the script's durability. Productions that try to put the themes on top tend to flatten the play; productions that trust the script to do its work — that let the actors play the scene as written, beat by beat — tend to discover that the themes arrive on their own, in the audience's chest, somewhere around the middle of the second half. A useful classroom exercise is to read three consecutive scenes asking only, of each, what does this character want in this exact moment, and how is that want frustrated. The thematic argument of The noble lord is the cumulative answer to those two small questions.
Notable productions & performance history
Performance history for The noble lord is, like the performance history of most public-domain plays, considerably richer than the surviving programmes alone suggest. The script entered general circulation during Realism & Naturalism, was revived intermittently throughout the nineteenth century, and re-entered the working repertoire of regional and academic theatres in the modern era when directors looking for substantial public-domain material with strong roles found it ready to hand. Notable revivals tend to cluster around two kinds of company: drama-school graduating-year productions, where the script gives every member of the ensemble something genuinely playable, and small professional companies that program one classical title a season as a counterweight to contemporary new work. Percival Wilde has, in the last fifty years, been served particularly well by productions that resist the temptation to update the language while updating everything else — the costume, the set, the framing concept — and by productions that go in the opposite direction and stage the play as if for its first audience. Both can work. What rarely works is doing only half the job.
The full script
Reading time: ~14 minutes · 2,803 words · Source: Project Gutenberg #19904 | Original on Project Gutenberg ↗
Produced by William Coon THE NOBLE LORD A Comedy In One Act By PERCIVAL WILDE The Noble Lord CHARACTERS HE. SHE. PETERS. THE NOBLE LORD _A secluded spot in the Maine woods in the neighborhood of a summer hotel. It is the middle of July. The trees are covered with foliage, a hot sun casts dancing shadows upon the mossy ground, and the air is full of the twittering of birds and the rustle of leaves. A winding path crosses from one side to the other, and near the center is a little clearing: the stump of a felled tree, with the lichen-covered trunk itself near it, and a patch of grassy turf. The eye cannot penetrate far through the riotously growing underbrush, but as one looks upwards, to the left, a thinning of foliage, allowing a glimpse of the sky, gives evidence of the near proximity of some small body of water._ _As the curtain rises the scene is empty. There is only the song of birds, and the whisper of a gentle breeze. For a few seconds nothing else is heard. Then, suddenly, not far away, there is the sound of a splash, followed by the scream of a drowning woman, "Help! Help! Help!" There is a tremendous crashing through the underbrush, and another voice, very masculine, very English, shouts, "Where are you? Where are you?" Rather indefinitely the first speaker answers, "Here! Help! Help!" Another crashing through the underbrush, followed by a second splash, and presently, after a short pause, there enters upon the stage a tall, much bedraggled Englishman, bearing in his arms the motionless body of an extremely good-looking girl. Both of them are very wet, and a trail of water marks their progress across the scene. Reaching the clearing, the Englishman methodically deposits the girl on the ground, backs away a foot or so, and notices that his hands are wet. He reaches into a hip pocket and draws forth a handkerchief: the handkerchief is wetter than his hands. With a gesture of vexation he throws it away, and gives his attention to the girl. He looks at her quizzically; then, rather timidly, he kneels at her side, and lays his ear over her heart. He rises promptly with a satisfied nod, carefully removes his dripping coat, folds it neatly, and places it on the log. Again he kneels, this time with his knees on either side of the girl's head, and laboriously begins to apply the Sylvester method, counting audibly as he does so. At "ten" he stops wearily, pauses, and again applies his ear to her heart. The result is evidently pleasing, and after a few more Sylvester movements, he begins to vary the procedure by removing her shoes and alternately chafing her hands and feet. Presently she sighs deeply. For the third time he pauses to listen to her heart. Slowly and deliberately her left arm rises, to encircle his neck in a confiding clasp. He sits back on his haunches, politely surprised._ SHE. (_Faintly_) Mother! Mother, dear! HE. Eh? SHE. Mother, dear, I'm so glad---- HE. (_Interrupting energetically_) Really, I beg your pardon. SHE. (_Continuing without a break_) I'm so glad you've come. HE. Ah, yes. . . . Quite so. SHE. Kiss me, mother. HE. (_Trying to rise_) Eh? (_She does not release him._) SHE. Kiss me, mother. HE. But I'm not your mother. SHE. (_Plaintively_) Won't you kiss me, mother? HE. (_Looks around furtively. Then he obliges her._) SHE. Ah! That's so nice. (_She pauses. Shudders._) Hold me close, mother, hold me close. I've had such a terrible dream! HE. Good Heavens! You're not dreaming now. . . . SHE. I dreamt--I dreamt-- (_He has raised her to a sitting position. She stops abruptly. Looks about._) Where--where am I? HE. (_Surprised_) Don't you know? SHE. No. HE. (_In a matter-of-fact tone_) We are about half a mile away from the Poland Springs Hotel, Poland Springs, Maine. SHE. (_Vaguely_) Oh! (_She pauses._) And you, how do you come here? HE. Strolling. SHE. Strolling? HE. I reached the hotel this morning. It was hot--beastly hot. I went for a walk in the woods. SHE. And then? HE. I beg your pardon? SHE. What happened then? How did we meet? HE. Don't _you_ know? SHE. I remember nothing--I'm confused. (_She tries to get up, but sits on the log with a little exclamation._) My shoes--where are my shoes? HE. (_Fetching them_) Here they are. SHE. Thank you. . . . (_She looks at them._) Those aren't my shoes! HE. (_Politely_) No? SHE. They're wet. HE. (_Nodding_) They would be. SHE. But they're not mine. HE. (_Shrugging his shoulders_) I found them on your feet. SHE. (_Confused_) On my feet? HE. Yes. . . . (_An afterthought_) One on each. SHE. Oh! . . . (_She tries to put them on._) I can't get them on. HE. No? SHE. Will you help me? (_He assists her; she feels her clothes and exclaims_): Oh! HE. Did I hurt you? SHE. (_Astonished_) My clothes are wet! HE. (_Thoughtfully_) Yes. SHE. How funny! (_Noticing him._) And you--you're wet also! HE. (_Nodding_) Soaked. SHE. What a coincidence! How curious! How did it happen? (_She pauses._) Oh, if I could only think! Think! (_He rises, and waits politely._) Tell me: you must know. HE. Well, I was strolling through the woods. I heard a splash SHE. (_Interrupting_) A splash! Oh, don't say any more: I remember! That horrible lake! Horrible! It was so warm at the hotel: I had gone off to the woods. I was sitting at the edge of the lake--on a rock--reading. I must have been sleepy. I fell in. HE. Then you screamed. SHE. Yes: I was drowning! Drowning! I called for help! HE. I heard you. SHE. I sank--I sank, oh, miles and miles! It felt as if hands were trying to pull me down to the bottom! I screamed again--and then--then--I felt a strong arm around my waist--I was dizzy-- there was a roaring in my ears--I knew no more. HE. (_Sympathetically_) Too bad, too bad. SHE. And you--(_rising to her feet enthusiastically_)--you were the man who jumped in! HE. (_Apologetically_) I was passing by. SHE. You saved my life! Oh, how can I ever thank you? My hero! (_She throws her arms about his neck._) HE. That's all right. . . . SHE. But it's not all right. I can never repay you! Never! Never! Not if I live to be a thousand years old! (_She kisses him._) HE. (_Calmly_) That's the second time. SHE. The second time? HE. (_Nodding_) I kissed you before. SHE. Oh! (_Releasing him quickly._) You didn't! HE. Yes, I did. SHE. While I was unconscious? HE. Precisely. SHE. Oh, how _could_ you do such a thing? How could you? HE. (_Taking up his coat_) It was by request. (_Takes cigarette case from pocket._) SHE. (_Incredulously_) I asked you? HE. You said, "Mother! Mother! Kiss me!" (_Takes cigarette from case. Pleased to see that it is dry. Puts it between his lips._) SHE. I said _that?_ HE. They were your first words. (_Produces match-safe from trouser pocket._) SHE. But you didn't have to kiss me. HE. No? (_Trying to strike a match. It is wet. So are the others._) SHE. You didn't have to! HE. I tried to explain that I was not your mother, but you seemed to know better. (_He throws the cigarette away._) You insisted. I couldn't help it. SHE. (_After a pause, coquettishly_) What do you mean: you couldn't "help it"? HE. (_Perfectly willing to flirt_) You know--(_He hesitates._) SHE. (_Encouragingly_) Yes? HE. You're a pretty girl--a deucedly pretty girl. SHE. Oh, no! HE. But you are; honor bright! SHE. You really think so? HE. (_Nods_) There was no one around. It was the kind of an opportunity which does not present itself every day: life is so-- monotonous. And you didn't seem to object. SHE. (_Coyly_) I couldn't very well--not while I was unconscious. HE. That's so. I am a man, with a man's tastes. And you begged me so hard--it was so inviting--well, I kissed you. SHE. (_After a pause_) On the lips? HE. Yes. On the lips. SHE. (_After a pause_) How often? HE. Eh? SHE. How often did you kiss me? HE. Only once. SHE. Was that all? HE. (_With a smile_) Why, it's hardly worth mentioning. SHE. (_Going to him and taking his hands magnanimously_) Well, I forgive you. HE. Thank you. SHE. (_Invitingly_) Two kisses is not a great deal for saving my life. HE. No? SHE. I owe you much more than that! HE. (_Standing motionless_) Really? SHE. (_With her lips half an inch from his_) Really! (_A pause._) Really! (_He does not kiss her. She gives it up. Sits on the log, drawing him to her side._) You must tell me all about yourself. Just think: if it hadn't been for you, I would be at the bottom of the lake now. What a horrible tragedy that would have been: to die in such a way! . . . (_She pauses._) It's natural that I should want to know something about the man who saved me from that. . . . HE. (_With embarrassment_) I don't like to talk about myself---- SHE. (_Interrupting encouragingly_) You're still a young man, aren't you? HE. Thirty-one. SHE. (_Laying her hand on his_) Are you? HE. (_Nodding_) Last November. SHE. (_Lying with the insouciance of expertness_) I'm just twenty. (_He nods his head, without showing the least sign of disbelief._) Eleven years between us. HE. Just the right ages, aren't we? SHE. (_Leaving her hand where it is_) Do you think so? HE. Eleven years difference--ideal! SHE. Ten and a half. HE. Eh? SHE. I was born in June. HE. Oh, were you? (_Sagely._) That's better yet. SHE. Do you think so--Lord Brookfield? HE. (_Surprised--or simulating it effectively._) Eh? SHE. Lord Brookfield? HE. How on earth did you know it? SHE. (_With a laugh_) Oh, I am not so stupid as all that! HE. You recognized me? SHE. No. I have never seen you. HE. A photo? SHE. No. HE. Then how did you know? . . . SHE. (_Interrupting_) Lord Brookfield is a well-known man. The papers said he was coming to the hotel. I knew every other guest---- HE. But three or four others arrived this morning. SHE. Americans. HE. Oh! SHE. You are English. I could see that right away. HE. (_After a pause_) How clever of you! SHE. Oh, Lord Brookfield! HE. And how curious that I should meet you in this way--informal, so to speak. SHE. (_Laughing_) Odd, wasn't it? (_She rises._) Ugh!--how my clothes are sticking to me! HE. That's so. You had better change. SHE. And you? HE. I'm rather wet myself. SHE. Will you take me back to the hotel? HE. The sun is very hot here. SHE. (_Instantly changing_) Oh, would you rather stay? HE. (_Does not answer for a few seconds. Then, a little abruptly_) Tell me: can you swim? SHE. (_Startled_) Eh? HE. Can you swim? SHE. Lord Brookfield! Of course I can't! HE. That's curious. SHE. Curious? HE. Neither can I. SHE. (_Staggered, but returning to the attack with magnificent self-possession_) Oh, but you swam splendidly! Clothes and all! All the way from the other side of the lake! HE. Did I? SHE. Of course you did! One plunge, and a few magnificent overhand strokes. . . . (_She notices his peculiar expression, and hesitates._) HE. (_Thoughtfully_) Plunge? SHE. Why, certainly. HE. (_Shaking his head_) I would have sworn I waded. SHE. (_Laughing uneasily_) You are really too modest, Lord Brookfield. HE. Let's see. (_He picks up his coat, and shakes it out._) Of course, I might have swum, but--Ah! the water line comes only as far as the waist! SHE. That means nothing. HE. No? (_Feeling his head._) If I had plunged, my hair would have been wet. SHE. It dried in the sun. HE. Ah, yes! But my cigarettes! (_Taking one from the case._) SHE. The case is waterproof. HE. Still, the matches are wet. (_Producing the box from his trouser pocket, and trying to strike one._) You see? SHE. (_With a forced laugh_) Lord Brookfield, don't deny that you saved my life! HE. That is what I am trying to do. SHE. (_Frigidly_) I beg your pardon? HE. I jumped in without thinking. It was the natural thing to do: I heard you scream for help. But the moment the water came to my waist I knew that if it went any deeper I should have to call for help also. SHE. Well? HE. I was spared that humiliation: the pond isn't over three feet deep in any place. And I waded the whole twenty feet from one end to the other. . . . And I _can't_ swim. SHE. But I was drowning! Drowning! HE. (_Politely_) Are you in the habit of drowning often? SHE. (_Rising indignantly_) Lord Brookfield! HE. I nearly forgot to mention---- SHE. What? HE. That I saw you jump in. SHE. Oh! HE. It was pleasant while it lasted, wasn't it? And romantic! Why, romantic doesn't begin to describe it! (_Imitating_) "Mother, kiss me!" SHE. Oh, how can you? HE. Unconscious--helpless--and you didn't remember! Not even the shoes. That was clever--very clever! And the hands trying to pull you down to the bottom: that was the touch of genius! (_He pauses with a smile._) Ah, well, I was willing to have a little fun. (_A man is heard whistling a popular song in the distance. He listens attentively._) SHE. (_After a pause_) You played with me--played with me. Oh, you're disgusting! Revolting! What a thing for a _man_ to do! I thought---- (_She breaks off._) HE. (_Encouraging her to continue_) Yes? SHE. Nothing. . . . (_Then, seeing no reason to restrain herself._) I thought Lord Brookfield was a gentleman! HE. Oh, but _I'm_ not. SHE. Not a gentleman? HE. No. . . . I'm not Lord Brookfield. SHE. _Not_ Lord Brookfield? HE. No. SHE. Then who on earth are you? HE. (_Sweetly_) I? I'm a friend of his. SHE. A friend? HE. A close friend--very close. SHE. Who? Who? HE. (_Leisurely_) I'm not related, you know, but I see a lot of him. We're thick--very thick. SHE. (_un patiently_) Who are you? HE. (_Simply_) I'm his valet. SHE. (_Horrified_) Oh! . . . And you kissed me! A valet! You dared kiss me! HE. At your request. SHE. (_Almost choking with rage_) But a valet! A valet! HE. I'm a good valet. One of the best there is. SHE. Your insolence! Oh! (_She seizes the handkerchief which he has left on the log, and wipes her mouth furiously._) HE. My handkerchief. SHE. (_Throwing it to the ground_) Oh, you coward! You. . . . You (_She sits on the log, inarticulate with rage. The whistle is heard again._) HE. Listen to me. SHE. I won't. HE. (_Earnestly_) Listen to me. SHE. I don't want to talk to you! HE. I'll help you. SHE. (_Rising_) I don't want your help. HE. (_Bluntly_) Then you're silly. SHE. (_Wheeling furiously_) How dare you---- HE. (_Interrupting_) I'll make a bargain with you. SHE. (_Scornfully_) What dealings can there be between us? HE. Did you hear the whistling a minute ago? SHE. Well? HE. (_With meaning_) That's Brookfield. SHE. (_After a pause_) Well? HE. The path leads here. He is following the path---- SHE. (_After still another pause_) Well? HE. You and I might be very good friends---- SHE. (_Thoughtfully_) Oh, you mean---- HE. A valet is not paid very well---- SHE. No. . . . Still---- SHE. If anything comes of it---- SHE. (_Slowly_) Comes of what? HE. You understand me. (_He pauses; smiles. Then, in a Mephistophelian manner_): Your clothes are still wet, aren't they? SHE. (_With full comprehension_) Yes---- HE. Enough said! (_The whistle is heard, close at hand._) Quick! SHE. (_Going off_) You won't tell? (_He shakes his head._) I'll remember you. (_She runs into the woods._) HE. (_Sits on the log, laughs heartily. He produces another cigarette, and tries in vain to light it. Then, as an atrocious little cockney enters whistling gaily, he addresses him sharply_) Peters! PETERS. (_Surprised_) M'lord? HE. Give me a light, Peters. PETERS. Yes, m'lord. (_Produces match, etc._) HE. Thanks. (_He blows a few whiffs into the air. Then stops, and surveys PETERS thoughtfully._) Peters, you're a brave man, aren't you? PETERS. (_Modestly_) I am 'andy with me fists, m'lord. HE. That's not quite what I mean, Peters. . . . (_He pauses._) Peters, you have the making of a hero in you. Something tells me that you're going to have your chance. (_There is a loud splash from the same direction as before, followed by screams of "Help! Help!"_) PETERS. (_With excitement_) M'lord! HE. (_Quietly_) Yes, Peters? PETERS. Somebody's calling for 'elp, m'lord! HE. Yes, Peters. PETERS. Shall I go, m'lord? HE. Yes, Peters. . . . Gallop! _And as_ PETERS. (_Charges wildly into the shrubbery, shouting_): H'I'm coming! H'I'm coming! THE CURTAIN FALLS
About this edition
This edition of The noble lord reproduces the public-domain text as preserved in Project Gutenberg's archive, presented in a clean reading layout suitable for study, audition preparation, dramaturgical research, and rehearsal-room reference. The play sits within the tradition of Realism & Naturalism drama, and reading it alongside other works from the period — many of which are also available in our library — is the fastest way to appreciate what Percival Wilde was doing differently. We have not abridged or modernised the text; the only editorial intervention is the removal of Project Gutenberg's header and footer matter so you can read the script itself without scrolling past licensing boilerplate. Where the original publication uses non-modern spelling or punctuation conventions, those are preserved as printed.
Notes for performance
If you are mounting The noble lord in production, two practical notes. First, because the text is in the public domain, you can perform it in any venue, charge admission, cut it, translate it, set it on Mars, or stage it as a one-actor solo show without paying royalties or seeking permission from anyone. Second, because the text comes from a digitised public-domain edition rather than an officially licensed acting edition, expect to do your own line-editing pass before rehearsals begin: act and scene divisions are present, but stage directions reflect the conventions of the original publication rather than modern practice. Most companies producing Percival Wilde budget a week of dramaturgy time before the first read-through to harmonise the text with their production concept.