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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16435-8.txt b/16435-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab504b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/16435-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14759 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays + +Author: Various + +Editor: Sterling Andrus Leonard + +Release Date: August 4, 2005 [EBook #16435] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC BOOK OF MODERN PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by William Boerst, Andre Lapierre and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + +THE ATLANTIC BOOK + +OF MODERN PLAYS + + + +Edited with Introduction, Comment +and Annotated Bibliography + +by +Sterling Andrus Leonard + +_Department of English +The University of Wisconsin and +The Wisconsin High School_ + + + +The Atlantic Monthly Press +Boston + + +_The rights of production of these plays are in every case +reserved by the authors or their representatives. No play can be +given publicly without an individual arrangement. The law does +not, of course, prevent their reading in classrooms or their +production before an audience of a school or invited guests where +no fee is charged; but it is, naturally, more courteous to ask +permission._ + + + +1921 + +The Atlantic Monthly Press + +First impression, December, 1921 +Second impression, April, 1922 +Third impression, October, 1922 + +_Printed in the United States of America_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + +FOREWORD + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + +INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS + + +THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS _Harold Chapin_ + +SPREADING THE NEWS _Lady Gregory_ + +THE BEGGAR AND THE KING _Winthrop Parkhurst_ + +TIDES _George Middleton_ + +ILE _Eugene O'Neill_ + +CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _J.A. Ferguson_ + +THE SUN _John Galsworthy_ + +THE KNAVE OF HEARTS _Louise Saunders_ + +FAME AND THE POET _Lord Dunsany_ + +THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE _Beulah Marie Dix_ + +GETTYSBURG _Percy Mackaye_ + +LONESOME-LIKE _Harold Brighouse_ + +RIDERS TO THE SEA _John Millington Synge_ + +THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE _William Butler Yeats_ + +RIDING TO LITHEND _Gordon Bottomley_ + + +QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION IN READING THE PLAYS + +NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS + +ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS AND RELATED BOOKS + + + + +FOREWORD + + +We are at present in the midst of a bewildering quantity of +play-publication and production. The one-act play in particular, +chiefly represented in this volume, appears to be taking the +place of that rather squeezed sponge, the short story, in the +favor of the reading public. Of course, this tendency has its +reaction in schoolrooms. One even hears of high-school classes +which attempt to keep up with the entire output of such dramas in +English readings. If this is not merely an apologue, it is +certainly a horrible example. The bulk of current drama, as of +published matter generally, is not worthy the time of the English +class. Only what is measurably of rank, in truth and fineness, +with the literature which has endured from past times can be +defended for use there. And we have too much that is both well +fitted to young people's keen interest and enjoyment, and +beautifully worthy as well, for time to be wasted upon the third- +and fourth-rate. + +Obviously, much of the best in modern play-writing has not been +included in this volume. Because of copyright complications the +works of Mr. Masefield, Mr. Shaw, Mr. Drinkwater, and Sir James +Barrie are not here represented. The plays by these writers that +seem best fitted to use by teachers and pupils in high schools, +together with a large number of other dramas for this purpose, +are listed and annotated at the back of the book. Suggestions as +to desirable inclusions and omissions will be welcomed by the +editor and the publishers. + +Following in their own way the lead of the Théâtre Libre in Paris +and the Freie Bühne in Germany, and of the Independent and the +Repertory theatres in Great Britain, numerous "little theatres" +and drama associations in this country are giving impulsion and +direction to the movement for finer drama and more excellent +presentation. The Harvard dramatic societies, the Morningside +Players at Columbia, Mr. Alex Drummond's Community Theatre at the +State Fair in Ithaca, the Little Country Theatre at Fargo, South +Dakota, and similar groups at the University of California and +elsewhere, illustrate the leadership of the colleges. In many +high schools, as at South Bend, Indiana, more or less complete +Little Theatres are active. The Chicago Little Theatre, the +Wisconsin Dramatic Society, the Provincetown Players, the +Neighborhood Playhouse, in New York, and others of that ilk, are +well known and influential. They are extending the tradition of +the best European theatres in their attempts to cultivate +excellent and individual expression in drama. They realize that +plays must be tested by actual performance,--though not +necessarily by the unnatural demands of success in competition +with Broadway revues and farce-melodramas,--and thus developed +toward a genuine artistic embodiment of the vast and varied life, +the manifold and deep idealism of this country. + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + + +For their courteous and generous cooperation the editor is +greatly indebted to the authors and publishers of all the plays +included. He is equally grateful to other dramatists who were +personally as cordial in intention but quite impotent to grant +copyright privileges. In addition, he has received most friendly +and cordial criticism from friends and friendly strangers to whom +he appealed--among others, from Mr. Harold Brighouse; Mr. +Theodore Hinckley, editor of "Drama"; Mr. Clarence Stratton, now +Director of English at Cleveland, and author of a forthcoming +book on the Little Theatre in this country; Mr. Allan Monkhouse, +author of "Mary Broome" and "War Plays"; Professor Allan Abbot, +of Teachers College, Columbia University; Mr. Frank G. Thompkins, +of Central High School, Detroit; Mrs. Mary Austin; Professor Earl +B. Pence, of De Pauw University; Professor Brander Matthews; and +Mrs. Alice Chapin. Indebtedness to many lists is obvious, +particularly to that of the Drama League and the National Council +of Teachers of English, and that of Professor Pence in the +"Illinois Bulletin." + +"Ile" is reprinted by special arrangement with the author and +with Boni and Liveright, publishers, New York. "Ile" is reprinted +from the volume "The Moon of The Caribbees" and six other plays +of the sea, which volume is one of the series of plays by Mr. +O'Neill, the series including "Beyond the Horizon," a drama in +four acts, "The Straw," a play in three acts and five scenes, +"Gold," a play in four acts and "Chris" a play in four acts. + + + + +INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS + + +The elder Dumas, who wrote many successful plays, as well as the +famous romances, said that all he needed for constructing a drama +was "four boards, two actors, and a passion." What he meant by +passion has been defined by a later French writer, Ferdinand +Brunetière, as a conflict of wills. The Philosopher of Butterbiggens, +whom you will meet early in this book, points out that "what you +are all the time wanting" is "your own way." When two strong +desires conflict and we wonder which is coming out ahead, we say +that the situation is dramatic. This clash is clearly defined in +any effective play, from the crude melodrama in which the forces +are hero and villain with pistols, to such subtle conflicts, +based on a man's misunderstanding of even his own motives and +purposes, as in Mr. Middleton's "Tides." + +In comedy, and even in farce, struggle is clearly present. Here +our sympathy is with people who engage in a not impossible +combat--against rather obvious villains who can be unmasked, or +against such public opinion or popular conventions as can be +overset. The hold of an absurd bit of gossip upon stupid people +is firm enough in "Spreading the News"; but fortunately it must +yield to facts at last. The Queen and the Knave of Hearts are +sufficiently clever, with the aid of the superb cookery of the +Knave's wife, to do away with an ancient and solemnly reverenced +law of Pompdebile's court. So, too, the force of ancient loyalty +and enthusiasm almost works a miracle in the invalid veteran of +"Gettysburg." And we feel sure that the uncanny powers of the +Beggar will be no less successful in overturning the power of the +King in Mr. Parkhurst's play. + +Again, in comedies as in mathematics, the problem is often solved +by substitution. The soldier in Mr. Galsworthy's "The Sun" is +able to find a satisfactory and apparently happy ending without +achieving what he originally set out to gain. And the same is +true of Jock in Mr. Brighouse's "Lonesome-Like." Or the play +which does not end as the chief character wishes may still prove +not too serious because, as in "Fame and the Poet," the situation +is merely inconvenient and absurd rather than tragic. Now and +then it is next to impossible to tell whether the ending is +tragic or not; in the "Land of Heart's Desire" we must first +decide whether our sympathies are more with Shawn Bruin and with +Maire's love for him, or with her keen desire to go + + To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams + Are holding a continual festival. + +It is natural for us to desire a happy ending in stories, as we +desire satisfying solutions of the problems in our own lives. And +whenever the forces at work are such as make it true and possible, +naturally this is the best ending for a story or a play. But where +powerful and terrible influences have to be combated, only a poor +dramatist will make use of mere chance, or compel his characters +to do what such people really would not do, to bring about a +factitious "happy ending." With the relentless, mighty arms of +England engaged in hunting the defeated Highlanders after the +Battle of Culloden, a play like "Campbell of Kilmhor," in which we +sympathize with the ill-fated Stewarts, cannot end happily. If +they had yielded under pressure and betrayed their comrades, we +might have pitied them, but we could not admire their action, and +there would have been no strong conclusion. In "Riders to the +Sea," where the characters are compelled by bitter poverty to face +the relentless forces of storm and sea, and in "The Biding to +Lithend," we expect a tragic end almost from the first lines of +the play. We recognize this same dramatic tensity of hopeless +conflict in many stories as well as plays; it is most powerful in +three or four novels by George Eliot, George Meredith, and Thomas +Hardy. + +One of the best ways to understand these as real stage plays is +through some sort of dramatization. This does not mean, however, +that they need be produced with elaborate scenery and costumes, +memorizing, and rehearsal; often the best understanding may be +secured by quite informal reading in the class, with perhaps a hat +and cloak and a lath sword or two for properties. With simply a +clear space in the classroom for a stage, you and your +imaginations can give all the performance necessary for realizing +these plays very well indeed. But, of course, you must clearly +understand the lines and the play as a whole before you try to +take a part, so that you can read simply and naturally, as you +think the people in the story probably spoke. Some questions for +discussion in the appendix may help you in talking the plays over +in class or in reading them for yourself before you try to take a +part. You will find it sometimes helps, also, to make a diagram or +a colored sketch of the scene as the author describes it, or even +a small model of the stage for a "dramatic museum" for your +school. If you have not tried this, you do not know how much it +helps in seeing plays of other times, like Shakespeare's or +Molière's; and it is useful also for modern dramas. Such small +stages can be used for puppet theatres as well. "The Knave of +Hearts" is intended as a marionette play, and other +dramas--Maeterlinck's and even Shakespeare's--have been given in +this way with very interesting effects. + +If you bring these plays to a performance for others outside your +own class, you will find that the simplest and least pretentious +settings are generally most effective. The Irish players, as Mr. +Yeats tells us, "have made scenery, indeed, but scenery that is +little more than a suggestion--a pattern with recurring boughs and +leaves of gold for a wood, a great green curtain, with a red +stencil upon it to carry the eye upward, for a palace." Mr. John +Merrill of the Francis Parker School describes the quite excellent +results secured with a dark curtain in a semicircle--a +cyclorama--for background, and with colored lights.[1] Such a +staging leaves the attention free to follow the lines, and the +imagination to picture whatever the play suggests as the place of +the action. + +[Footnote 1: John Merrill: "Drama and the School," in _Drama_, +November, 1919.] + + + + +THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS[1] + +Harold Chapin + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Mrs. Alice Chapin. +Permission to present this play must be secured from Samuel +French, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, who controls all +acting rights, etc., in this country.] + +CHARACTERS + +DAVID PIRNIE LIZZIE, his daughter +JOHN BELL, his son-in-law +ALEXANDER, John's little son + +SCENE: JOHN BELL'S _tenement at Butterbiggens. It consists of the +very usual "two rooms, kitchen, and bath," a concealed bed in the +parlor and another in the kitchen enabling him to house his +family--consisting of himself, his wife, his little son, and his +aged father-in-law--therein. The kitchen-and-living-room is a +good-sized square room. The right wall (our right as we look at +it) is occupied by a huge built-in dresser, sink, and coal bunker, +the left wall by a high-manteled, ovened, and boilered fireplace, +the recess on either side of which contains a low painted +cupboard. Over the far cupboard hangs a picture of a ship, but +over the near one is a small square window. The far wall has two +large doors in it, that on the right leading to the lobby, and +that on the left appertaining to the old father-in-law's concealed +bed. The walls are distempered a brickish red. The ceiling once +was white. The floor is covered with bright linoleum and a couple +of rag rugs--one before the fire--a large one--and a smaller one +before the door of the concealed bed._ + +_A deal table is just to right of centre. A long flexible +gas-bracket depends from the ceiling above it. Another +many-jointed gas-bracket projects from the middle of the high +mantelpiece, its flame turned down towards the stove. There are +wooden chairs at the table, above, below, and to left of it. A +high-backed easy chair is above the fire, a kitchen elbow-chair +below it._ + +_The kitchen is very tidy. A newspaper newly fallen to the rug +before the fire and another--an evening one--spread flat on the +table are (besides a child's mug and plate, also on the table) +the only things not stowed in their prescribed places. It is +evening--the light beyond the little square window being the gray +dimness of a long Northern twilight which slowly deepens during +the play. When the curtain rises it is still light enough in the +room for a man to read if the print be not too faint and his eyes +be good. The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers through +the gray, showing up with exceptional clearness the deep-lined +face of old DAVID PIRNIE, who is discovered half-risen from his +armchair above the fire, standing on the hearth-rug, his body +bent and his hand on the chair arm. He is a little, feeble old +man with a well-shaped head and weather-beaten face, set off by a +grizzled beard and whiskers, wiry and vigorous, in curious +contrast to the wreath of snowy hair that encircles his head. His +upper lip is shaven. He wears an old suit--the unbuttoned +waistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt. His slippers are +low at the heel and his socks loose at the ankles._ + +_The old man's eyes are fixed appealingly on those of his +daughter, who stands in the half-open door, her grasp on the +handle, meeting his look squarely--a straight-browed, +black-haired, determined young woman of six or seven and twenty. +Her husband_, JOHN, _seated at the table in his shirt-sleeves with +his head in his hands, reads hard at the paper and tries to look +unconcerned._ + + +DAVID. Aw--but, Lizzie-- + +LIZZIE (_with splendid firmness_). It's nae use, feyther. I'm no' +gaein' to gie in to the wean. Ye've been tellin' yer stories to +him nicht after nicht for dear knows how long, and he's gettin' +to expect them. + +DAVID. Why should he no' expect them? + +LIZZIE. It disna do for weans to count on things so. He's layin' +up a sad disappointment for himself yin o' these days. + +DAVID. He's gettin' a sad disappointment the noo. Och, come on, +Lizzie. I'm no' gaein' to dee just yet, an' ye can break him off +gradually when I begin to look like to. + +LIZZIE. Who's talkin' o' yer deein', feyther? + +DAVID. Ye were speakin' o' the disappointment he was layin' up +for himself if he got to count on me-- + +LIZZIE. I wasna thinkin' o' yer deein', feyther--only--it's no +guid for a bairn-- + +DAVID. Where's the harm in my giein' him a bit story before he +gangs tae his bed? + +LIZZIE. I'm no sayin' there's ony harm in it this yinst, feyther; +but it's no richt to gae on nicht after nicht wi' never a break-- + +DAVID. Whit wey is it no richt if there's nae harm in it? + +LIZZIE. It's giein' in to the wean. + +DAVID. Whit wey should ye no' gie in to him if there's nae harm +in it? + +LIZZIE (_keeping her patience with difficulty_). Because it gets +him into the habit. + +DAVID. But why should he no' get into the habit if there's nae +harm in it? + +(_John at the table chuckles. Lizzie gives him a look, but he +meets it not._) + +LIZZIE. Really, feyther, ye micht be a wean yerself, ye're that +persistent. + +DAVID. No, Lizzie, I'm no' persistent, I'm reasoning wi' ye. Ye +said there was nae harm in my tellin' him a bit story, an' now ye +say I'm not to because it'll get him into the habit; an' what I'm +askin' ye is, where's the harm o' his gettin' into the habit if +there's nae harm in it? + +LIZZIE. Oh, aye; ye can be gey clever, twistin' the words in my +mouth, feyther; but richt is richt, an' wrang's wrang, for all +yer cleverness. + +DAVID (_earnestly_). I'm no bein' clever ava, Lizzie,--no' the +noo,--I'm just tryin' to make ye see that, if ye admit there's +nae harm in a thing, ye canna say there's ony harm in it, an' +(_pathetically_) I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story +before he gangs to his bed. + +JOHN (_aside to her_). Och, wumman-- + +LIZZIE. T'ts, John; ye'd gie in tae onybody if they were just +persistent enough. + +JOHN. He's an auld man. + +LIZZIE (_really exasperated_). I ken fine he's an auld man, John, +and ye're a young yin, an' Alexander's gaein' to be anither, an' +I'm a lone wumman among the lot o' ye, but I'm no' gaein' to gie +in to-- + +JOHN (_bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument_). Efter a', +Lizzie, there's nae harm-- + +LIZZIE (_almost with a scream of anger_). Och, now you've stairted, +have you? Harm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin' about harm, and I'm +talking about richt an' wrang. You'd see your son grow up a +drunken keelie, an' mebbe a thief an' a murderer, so long as you +could say there was nae harm in it. + +DAVID (_expostulating with some cause_). But I cudna say there was +nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's nae +harm-- + +LIZZIE. Och. (_Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble._) +Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander? + +(_Shuts door with a click._) + +DAVID (_standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrow +than in anger_). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disna +argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a wee +thing hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chatty +an' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' me +that fond o' women's society. + +(_He lowers himself into his chair._) + +JOHN. They're all like it. + +DAVID (_judiciously_). I wudna go sae far as to say that, John. Ye +see, I've only kent they twa to study carefully--an' it's no fair +to judge the whole sex by just the twa examples, an' it +were--(_Running on_) But it's gey hard, an' I was wantin' to tell +wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht. (_Removes glasses +and blinks his eyes._) Aweel. + +JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn-- + +DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn's +nicht. + +JOHN. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last nicht. + +DAVID (_bitterly_). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun' it out. + +JOHN. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic. + +DAVID (_between anger and tears, weakly_). I canna help it. I'm +black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special +fine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richt +an' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women. + +JOHN. We has to gie in to them though. + +DAVID. Aye. That's why. + +(_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again and +settles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spill +from the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends to +throw the light to the old man's advantage._) + +DAVID. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him? + +JOHN (_erect on hearth-rug_). Who? + +DAVID. Wee Alexander. + +JOHN. No. + +DAVID. Greetin' his heart out. + +JOHN. Och, he's no greetin'. Lizzie's wi' him. + +DAVID. I ken fine Lizzie's wi' him, but he's greetin' for a' her. +He was wantin' to hear yon story o' the kelpies up to Cross Hill +wi' the tram--(_Breaking his mood impatiently_) Och. + +JOHN (_crossing to table and lighting up there_). It's gettin' dark +gey early. We'll shin be haein' tea by the gas. + +DAVID (_rustling his paper_). Aye--(_Suddenly_) There never was a +female philosopher, ye ken, John. + +JOHN. Was there no'? + +DAVID. No. (_Angrily, in a gust_) An'there never will be! (_Then +more calmly_) An' yet there's an' awful lot o' philosophy about +women, John. + +JOHN. Aye? + +DAVID. Och, aye. They're that unreasonable, an' yet ye canna +reason them down; an' they're that weak, an' yet ye canna make +them gie in tae ye. Of course, ye'll say ye canna reason doon a +stane, or make a clod o' earth gie in tae ye. + +JOHN. Will I? + +DAVID. Aye. An' ye'll be richt. But then I'll tell ye a stane +will na answer ye back, an' a clod of earth will na try to +withstand ye, so how can ye argue them down? + +JOHN (_convinced_). Ye canna. + +DAVID. Richt! Ye canna! But a wumman _will_ answer ye back, an' +she _will_ stand against ye, an' _yet_ ye canna argue her down +though ye have strength an' reason on your side an' she's talkin' +naething but blether about richt's richt an' wrang's wrang, an' +sendin' a poor bairn off t' his bed i' the yin room an' leavin' +her auld feyther all alone by the fire in anither an'--ye +ken--Philosophy-- + +(_He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again. JOHN, intensely +troubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a foot. The wails +of ALEXANDER can be heard muffled by a farther door. JOHN calls +off._) + +JOHN. Lizzie. + +(_Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a +"Shsh."_) + +JOHN. Yer feyther's greetin'. + +LIZZIE (_with a touch of exasperation_). Och, I'm no heedin'! +There's another wean in there greetin' too, an' I'm no heedin' +him neither, an' he's greetin' twicet as loud as the auld yin. + +JOHN (_shocked_). Ye're heartless, wumman. + +LIZZIE (_with patience_). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but there's +too much heart in this family, an' someone's got to use their +heid. + +(DAVID _cranes round the side of his chair to catch what they +are saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanly +firmness._) + +LIZZIE. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see, +don't ye-- + +(_A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up. LIZZIE rushes +to silence him._) + +LIZZIE. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're murderin' him. + +(_The door closes behind her._) + +DAVID (_nodding for a space as he revolves the woman's attitude_). +Ye hear that, John? + +JOHN. Whit? + +DAVID (_with quiet irony_). She's vexed I should be disappointed. +The wumman thinks she's richt! Women always think they're +richt--mebbe it's that that makes them that obstinate. (_With the +ghost of a twinkle_) She's feart o' the neighbors, though. + +JOHN (_stolidly_). A' women are feart o' the neighbors. + +DAVID (_reverting_). Puir wee man. I telt ye he was greetin', John. +He's disappointed fine. (_Pondering_) D' ye ken whit I'm thinkin', +John? + +JOHN. Whit? + +DAVID. I'm thinkin' he's too young to get his ain way, an' I'm +too auld, an' it's a fine thocht! + +JOHN. Aye? + +DAVID. Aye. I never thocht of it before, but that's what it is. +He's no' come to it yet, an' I'm past it. (_Suddenly_) What's the +most important thing in life, John? + +(JOHN _opens his mouth--and shuts it again unused._) + +DAVID. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye're wantin' a' the +time? + +JOHN. Different things. + +DAVID (_satisfied_). Aye--different things! But ye want them a', do +ye no'? + +JOHN. Aye. + +DAVID. If ye had yer ain way ye'd hae them a', eh? + +JOHN. I wud that. + +DAVID (_triumphant_). Then is that no' what ye want: yer ain way? + +JOHN (_enlightened_). Losh! + +DAVID (_warming to it_). That's what life is, John--gettin' yer ain +way. First ye're born, an' ye canna dae anything but cry; but +God's given yer mither ears an' ye get yer way by just cryin' for +it. (_Hastily, anticipating criticism_) I ken that's no exactly in +keeping with what I've been saying aboot Alexander--but a +new-born bairnie's an awfu' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets it +past its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettling +to oor poor human understandings. Ye'll notice the weans cease +gettin' their wey by juist greetin' for it as shin as they're old +enough to seek it otherwise. + +JOHN. The habit hangs on to them whiles. + +DAVID. It does that. (_With a twinkle_) An' mebbe, if God's gi'en +yer neighbors ears an' ye live close, ye'll get yer wey by a +dispensation o' Providence a while longer. But there's things +ye'll hae to do for yerself gin ye want to--an' ye will. Ye'll +want to hold oot yer hand, an' ye will hold oot yer hand; an' ye +'ll want to stand up and walk, and ye _will_ stand up and +walk; an' ye'll want to dae as ye please, and ye _will_ dae +as ye please; and then ye are practised an' lernt in the art of +gettin' yer ain way--and ye're a man! + +JOHN. Man, feyther--ye're wonderful! + +DAVID (_complacently_). I'm a philosopher, John. But it goes on +mebbe. + +JOHN. Aye? + +David. Aye: mebbe ye think ye'd like to make ither folk mind ye +an' yer way, an' ye try, an' if it comes off ye're a big man an' +mebbe the master o' a vessel wi' three men an' a boy under ye, as +I was, John. (_Dropping into the minor_) An then ye come doon the +hill. + +JOHN (_apprehensively_). Doon the hill? + +DAVID. Aye--doon to mebbe wantin' to tell a wean a bit story +before he gangs tae his bed, an' ye canna dae even that. An' then +a while more an' ye want to get to yer feet an' walk, and ye +canna; an' a while more an' ye want to lift up yer hand, an' ye +canna--an' in a while more ye're just forgotten an' done wi'. + +JOHN. Aw, feyther! + +DAVID. Dinna look sae troubled, John. I'm no' afraid to dee when +my time comes. It's these hints that I'm done wi' before I'm dead +that I dinna like. + +JOHN. What'n hints? + +DAVID. Well--Lizzie an' her richt's richt and wrang's wrang when +I think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs tae +his bed. + +JOHN (_gently_). Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther. + +DAVID. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I've gied in. I'm a +philosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's done wi'. + +JOHN. Aw, feyther! + +DAVID (_getting lower and lower_). It's gey interesting, +philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about is +the philosophy of growing old--because that's what we're a' doing, +a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he's +juist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stane +still--unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not a +stane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didna +break up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an' +then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' him +a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.--It's yon losing yer +grip bit by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes a +philosopher, John. + +JOHN. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I'd be +better able to follow ye. + +(LIZZIE _enters quietly and closes door after her._) + +JOHN. Is he asleep? + +LIZZIE. No, he's no' asleep, but I've shut both doors, and the +neighbors canna hear him. + +JOHN. Aw, Lizzie-- + +LIZZIE (_sharply_). John-- + +DAVID. Whit was I tellin' ye, John, about weans gettin' their ain +way if the neighbors had ears an' they lived close? Was I no' +richt? + +LIZZIE (_answering for JOHN with some acerbity_). Aye, ye were +richt, feyther, nae doot; but we dinna live that close here, an' +the neighbors canna hear him at the back o' the hoose. + +DAVID. Mebbe that's why ye changed Alexander into the parlor an' +gied me the bed in here when it began to get cold--- + +LIZZIE (_hurt_). Aw, no, feyther; I brought ye in here to be +warmer-- + +DAVID (_placably_). I believe ye, wumman--(_with a faint +twinkle_)--but it's turned oot luckily, has it no'? + +(_DAVID waits for a reply but gets none. LIZZIE fetches needlework +from the dresser drawer and sits above table. DAVID'S face and +voice take on a more thoughtful tone._) + +DAVID (_musing_). Puir wee man! If he was in here you'd no' be +letting him greet his heart oot where onybody could hear him. Wud +ye? + +LIZZIE (_calmly_). Mebbe I'd no'. + +JOHN. Ye ken fine ye'd no', wumman. + +LIZZIE. John, thread my needle an' dinna take feyther's part +against me. + +JOHN (_surprised_). I'm no'. + +LIZZIE. No, I ken ye're no meanin' to, but you men are that +thrang-- + +(_She is interrupted by a loud squall from_ DAVID, _which he +maintains, eyes shut, chair-arms gripped, and mouth open, for +nearly half a minute, before he cuts it off abruptly and looks at +the startled couple at the table._) + +LIZZIE. Mercy, feyther, whit's wrang wi' ye? + +DAVID (_collectedly_). There's naethin' wrang wi' me, Lizzie, +except that I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story-- + +LIZZIE (_firmly but very kindly_). But ye're no' goin' to-- + +(_She breaks off in alarm as her father opens his mouth +preparatory to another yell, which however he postpones to speak +to_ JOHN.) + +DAVID. Ye mind whit I was saying aboot the dispensation o' +Providence to help weans till they could try for theirselves, +John? + +JOHN. Aye. + +DAVID. Did it no' occur to ye then that there ought to be some +sort of dispensation to look after the auld yins who were past +it? + +JOHN. No. + +DAVID. Aweel--it didna occur to me at the time--(_and he lets off +another prolonged wail_). + +LIZZIE (_going to him_). Shsh! Feyther! The neighbors will hear +ye!!! + +DAVID (_desisting as before_). I ken fine; _I'm_ no' at the +back of the hoose. (_Shorter wail._) + +LIZZIE (_almost in tears_). They'll be coming to ask. + +DAVID. Let them. They'll no'ask _me_. (_Squall._) + +LIZZIE. Feyther--ye're no'behaving well. John-- + +JOHN. Aye? + +LIZZIE (_helplessly_). Naething--feyther, stop it. They'll think +ye're clean daft. + +DAVID (_ceasing to howl and speaking with gravity_). I ken it fine, +Lizzie; an' it's no easy for a man who has been respeckit an' +lookit up to a' his life to be thought daft at eighty-three; but +the most important thing in life is to get yer ain way. (_Resumes +wailing._) + +LIZZIE (_puzzled, to_ JOHN). Whit's that? + +JOHN. It's his philosophy that he was talking aboot. + +DAVID (_firmly_). An' I'm gaein' to tell wee Alexander yon bit +story, tho' they think me daft for it. + +LIZZIE. But it's no' for his ain guid, feyther. I've telt ye so, +but ye wudna listen. + +DAVID. I wudna listen, wumman! It was you wudna listen to me when +I axed ye whit harm--(_Chuckles.--Checking himself_) No! I'm no +gaein' to hae that ower again. I've gied up arguing wi' women. +I'm juist gaein' tae greet loud an' sair till wee Alexander's +brought in here to hae his bit story; an' if the neighbors--(_Loud +squall._) + +LIZZIE (_aside to_ JOHN). He's fair daft! + +JOHN (_aghast_). Ye'd no send him to-- + +LIZZIE (_reproachfully_). John! + +(_A louder squall from the old man._) + +LIZZIE (_beating her hands together distractedly_). He'll be +--We'll--He'll--Och!!! (_Resigned and beaten_) John, go and bring +wee Alexander in here. + +(JOHN _is off like a shot. The opening of the door of the other +room can be told by the burst of_ ALEXANDER'S _voice. The old man's +wails have stopped the second his daughter capitulated. JOHN +returns with_ ALEXANDER _and bears him to his grandfather's waiting +knee. The boy's tears and howls have ceased and he is smiling +triumphantly. He is of course in his night-shirt and a blanket, +which Grandpa wraps round him, turning toward the fire._) + +LIZZIE (_looking on with many nods of the head and smacks of the +lips_). There you are! That's the kind o' boy he is. Greet his +heart oot for a thing an' stop the moment he gets it. + +DAVID. Dae ye expect him to gae on after he's got it? Ah, but, +Alexander, ye didna get it yer lane this time; it took the twa o' +us. An' hard work it was for the Auld Yin! Man! (_Playing +hoarse_) + +I doot I've enough voice left for a--(_Bursting out very loud +and making the boy laugh._) Aweel! Whit's it gaein' to be--eh? + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +SPREADING THE NEWS[1] + +Lady Gregory + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Lady Gregory and +of Messrs. G.P. Putnam's Sons, the publishers of _Seven Short +Plays_ (1909), and other volumes of Lady Gregory's works. +Application for acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28 +West 38th Street, New York City.] + +CHARACTERS + +BARTLEY FALLON +MRS. FALLON +JACK SMIT +SHAWN EARLY +TIM CASEY +JAMES RYAN +MRS. TARPEY +MRS. TULLY +JOE MULDOON, a policeman +A REMOVABLE MAGISTRATE + +SCENE: _The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall._ MRS. TARPEY +_sitting at it._ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _enter._ + + +MAGISTRATE. So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and sheep and mud. +No system. What a repulsive sight! + +POLICEMAN. That is so, indeed. + +MAGISTRATE. I suppose there is a good deal of disorder in this +place? + +POLICEMAN. There is. + +MAGISTRATE. Common assault? + +POLICEMAN. It's common enough. + +MAGISTRATE. Agrarian crime, no doubt? + +POLICEMAN. That is so. + +MAGISTRATE. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing into houses? + +POLICEMAN. There was one time, and there might be again. + +MAGISTRATE. That is bad. Does it go any farther than that? + +POLICEMAN. Far enough, indeed. + +MAGISTRATE. Homicide, then! This district has been shamefully +neglected! I will change all that. When I was in the Andaman +Islands, my system never failed. Yes, yes, I will change all +that. What has that woman on her stall? + +POLICEMAN. Apples mostly--and sweets. + +MAGISTRATE. Just see if there are any unlicensed goods +underneath--spirits or the like. We had evasions of the salt tax +in the Andaman Islands. + +POLICEMAN (_sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of apples_). I +see no spirits here--or salt. + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ MRS. TARPEY). Do you know this town well, my good +woman? + +MRS. TARPEY (_holding out some apples_). A penny the half-dozen, +your honor. + +POLICEMAN (_shouting_). The gentleman is asking do you know the +town! He's the new magistrate! + +MRS. TARPEY (_rising and ducking_). Do I know the town? I do, to be +sure. + +MAGISTRATE (_shouting_). What is its chief business? + +MRS, TARPEY. Business, is it? What business would the people here +have but to be minding one another's business? + +MAGISTRATE. I mean what trade have they? + +MRS. TARPEY. Not a trade. No trade at all but to be talking. + +MAGISTRATE. I shall learn nothing here. + +(JAMES RYAN _comes in, pipe in mouth. Seeing MAGISTRATE, he +retreats quickly, taking pipe from mouth._) + +MAGISTRATE. The smoke from that man's pipe had a greenish look; +he may be growing unlicensed tobacco at home. I wish I had +brought my telescope to this district. Come to the post-office; I +will telegraph for it. I found it very useful in the Andaman +Islands. + +(MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _go out left._) + +MRS. TARPEY. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my apples this way +and that way. (_Begins arranging them._) Showing off he was to the +new magistrate. + +(_Enter_ BARTLEY FALLON _and_ MRS. FALLON.) + +BARTLEY. Indeed it's a poor country and a scarce country to be +living in. But I'm thinking if I went to America it's long ago +the day I'd be dead! + +MRS. FALLON. So you might, indeed. + +(_She puts her basket on a barrel and begins putting parcels in +it, taking them from under her cloak._) + +BARTLEY. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be buried in +America. + +MRS. FALLON. Never fear, Bartley Fallon, but I'll give you a good +burying the day you'll die. + +BARTLEY. Maybe it's yourself will be buried in the graveyard of +Cloonmara before me, Mary Fallon, and I myself that will be dying +unbeknownst some night, and no one a-near me. And the cat itself +may be gone straying through the country, and the mice squealing +over the quilt. + +MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of dying. It might be twenty years +you'll be living yet. + +BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh_). I'm thinking if I'll be living at the +end of twenty years, it's a very old man I'll be then! + +MRS. TARPEY (_turns and sees them_). Good-morrow, Bartley Fallon; +good-morrow, Mrs. Fallon. Well, Bartley, you'll find no cause for +complaining to-day; they are all saying it was a good fair. + +BARTLEY (_raising his voice_). It was not a good fair, Mrs. Tarpey. +It was a scattered sort of a fair. If we didn't expect more, we +got less. That's the way with me always: whatever I have to sell +goes down and whatever I have to buy goes up. If there's ever any +misfortune coming to this world, it's on myself it pitches, like +a flock of crows on seed potatoes. + +MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of misfortunes, and listen to Jack +Smith that is coming the way, and he singing. + +(_Voice of JACK SMITH heard singing_) + + I thought, my first love, + There'd be but one house between you and me. + And I thought I would find + Yourself coaxing my child on your knee. + Over the tide + I would leap with the leap of a swan. + Till I came to the side + Of the wife of the red-haired man! + +(JACK SMITH _comes in; he is a red-haired man, and is carrying a +hayfork._) + +MRS. TARPEY. That should be a good song if I had my hearing. + +MRS. FALLON (_shouting_). It's "The Red-haired Man's Wife." + +MRS. TARPEY. I know it well. That's the song that has a skin on +it! + +(_She turns her back to them and goes on arranging her apples._) + +MRS. FALLON. Where's herself, Jack Smith? + +JACK SMITH. She was delayed with her washing; bleaching the +clothes on the hedge she is, and she daren't leave them, with all +the tinkers that do be passing to the fair. It isn't to the fair +I came myself, but up to the Five-Acre Meadow I'm going, where I +have a contract for the hay. We'll get a share of it into tramps +to-day. + +(_He lays down hayfork and lights his pipe._) + +BARTLEY. You will not get it into tramps to-day. The rain will be +down on it by evening, and on myself too. It's seldom I ever +started on a journey but the rain would come down on me before +I'd find any place of shelter. + +JACK SMITH. If it didn't itself, Bartley, it is my belief you +would carry a leaky pail on your head in place of a hat, the way +you'd not be without some cause of complaining. + +(_A voice heard: "Go on, now, go on out o' that. Go on, I say."_) + +JACK SMITH. Look at that young mare of Pat Ryan's that is backing +into Shaughnessy's bullocks with the dint of the crowd! Don't be +daunted, Pat, I'll give you a hand with her. (_He goes out, +leaving his hayfork._) + +MRS. FALLON. It's time for ourselves to be going home. I have all +I bought put in the basket. Look at there, Jack Smith's hayfork +he left after him! He'll be wanting it. (_Calls_) Jack Smith! Jack +Smith!--He's gone through the crowd; hurry after him, Bartley, +he'll be wanting it. + +BARTLEY. I'll do that. This is no safe place to be leaving it. +(_He takes up fork awkwardly and upsets the basket._) Look at that +now! If there is any basket in the fair upset, it must be our own +basket! (_He goes out to right._) + +MRS. FALLON. Get out of that! It is your own fault, it is. Talk +of misfortunes and misfortunes will come. Glory be! Look at my +new egg-cups rolling in every part--and my two pound of sugar +with the paper broke-- + +MRS. TARPEY (_turning from stall_). God help us, Mrs. Fallon, what +happened your basket? + +MRS. FALLON. It's himself that knocked it down, bad manners to +him. (_Putting things up_) My grand sugar that's destroyed, and +he'll not drink his tea without it. I had best go back to the +shop for more, much good may it do him! + +(_Enter_ TIM CASEY.) + +TIM CASEY. Where is Bartley Fallon, Mrs. Fallon? I want a word +with him before he'll leave the fair. I was afraid he might have +gone home by this, for he's a temperate man. + +MRS. FALLON. I wish he did go home! It'd be best for me if he +went home straight from the fair green, or if he never came with +me at all! Where is he, is it? He's gone up the road (_jerks +elbow_) following Jack Smith with a hayfork. + +(_She goes out to left._) + +TIM CASEY. Following Jack Smith with a hayfork! Did ever anyone +hear the like of that. (_Shouts_) Did you hear that news, Mrs. +Tarpey? + +MRS. TARPEY. I heard no news at all. + +TIM CASEY. Some dispute I suppose it was that rose between Jack +Smith and Bartley Fallon, and it seems Jack made off, and Bartley +is following him with a hayfork! + +MRS. TARPEY. Is he now? Well, that was quick work! It's not ten +minutes since the two of them were here, Bartley going home and +Jack going to the Five-Acre Meadow; and I had my apples to settle +up, that Jo Muldoon of the police had scattered, and when I +looked round again Jack Smith was gone, and Bartley Fallon was +gone, and Mrs. Fallon's basket upset, and all in it strewed upon +the ground--the tea here--the two pound of sugar there--the +egg-cups there. Look, now, what a great hardship the deafness +puts upon me, that I didn't hear the commincement of the fight! +Wait till I tell James Ryan that I see below; he is a neighbor of +Bartley's; it would be a pity if he wouldn't hear the news! + +(_She goes out. Enter_ SHAWN EARLY _and_ MRS. TULLY.) + +TIM CASEY. Listen, Shawn Early! Listen, Mrs. Tully, to the news! +Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon had a falling out, and Jack knocked +Mrs. Fallon's basket into the road, and Bartley made an attack on +him with a hayfork, and away with Jack, and Bartley after him. +Look at the sugar here yet on the road! + +SHAWN EARLY. Do you tell me so? Well, that's a queer thing, and +Bartley Fallen so quiet a man! + +MRS. TULLY. I wouldn't wonder at all. I would never think well of +a man that would have that sort of a moldering look. It's likely +he has overtaken Jack by this. + +(_Enter_ JAMES RYAN _and_ MRS. TARPEY.) + +JAMES RYAN. That is great news Mrs. Tarpey was telling me! I +suppose that's what brought the police and the magistrate up this +way. I was wondering to see them in it a while ago. + +SHAWN EARLY. The police after them? Bartley Fallen must have +injured Jack so. They wouldn't meddle in a fight that was only +for show! + +MRS. TULLY. Why wouldn't he injure him? There was many a man +killed with no more of a weapon than a hayfork. + +JAMES RYAN. Wait till I run north as far as Kelly's bar to spread +the news! + +(_He goes out._) + +TIM CASEY. I'll go tell Jack Smith's first cousin that is +standing there south of the church after selling his lambs. + +(_Goes out._) + +MRS. TULLY. I'll go telling a few of the neighbors I see beyond +to the west. + +(_Goes out._) + +SHAWN EARLY. I'll give word of it beyond at the east of the +green. + +(_Is going out when MRS. TARPEY seizes hold of him._) + +MRS. TARPEY. Stop a minute, Shawn Early, and tell me did you see +red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary, in any place? + +SHAWN EARLY. I did. At her own house she was, drying clothes on +the hedge as I passed. + +MRS. TARPEY. What did you say she was doing? + +SHAWN EARLY (_breaking away_). Laying out a sheet on the hedge. + +(_He goes._) + +MRS. TARPEY. Laying out a sheet for the dead! The Lord have mercy +on us! Jack Smith dead, and his wife laying out a sheet for his +burying! (_Calls out_) Why didn't you tell me that before, Shawn +Early? Isn't the deafness the great hardship? Half the world +might be dead without me knowing of it or getting word of it at +all! (_She sits down and rocks herself._) O my poor Jack Smith! To +be going to his work so nice and so hearty, and to be left +stretched on the ground in the full light of the day! + +(_Enter_ TIM CASEY.) + +TIM CASEY. What is it, Mrs. Tarpey? What happened since? + +MRS. TARPEY. O my poor Jack Smith! + +TIM CASEY. Did Bartley overtake him? + +MRS. TARPEY. O the poor man! + +TIM CASEY. Is it killed he is? + +MRS. TARPEY. Stretched in the Five-Acre Meadow! + +TIM CASEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Is that a fact? + +MRS. TARPEY. Without the rites of the Church or a ha'porth! + +TIM CASEY. Who was telling you? + +MRS. TARPEY. And the wife laying out a sheet for his corpse. +(_Sits up and wipes her eyes._) I suppose they'll wake him the same +as another? + +(_Enter_ MRS. TULLY, SHAWN EARLY, _and_ JAMES RYAN.) + +MRS. TULLY. There is great talk about this work in every quarter +of the fair. + +MRS. TARPEY. Ochone! cold and dead. And myself maybe the last he +was speaking to! + +JAMES RYAN. The Lord save us! Is it dead he is? + +TIM CASEY. Dead surely, and the wife getting provision for the +wake. + +SHAWN EARLY. Well, now, hadn't Bartley Fallon great venom in him? + +MRS. TULLY. You may be sure he had some cause. Why would he have +made an end of him if he had not? (_To MRS. TARPEY, raising her +voice_) What was it rose the dispute at all, Mrs. Tarpey? + +MRS. TARPEY. Not a one of me knows. The last I saw of them, Jack +Smith was standing there, and Bartley Fallon was standing there, +quiet and easy, and he listening to "The Red-haired Man's Wife." + +MRS. TULLY. Do you hear that, Tim Casey? Do you hear that, Shawn +Early and James Ryan? Bartley Fallon was here this morning +listening to red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary that was! +Listening to her and whispering with her! It was she started the +fight so! + +SHAWN EARLY. She must have followed him from her own house. It is +likely some person roused him. + +TIM CASEY. I never knew, before, Bartley Fallon was great with +Jack Smith's wife. + +MRS. TULLY. How would you know it? Sure it's not in the streets +they would be calling it. If Mrs. Fallon didn't know of it, and +if I that have the next house to them didn't know of it, and if +Jack Smith himself didn't know of it, it is not likely you would +know of it, Tim Casey. + +SHAWN EARLY. Let Bartley Fallon take charge of her from this out +so, and let him provide for her. It is little pity she will get +from any person in this parish. + +TIM CASEY. How can he take charge of her? Sure he has a wife of +his own. Sure you don't think he'd turn souper and marry her in a +Protestant church? + +JAMES RYAN. It would be easy for him to marry her if he brought +her to America. + +SHAWN EARLY. With or without Kitty Keary, believe me, it is for +America he's making at this minute. I saw the new magistrate and +Jo Muldoon of the police going into the post-office as I came +up--there was hurry on them--you may be sure it was to telegraph +they went, the way he'll be stopped in the docks at Queenstown! + +MRS. TULLY. It's likely Kitty Keary is gone with him, and not +minding a sheet or a wake at all. The poor man, to be deserted by +his own wife, and the breath hardly gone out yet from his body +that is lying bloody in the field! + +(_Enter_ MRS. FALLON.) + +MRS. FALLON. What is it the whole of the town is talking about? +And what is it you yourselves are talking about? Is it about my +man Bartley Fallon you are talking? Is it lies about him you are +telling, saying that he went killing Jack Smith? My grief that +ever he came into this place at all! + +JAMES RYAN. Be easy now, Mrs. Fallon. Sure there is no one at all +in the whole fair but is sorry for you! + +MRS. FALLON. Sorry for me, is it? Why would anyone be sorry for +me? Let you be sorry for yourselves, and that there may be shame +on you forever and at the day of judgment, for the words you are +saying and the lies you are telling to take away the character of +my poor man, and to take the good name off of him, and to drive +him to destruction! That is what you are doing! + +SHAWN EARLY. Take comfort now, Mrs. Fallon. The police are not so +smart as they think. Sure he might give them the slip yet, the +same as Lynchehaun. + +MRS. TULLY. If they do get him, and if they do put a rope around +his neck, there is no one can say he does not deserve it! + +MRS. FALLON. Is that what you are saying, Bridget Tully, and is +that what you think? I tell you it's too much talk you have, +making yourself out to be such a great one, and to be running +down every respectable person! A rope, is it? It isn't much of a +rope was needed to tie up your own furniture the day you came +into Martin Tully's house, and you never bringing as much as a +blanket, or a penny, or a suit of clothes with you, and I myself +bringing seventy pounds and two feather beds. And now you are +stiffer than a woman would have a hundred pounds! It is too much +talk the whole of you have. A rope is it? I tell you the whole of +this town is full of liars and schemers that would hang you up +for half a glass of whiskey (_turning to go_). People they are you +wouldn't believe as much as daylight from, without you'd get up +to have a look at it yourself. Killing Jack Smith indeed! Where +are you at all, Bartley, till I bring you out of this? My nice +quiet little man! My decent comrade! He that is as kind and as +harmless as an innocent beast of the field! He'll be doing no +harm at all if he'll shed the blood of some of you after this +day's work! That much would be no harm at all. (_Calls out_) +Bartley! Bartley Fallen! Where are you? (_Going out_) Did anyone +see Bartley Fallon? + +(_All turn to look after her._) + +JAMES RYAN. It is hard for her to believe any such a thing, God +help her! + +(_Enter BARTLEY FALLON from right, carrying hayfork._) + +BARTLEY. It is what I often said to myself, if there is ever any +misfortune coming to this world it is on myself it is sure to +come! + +(_All turn round and face him._) + +BARTLEY. To be going about with this fork and to find no one to +take it, and no place to leave it down, and I wanting to be gone +out of this--Is that you, Shawn Early? + +(_Holds out fork._) It's well I met you. You have no call to be +leaving the fair for a while the way I have, and how can I go +till I'm rid of this fork? Will you take it and keep it until +such time as Jack Smith-- + +SHAWN EARLY (_backing_). I will not take it, Bartley Fallon, I'm +very thankful to you! + +BARTLEY (_turning to apple stall_). Look at it now, Mrs. Tarpey, it +was here I got it; let me thrust it in under the stall. It will +lie there safe enough, and no one will take notice of it until +such time as Jack Smith-- + +MRS. TARPEY. Take your fork out of that! Is it to put trouble on +me and to destroy me you want? putting it there for the police to +be rooting it out maybe. + +(_Thrusts him back._) + +BARTLEY. That is a very unneighborly thing for you to do, Mrs. +Tarpey. Hadn't I enough care on me with that fork before this, +running up and down with it like the swinging of a clock, and +afeard to lay it down in any place! I wish I'd never touched it +or meddled with it at all! + +JAMES RYAN. It is a pity, indeed, you ever did. + +BARTLEY. Will you yourself take it, James Ryan? You were always a +neighborly man. + +JAMES RYAN (_backing_). There is many a thing I would do for you, +Bartley Fallon, but I won't do that! + +SHAWN EARLY. I tell you there is no man will give you any help or +any encouragement for this day's work. If it was something +agrarian now-- + +BARTLEY. If no one at all will take it, maybe it's best to give +it up to the police. + +TIM CASEY. There'd be a welcome for it with them surely! + +(_Laughter._) + +MRS. TULLY. And it is to the police Kitty Keary herself will be +brought. + +MRS. TARPEY (_rocking to and fro_). I wonder now who will take the +expense of the wake for poor Jack Smith? + +BARTLEY. The wake for Jack Smith! + +TIM CASEY. Why wouldn't he get a wake as well as another? Would +you begrudge him that much? + +BARTLEY. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you? + +SHAWN EARLY. The whole town knows of it by this. + +BARTLEY. Do they say what way did he die? + +JAMES RYAN. You don't know that yourself, I suppose, Bartley +Fallon? You don't know he was followed and that he was laid dead +with the stab of a hayfork? + +BARTLEY. The stab of a hayfork! + +SHAWN EARLY. You don't know, I suppose, that the body was found +in the Five-Acre Meadow? + +BARTLEY. The Five-Acre Meadow! + +TIM CASEY. It is likely you don't know that the police are after +the man that did it? + +BARTLEY. The man that did it! + +MRS. TULLY. You don't know, maybe, that he was made away with for +the sake of Kitty Keary, his wife? + +BARTLEY. Kitty Keary, his wife! (_Sits down bewildered._) + +MRS. TULLY. And what have you to say now, Bartley Fallon? + +BARTLEY (_crossing himself_). I to bring that fork here, and to +find that news before me! It is much if I can ever stir from this +place at all, or reach as far as the road! + +TIM CASEY. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and Jo Muldoon +along with him! It's best for us to quit this. + +SHAWN EARLY. That is so. It is best not to be mixed in this +business at all. + +JAMES RYAN. Bad as he is, I wouldn't like to be an informer +against any man. + +(_All hurry away except_ MRS. TARPEY, _who remains behind her stall. +Enter_ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN.) + +MAGISTRATE. I knew the district was in a bad state, but I did not +expect to be confronted with a murder at the first fair I came +to. + +POLICEMAN. I am sure you did not, indeed. + +MAGISTRATE. It was well I had not gone home. I caught a few words +here and there that roused my suspicions. + +POLICEMAN. So they would, too. + +MAGISTRATE. You heard the same story from everyone you asked? + +POLICEMAN. The same story--or if it was not altogether the same, +anyway it was no less than the first story. + +MAGISTRATE. What is that man doing? He is sitting alone with a +hayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder was done with a +hayfork! + +POLICEMAN (_in a whisper_). That's the very man they say did the +act, Bartley Fallon himself! + +MAGISTRATE. He must have found escape difficult--he is trying to +brazen it out. A convict in the Andaman Islands tried the same +game, but he could not escape my system! Stand aside--Don't go +far--Have the handcuffs ready. (_He walks up to BARTLEY, folds his +arms, and stands before him._) Here, my man, do you know anything +of John Smith? + +BARTLEY. Of John Smith! Who is he, now? + +POLICEMAN. Jack Smith, sir--Red Jack Smith! + +MAGISTRATE (_coming a step nearer and tapping him on the +shoulder_). Where is Jack Smith? + +BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly_). Where is +he, indeed? + +MAGISTRATE. What have you to tell? + +BARTLEY. It is where he was this morning, standing in this spot, +singing his share of songs--no, but lighting his pipe--scraping a +match on the sole of his shoe-- + +MAGISTRATE. I ask you, for the third time, where is he? + +BARTLEY. I wouldn't like to say that. It is a great mystery, and +it is hard to say of any man, did he earn hatred or love. + +MAGISTRATE. Tell me all you know. + +BARTLEY. All that I know--Well, there are the three estates; +there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there is-- + +MAGISTRATE. Nonsense! This is trifling! Get to the point. + +BARTLEY. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so? That is the +teaching of the clergy. Maybe you hold with the old people. It is +what they do be saying, that the shadow goes wandering, and the +soul is tired, and the body is taking a rest--The shadow! (_Starts +up._) I was nearly sure I saw Jack Smith not ten minutes ago at +the corner of the forge, and I lost him again--Was it his ghost I +saw, do you think? + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Conscience-struck! He will confess all +now! + +BARTLEY. His ghost to come before me! It is likely it was on +account of the fork! I to have it and he to have no way to defend +himself the time he met with his death! + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). I must note down his words. (_Takes out +notebook. To_ BARTLEY) I warn you that your words are being noted. + +BARTLEY. If I had ha' run faster in the beginning, this terror +would not be on me at the latter end! Maybe he will cast it up +against me at the day of judgment--I wouldn't wonder at all at +that. + +MAGISTRATE (_writing_). At the day of judgment-- + +BARTLEY. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me--is it coming +after me always by day it will be, and stripping the clothes off +in the nighttime?--I wouldn't wonder at all at that, being as I +am an unfortunate man! + +MAGISTRATE (_sternly_). Tell me this truly. What was the motive of +this crime? + +BARTLEY. The motive, is it? + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, the motive; the cause. + +BARTLEY. I'd sooner not say that. + +MAGISTRATE. You'd better tell me truly. Was it money? + +BARTLEY. Not at all! What did poor Jack Smith ever have in his +pockets unless it might be his hands that would be in them? + +MAGISTRATE. Any dispute about land? + +BARTLEY (_indignantly_). Not at all! He never was a grabber or +grabbed from anyone! + +MAGISTRATE. You will find it better for you if you tell me at +once. + +BARTLEY. I tell you I wouldn't for the whole world wish to say +what it was--it is a thing I would not like to be talking about. + +MAGISTRATE. There is no use in hiding it. It will be discovered +in the end. + +BARTLEY. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly everybody +knows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell no lie; where +would be the use? (_Puts his hand to his mouth and MAGISTRATE +stoops._) Don't be putting the blame on the parish, for such a +thing was never done in the parish before--it was done for the +sake of Kitty Keary, Jack Smith's wife. + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Put on the handcuffs. We have been +saved some trouble. I knew he would confess if taken in the right +way. + +(POLICEMAN _puts on handcuffs._) + +BARTLEY. Handcuffs now! Glory be! I always said, if there was +ever any misfortune coming to this place it was on myself it +would fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's no wonder at all in +that. + +(_Enter MRS. FALLON, followed by the rest. She is looking back at +them as she speaks._) + +MRS. FALLON. Telling lies the whole of the people of this town +are; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot! +Speaking against my poor respectable man! Saying he made an end +of Jack Smith! My decent comrade! There is no better man and no +kinder man in the whole of the five parishes! It's little +annoyance he ever gave to anyone! (_Turns and sees him._) What in +the earthly world do I see before me? Bartley Fallon in charge of +the police! Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, Bartley, what did you do +at all at all? + +BAHTLEY. O Mary, there has a great misfortune come upon me! It is +what I always said, that if there is ever any misfortune-- + +MRS. FALLON. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched I am? + +MAGISTRATE. This man has been arrested on a charge of murder. + +MRS. FALLON. Whose charge is that? Don't believe them! They are +all liars in this place! Give me back my man! + +MAGISTRATE. It is natural you should take his part, but you have +no cause of complaint against your neighbors. He has been +arrested for the murder of John Smith, on his own confession. + +MRS. FALLON. The saints of heaven protect us! And what did he +want killing Jack Smith? + +MAGISTRATE. It is best you should know all. He did it on account +of a love-affair with the murdered man's wife. + +MRS. FALLON (_sitting down_). With Jack Smith's wife! With Kitty +Keary!--Ochone, the traitor! + +THE CROWD. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, indeed. + +MRS. TULLY. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. Fallon. + +BAETLEY. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you-- + +MRS. FALLON. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any word you'll +say! (_Stops her ears._) Oh, isn't he the treacherous villain? +Ohone go deo! + +BARTLEY. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say! + +MRS. FALLON. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to the town, +so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like that in his +heart! + +BARTLEY. Is it your wits you have lost, or is it I myself that +have lost my wits? + +MRS. FALLON. And it's hard I earned you, slaving, slaving--and +you grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and discontented, and +the priest wore out anointing you, with all the times you +threatened to die! + +BARTLEY. Let you be quiet till I tell you! + +MRS. FALLON. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish. A +thing that was never heard of before! + +BARTLEY. Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking? + +MRS. FALLON. And if it was for any sort of a fine handsome woman, +but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, that's not +four feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her head unless she +got new ones! May God reward you, Bartley Fallon, for the black +treachery in your heart and the wickedness in your mind, and the +red blood of poor Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand! + +(_Voice of JACK SMITH heard singing_) + + The sea shall be dry, + The earth under mourning and ban! + Then loud shall he cry + For the wife of the red-haired man! + +BARTLEY. It's Jack Smith's voice--I never knew a ghost to sing +before. It is after myself and the fork he is coming! (_Goes back. +Enter_ JACK SMITH.) Let one of you give him the fork and I will be +clear of him now and for eternity! + +MRS. TARPEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Red Jack Smith! The man +that was going to be waked! + +JAMES RYAN. Is it back from the grave you are come? + +SHAWN EARLY. Is it alive you are, or is it dead you are? + +TIM CASEY. Is it yourself at all that's in it? + +MRS. TULLY. Is it letting on you were to be dead? + +MRS. FALLON. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary, your wife, +from bringing my man away with her to America! + +JACK SMITH. It is what I think, the wits are gone astray on the +whole of you. What would my wife want bringing Bartley Fallon to +America? + +MRS. FALLON. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you she wants, +Jack Smith, and to bring him away from myself. That's what the +two of them had settled together. + +JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that says that! Who is +it says it? (_To_ TIM CASEY) Was it you said it? (_To_ SHAWN EARLY) +Was it you? + +ALL TOGETHER (_backing and shaking their heads_). It wasn't I said +it! + +JACK SMITH. Tell me the name of any man that said it! + +ALL TOGETHEB (_pointing to_ BARTLEY). It was _him_ that said +it! + +JACK SMITH. Let me at him till I break his head! + +(BARTLEY _backs in terror. Neighbors hold_ JACK SMITH _back._) + +JACK SMITH (_trying to free himself_). Let me at him! Isn't he the +pleasant sort of a scarecrow for any woman to be crossing the +ocean with! It's back from the docks of New York he'd be turned +(_trying to rush at him again_), with a lie in his mouth and +treachery in his heart, and another man's wife by his side, and +he passing her off as his own! Let me at him, can't you? + +(_Makes another rush, but is held back._) + +MAGISTRATE (_pointing to_ JACK SMITH). Policeman, put the handcuffs +on this man. I see it all now. A case of false impersonation, a +conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. There was a case in the +Andaman Islands, a murderer of the Mopsa tribe, a religious +enthusiast-- + +POLICEMAN. So he might be, too. + +MAGISTRATE. We must take both these men to the scene of the +murder. We must confront them with the body of the real Jack +Smith. + +JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that will find my dead +body! + +MAGISTRATE. I'll call more help from the barracks. + +(_Blows POLICEMAN'S whistle._) + +BARTLEY. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack Smith are +put together in the one cell for the night, the handcuffs will be +taken off him, and his hands will be free, and murder will be +done that time surely! + +MAGISTRATE. Come on! + +(_They turn to the right._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE BEGGAR AND THE KING[1] + +Winthrop Parkhurst + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted from Drama, No. 33, February, 1919, by +permission of Mr. Parkhurst and the editors of Drama. +Copyrighted, 1918, as a dramatic composition, by Winthrop +Parkhurst. All rights of production reserved by author.] + +CHARACTERS + +THE KING OF A GREAT COUNTRY +HIS SERVANT +A BEGGAR + +_A chamber in the palace overlooks a courtyard. The season is +midsummer. The windows of the palace are open, and from a +distance there comes the sound of a man's voice crying for bread._ +THE KING _sits in a golden chair. A golden crown is on his head, +and he holds in his hand a sceptre which is also of gold. A_ +SERVANT _stands by his side, fanning him with an enormous fan of +peacock feathers._ + + +THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE KING (_languidly_). Who is that crying in the street for bread? + +THE SERVANT (_fanning_). O king, it is a beggar. + +THE KING. Why does he cry for bread? + +THE SERVANT. O king, he cries for bread in order that he may fill +his belly. + +THE KING. I do not like the sound of his voice. It annoys me very +much. Send him away. + +THE SERVANT (_bowing_). O king, he _has_ been sent away. + +THE KING. If that is so, then why do I hear his voice? + +THE SERVANT. O king, he has been sent away many times, yet each +time that he is sent away he returns again, crying louder than he +did before. + +THE KING. He is very unwise to annoy me on such a warm day. He +must be punished for his impudence. Use the lash on him. + +THE SERVANT. O king, it has been done. + +THE KING. Then bring out the spears. + +THE SEBVANT. O king, the guards have already bloodied their +swords many times driving him away from the palace gates. But it +is of no avail. + +THE KING. Then bind him and gag him if necessary. If need be cut +out his tongue. I do not like the sound of the fellow's voice. It +annoys me very much. + +THE SERVANT. O king, thy orders were obeyed even yesterday. + +THE KING (_frowning_). No. That cannot be. A beggar cannot cry for +bread who has no tongue. + +THE SERVANT. Behold he can--if he has grown another. + +THE KING. What! Why, men are not given more than one tongue in a +lifetime. To have more than one tongue is treason. + +THE SERVANT. If it is treason to have more than one tongue, O +king, then is this beggar surely guilty of treason. + +THE KING (_pompously_). The punishment for treason is death. See to +it that the fellow is slain. And do not fan me so languidly. I am +very warm. + +THE SERVANT (_fanning more rapidly_). Behold, O great and +illustrious king, all thy commands were obeyed even yesterday. + +THE KING. How! Do not jest with thy king. + +THE SERVANT. If I jest, then there is truth in a jest. Even +yesterday, O king, as I have told thee, the beggar which thou now +hearest crying aloud in the street was slain by thy soldiers with +a sword. + +THE KING. Do ghosts eat bread? Forsooth, men who have been slain +with a sword do not go about in the streets crying for a piece of +bread. + +THE SERVANT. Forsooth, they do if they are fashioned as this +beggar. + +THE KING. Why, he is but a man. Surely he cannot have more than +one life in a lifetime. + +THE SERVANT. Listen to a tale, O king, which happened yesterday. + +THE KING. I am listening. + +THE SERVANT. Thy soldiers smote this beggar for crying aloud in +the streets for bread, but his wounds are already healed. They +cut out his tongue, but he immediately grew another. They slew +him, yet he is now alive. + +THE KING. Ah! that is a tale which I cannot understand at all. + +THE SERVANT. O king, it may be well. + +THE KING. I cannot understand what thou sayest, either. + +THE SERVANT. O king, that may be well also. + +THE KING. Thou art speaking now in riddles. I do not like +riddles. They confuse my brain. + +THE SERVANT. Behold, O king, if I speak in riddles it is because +a riddle has come to pass. + +(THE BEGGAR'S _voice suddenly cries out loudly._) + +THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE KING. Ah! He is crying out again. His voice seems to me +louder than it was before. + +THE SERVANT. Hunger is as food to the lungs, O king. + +THE KING. His lungs I will wager are well fed. Ha, ha! + +THE SERVANT. But alas! his stomach is quite empty. + +THE KING. That is not my business. + +THE SERVANT. Should I not perhaps fling him a crust from the +window? + +THE KING. No! To feed a beggar is always foolish. Every crumb +that is given to a beggar is an evil seed from which springs +another fellow like him. + +THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE SERVANT. He seems very hungry, O king. + +THE KING. Yes. So I should judge. + +THE SERVANT. If thou wilt not let me fling, him a piece of bread +thine ears must pay the debts of thy hand. + +THE KING. A king can have no debts. + +THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Even so, the noise of this +fellow's begging must annoy thee greatly. + +THE KING. It does. + +THE SERVANT. Doubtless he craves only a small crust from thy +table and he would be content. + +THE KING. Yea, doubtless he craves only to be a king and he would +be very happy indeed. + +THE SERVANT. Do not be hard, O king. Thou art ever wise and just. +This fellow is exceedingly hungry. Dost thou not command me to +fling him just one small crust from the window? + +THE KING. My commands I have already given thee. See that the +beggar is driven away. + +THE SERVANT. But alas! O king, if he is driven away he will +return again even as he did before. + +THE KING. Then see to it that he is slain. I cannot be annoyed +with the sound of his voice. + +THE SERVANT. But alas! O great and illustrious king, if he is +slain he will come to life again even as he did before. + +THE KING. Ah! that is true. But his voice troubles me. I do not +like to hear it. + +THE SERVANT. His lungs are fattened with hunger. Of a truth they +are quite strong. + +THE KING. Well, propose a remedy to weaken them. + +THE SERVANT. A remedy, O king? + +(_He stops fanning._) + +THE KING. That is what I said. A remedy--and do not stop fanning +me. I am exceedingly warm. + +THE SERVANT (_fanning vigorously_). A crust of bread, O king, +dropped from yonder window--forsooth that might prove a remedy. + +THE KING (_angrily_). I have said I will not give him a crust of +bread. If I gave him a crust to-day he would be just as hungry +again to-morrow, and my troubles would be as great as before. + +THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Thy mind is surely filled with +great learning. + +THE KING. Therefore, some other remedy must be found. + +THE SERVANT. O king, the words of thy illustrious mouth are as +very meat-balls of wisdom. + +THE KING (_musing_). Now let me consider. Thou sayest he does not +suffer pain-- + +THE SERVANT. Therefore he cannot be tortured. + +THE KING. And he will not die-- + +THE SERVANT. Therefore it is useless to kill him. + +THE KING. Now let me consider. I must think of some other way. + +THE SERVANT. Perhaps a small crust of bread, O king-- + +THE KING. Ha! I have it. I have it. I myself will order him to +stop. + +THE SERVANT (_horrified_). O king! + +THE KING. Send the beggar here. + +THE SERVANT. O king! + +THE KING. Ha! I rather fancy the fellow will stop his noise when +the king commands him to. Ha, ha, ha! + +THE SERVANT. O king, thou wilt not have a beggar brought into thy +royal chamber! + +THE KING (_pleased with his idea_). Yea. Go outside and tell this +fellow that the king desires his presence. + +THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not +do this thing. Thou wilt surely not soil thy royal eyes by +looking on such a filthy creature. Thou wilt surely not +contaminate thy lips by speaking to a common beggar who cries +aloud in the streets for bread. + +THE KING. My ears have been soiled too much already. Therefore go +now and do as I have commanded thee. + +THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not-- + +THE KING (_roaring at him_). I said, Go! (THE SERVANT, _abashed, +goes out._) Forsooth, I fancy the fellow will stop his bawling +when I order him to. Forsooth, I fancy he will be pretty well +frightened when he hears that the king desires his presence. Ha, +ha, ha, ha! + +THE SERVANT (_returning_). O king, here is the beggar. + +(_A shambling creature hung in filthy rags follows_ THE SERVANT +_slowly into the royal chamber._) + +THE KING. Ha! A magnificent sight, to be sure. Art thou the +beggar who has been crying aloud in the streets for bread? + +THE BEGGAR (_in a faint voice, after a slight pause_). Art thou the +king? + +THE KING. I am the king. + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). It is not proper for a beggar +to ask a question of a king. Speak only as thou art spoken to. + +THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Do thou likewise. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) I +have ordered thee here to speak to thee concerning a very grave +matter. Thou art the beggar, I understand, who often cries aloud +in the streets for bread. Now, the complaint of thy voice annoys +me greatly. Therefore, do not beg any more. + +THE BEGGAR (_faintly_). I--I do not understand. + +THE KING. I said, do not beg any more. + +THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). The king has commanded thee +not to beg for bread any more. The noise of thy voice is as +garbage in his ears. + +THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Ha! An excellent flower of speech. Pin +it in thy buttonhole. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) Thine ears, I see, are in +need of a bath even more than thy body. I said, _Do not beg any +more._ + +THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. + +THE KING (_making a trumpet of his hands and shouting_). _DO NOT +BEG ANY MORE._ + +THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. + +THE KING. Heavens! He is deafer than a stone wall. + +THE SERVANT. O king, he cannot be deaf, for he understood me +quite easily when I spoke to him in the street. + +THE KING (_to_ THE BEGGAR). Art thou deaf? Canst thou hear what I +am saying to thee now? + +THE BEGGAR. Alas! I can hear every word perfectly. + +THE KING. Fft! The impudence. Thy tongue shall be cut out for +this. + +THE SERVANT. O king, to cut out his tongue is useless, for he +will grow another. + +THE KING. No matter. It shall be cut out anyway. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) +I have ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets. What +meanest thou by saying thou dost not understand? + +THE BEGGAR. The words of thy mouth I can hear perfectly. But +their noise is only a foolish tinkling in my ears. + +THE KING. Fft! Only a--! A lash will tinkle thy hide for thee if +thou dost not cure thy tongue of impudence. I, thy king, have +ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets for bread. +Signify, therefore, that thou wilt obey the orders of thy king by +quickly touching thy forehead thrice to the floor. + +THE BEGGAR. That is impossible. + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). Come. It is not safe to tempt +the patience of the king too long. His patience is truly great, +but he loses it most wondrous quickly. + +THE KING. Come, now: I have ordered thee to touch thy forehead to +the floor. + +THE SERVANT (_nudging him_). And quickly. + +THE BEGGAR. Wherefore should I touch my forehead to the floor? + +THE KING. In order to seal thy promise to thy king. + +THE BEGGAR. But I have made no promise. Neither have I any king. + +THE KING. Ho! He has made no promise. Neither has he any king. +Ha, ha, ha. I have commanded thee not to beg any more, for the +sound of thy voice is grievous unto my ears. Touch thy forehead +now to the floor, as I have commanded thee, and thou shall go +from this palace a free man. Refuse, and thou wilt be sorry +before an hour that thy father ever came within twenty paces of +thy mother. + +THE BEGGAR. I have ever lamented that he did. For to be born into +this world a beggar is a more unhappy thing than any that I +know--unless it is to be born a king. + +THE KING. Fft! Thy tongue of a truth is too lively for thy +health. Come, now, touch thy forehead thrice to the floor and +promise solemnly that thou wilt never beg in the streets again. +And hurry! + +THE SERVANT (_aside_). It is wise to do as thy king commands thee. +His patience is near an end. + +THE KING. Do not be afraid to soil the floor with thy forehead. I +will graciously forgive thee for that. + +(THE BEGGAR _stands motionless._) + +THE SERVANT. I said, it is not wise to keep the king waiting. + +(THE BEGGAR _does not move._) + +THE KING. Well? (_A pause._) _Well?_ (_In a rage_) _WELL?_ + +THE BEGGAR. O king, thou hast commanded me not to beg in the +streets for bread, for the noise of my voice offends thee. Now +therefore do I likewise command thee to remove thy crown from thy +forehead and throw it from yonder window into the street. For +when thou hast thrown thy crown into the street, then will I no +longer be obliged to beg. + +THE KING. Fft! _Thou_ commandest _me!_ _Thou_, a +beggar from the streets, commandest _me_, a king, to remove +my crown from my forehead and throw it from yonder window into +the street! + +THE BEGGAR. That is what I said. + +THE KING. Why, dost thou not know I can have thee slain for such +words? + +THE BEGGAR. No. Thou canst not have me slain. The spears of thy +soldiers are as straws against my body. + +THE KING. Ha! We shall see if they are. We shall see! + +THE SERVANT. O king, it is indeed true. It is even as he has told +thee. + +THE BEGGAR. I have required thee to remove thy crown from thy +forehead. If so be thou wilt throw it from yonder window into the +street, my voice will cease to annoy thee any more. But if thou +refuse, then thou wilt wish thou hadst never had any crown at +all. For thy days will be filled with a terrible boding and thy +nights will be full of horrors, even as a ship is full of rats. + +THE KING. Why, this is insolence. This is treason! + +THE BEGGAR. Wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder window? + +THE KING. Why, this is high treason! + +THE BEGGAR. I ask thee, wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder +window? + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE KING). Perhaps it were wise to humor +him, O king. After thou hast thrown thy crown away I can go +outside and bring it to thee again. + +THE BEGGAR. Well? Well? (_He points to the window._) Well? + +THE KING. No! I will not throw my crown from that window--no, nor +from any other window. What! Shall I obey the orders of a beggar? +Never! + +THE BEGGAR (_preparing to leave_). Truly, that is spoken like a +king. Thou art a king, so thou wouldst prefer to lose thy head +than that silly circle of gold that so foolishly sits upon it. +But it is well. Thou art a king. Thou couldst not prefer +otherwise. (_He walks calmly toward the door._) + +THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Stop him! Seize him! Does he think to +get off so easily with his impudence! + +THE BEGGAR (_coolly_). One of thy servants cannot stop me. Neither +can ten thousand of them do me any harm. I am stronger than a +mountain. I am stronger than the sea! + +THE KING. Ha! We will see about that, we will see about that. (_To_ +THE SERVANT) Hold him, I say. Call the guards. He shall be put in +chains. + +THE BEGGAR. My strength is greater than a mountain and my words +are more fearful than a hurricane. This servant of thine cannot +even touch me. With one breath of my mouth I can blow over this +whole palace. + +THE KING. Dost thou hear the impudence he is offering me? Why +dost thou not seize him? What is the matter with thee? Why dost +thou not call the guards? + +THE BEGGAR. I will not harm thee now. I will only cry aloud in +the streets for bread wherewith to fill my belly. But one day I +will not be so kind to thee. On that day my mouth will be filled +with a rushing wind and my arms will become as strong as steel +rods, and I will blow over this palace, and all the bones in thy +foolish body I will snap between my fingers. I will beat upon a +large drum and thy head will be my drumstick. I will not do these +things now. But one day I will do them. Therefore, when my voice +sounds again in thine ears, begging for bread, remember what I +have told thee. Remember, O king, and be afraid! + +(_He walks out. THE SERVANT, struck dumb, stares after him. THE +KING sits in his chair, dazed._) + +THE KING (_suddenly collecting his wits_). After him! After him! He +must not be allowed to escape! After him! + +THE SERVANT (_faltering_). O king--I cannot seem to move. + +THE KING. Quick, then. Call the guards. He must be caught and put +in chains. Quick, I say. Call the guards! + +THE SERVANT. O king--I cannot seem to call them. + +THE KING. How! Art thou dumb? Ah! + +(THE BEGGAR'S _voice is heard outside._) + +THE BEGGAR. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE KING. Ah. (_He turns toward the window, half-frightened, and +then, almost instinctively, raises his hands toward his crown, +and seems on the point of tossing it out the window. But with an +oath he replaces it and presses it firmly on his head._) How! Am I +afraid of a beggar! + +THE BEGGAR (_continuing outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some +bread. + +THE KING (_with terrible anger_). Close that window! + +(THE SERVANT _stands stupent, and the voice of THE BEGGAR grows +louder as the curtain falls._) + + + + +TIDES[1] + +George Middleton + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted by permission of the author and of Messrs. +Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume, _Masks +and Other One-Act Plays_ (1920).] + +CHARACTERS + +WILLIAM WHITE, a famous Internationalist +HILDA, his wife +WALLACE, their son + +SCENE: _At the Whites'; spring, 1917. A simply furnished study. +The walls are lined with bookshelves, indicating, by their +improvised quality, that they have been increased as occasion +demanded. On these are stacked, in addition to the books +themselves, many files of papers, magazines, and "reports." The +large work-table, upon which rests a double student lamp and a +telephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows is +opposite, pointing toward a doorway which leads into the +living-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparently +opens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of +its general disorder: it is essentially the workshop of a busy +man of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comes +in through the window, flooding the table._ + +WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is +about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of +the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority and +strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is +commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained +orator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in private +conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience. +Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his +humble origin._ + +_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand,_ HILDA WHITE, _his +wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in +appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle +of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband's: her +inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft +voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--the +sort which will endure all for a fixed intention._ + +_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy +comrades in their life together, and that a deep fundamental bond +has united them in spite of the different social spheres from +which each has sprung._ + + +WHITE (_seeing she has paused_). Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all +of it. + +HILDA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how differently he +feels about the war. + +WHITE (_with quiet sarcasm_). But it's been so many years since +your respectable brother has honored me even with the slightest +allusion-- + +HILDA. If you care for what he says--(_continuing to read the +letter_)--"Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don't suppose +your husband considers that an honor; but I do." + +WHITE (_interrupting_). And what kind of an American has he been in +times of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his +factory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah, +these smug hypocrites! + +HILDA (_reading_). "His violent opposition to America going in has +been disgrace enough--" + +WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes. + +HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) "--been +disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the faint +hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will +persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate +no difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on +board the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." (_She stops +reading._) He's right, dear. There will be nothing more +intolerant than a so-called democracy at war. + +WHITE. By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now he +writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will be further +disgraced by her radical husband. + +HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness. + +WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine +of forgiving my enemies. + +HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all +differently. + +WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty +years--ever since you married me--"out of your class," as he +called it. + +HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear him +no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude seem natural? You +mustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his class +more than you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_ +relative. + +WHITE. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you +something you may not know. (_Bitterly_) Whenever I've spoken +against privilege and wealth it's been his pudgy, comfortable +face I've shaken my fist at. He's been so damned comfortable all +his life. + +HILDA. (_She looks at him in surprise._) Why, Will, you surely +don't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make you out. What's +come over you these last weeks? You've always been above such +personal bitterness; even when you were most condemned and +ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I'd think you had done +something you were ashamed of. + +WHITE. What do you mean? + +HILDA. Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to +another means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chair +and sits without answering._) I can think of you beaten by outside +things--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can never +think of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and +self-reliant: you've fought so hard for the truth. + +WHITE (_tapping letter_). But he thinks he knows the truth, too. + +HILDA. He's also an intense nature. + +WHITE (_thoughtfully after a pause_). Yet there is _some_ +truth in what he says. + +HILDA (_smiling_). But you didn't like it--coming from him? + +WHITE. It will be different with you and me now that America's +gone in. + +HILDA. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always +farthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who +would compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource +of the non-combatant. + +(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch._) + +WHITE. That's for me. + +HILDA. Let me. (_She goes._) It may be Wallace. (_At phone_) Yes: +this is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says to +him_) It must be our boy. (_At phone_) Who? Oh--Mr. William White? +Yes: he'll be here. (_She hangs up receiver._) She'll ring when she +gets the connection through. + +WHITE (_turning away_). It takes so long these days. + +HILDA. Funny he didn't ask for me. + +WHITE. What made you think it was Wallace? + +HILDA. I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at +college with all the boys full of war fever. + +WHITE. And a father with my record. + +HILDA. He should be proud of the example. He has more than other +boys to cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as +the band plays and the flag is waved. He won't be carried away by +it. He'll remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we +now have conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank God every +night our boy is too young for the draft. + +WHITE. But when his time comes what will he do? + +HILDA (_calmly_). He will do it with courage. + +WHITE (_referring to her brother's letter_). Either prison or +acceptance! + +HILDA. I would rather have my son in prison than have him do what +he felt was wrong. Wouldn't you? + +WHITE (_evasively_). We won't have to face that problem for two +years. + +HILDA. And when it comes--if he falters--I'll give him these +notes of that wonderful speech you made at the International +Conference in 1910. (_Picking it up_) I was looking through it only +this morning. + +WHITE (_troubled_). Oh, that speech. + +HILDA (_glancing through it with enthusiasm_). "All wars are +imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas investments, trade +routes, private control of ammunition factories, secret +diplomacy--" + +WHITE. Don't you see that's all dead wood? + +HILDA (_not heeding him_). This part gave me new strength when I +thought of Wallace. (_Reading with eloquence_) "War will stop when +young men put Internationalism above Nationality, the law of God +above the dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law of +hate, the law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There +must be no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men of the +world once throw down their arms, let them once refuse to point +their guns at human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world +will melt away and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts +of men!" + +WHITE (_taking it from her_). And I made you believe it! What silly +prophets we radicals were. (_He tears it up._) Mere scraps of +paper, dear; scraps of paper, now. + +HILDA. But it was the truth; it still is the truth. + +WHITE. Hilda, there's something I want to talk over very, very +seriously with you. I've been putting it off. + +HILDA. Yes, dear? (_The outer door is heard to bang._) Listen: +wasn't that the front door? + +WHITE. Perhaps it's the maid? + +HILDA (_a bit nervously_). No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Please +see. + +WHITE (_smiling_). Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the Secret +Service. + +HILDA. One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimes +feel I am in a foreign country. + +(WHITE _goes slowly to the door in back and opens it._ WALLACE, +_their son, with valise in hand, is standing there, as if he had +hesitated to enter._ + +_He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father's physical +endowment and his mother's spiritual intensity. The essential +note he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent he is under +the pressure of a momentous decision which has brought him +unexpectedly home from college._) + +WHITE. Wallace! + +WALLACE (_shaking hands_). Hello, Dad! + +HILDA. Wallace! My boy! + +(WALLACE _drops valise and goes to his mother's arms._) + +WALLACE (_with deep feeling_). Mother! + +WHITE (_after a pause_). Well, boy; this is unexpected. We were +just talking of you. + +WALLACE. Were you? + +HILDA. I'm so glad to see you, so glad. + +WALLACE. Yes--yes--but-- + +WHITE. There's nothing the matter? + +HILDA. You've had trouble at college? + +WALLACE. Not exactly. But I couldn't stand it there. I've +left--for good. + +WHITE. I was sure that would happen. + +HILDA. Tell us. You know we'll understand. + +WALLACE. Dad, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk it over with +mother first. + +WHITE. Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand by you +just as she's always stood by me--all these years. (_He kisses +her._) I--I-- + +(_He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she smiles +up at him._) + +We mustn't let this war hurt all we've had together--you and I-- + +HILDA (_smiling and turning towards her son_). And Wallace. + +WHITE. And Wallace. Yes. (WALLACE _looks away guiltily._) Let me +know when the phone comes. + +(_He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and then +comes to WALLACE, who has sat down, indicating he is troubled._) + +HILDA. They made it hard for you at college? + +WALLACE. I don't know how to tell you. + +HILDA. I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic speeches, the +billboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventure +offered to youth, the pressure of your friends--all made it hard +for you to be called a slacker. + +WALLACE, No, mother. I wasn't afraid of what they could call me. +That was easy. + +HILDA (_proudly_). You are your father's son! + +WALLACE. Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing, you know +that. And I couldn't forget all you've told me. That's why I've +had to think this out all these months alone; why I've hesitated +longer than most fellows. The only thing I was really afraid of +was being wrong. But now I know I'm right and I'm going clean +through to the limit. + +HILDA. As your father said, I 'll stand by you--whatever it +is--if only you feel it's right. + +WALLACE. Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what happens? (_She +nods._) I knew you would. (_Taking her hand_) Then, mother, listen. +I've volunteered. + +HILDA (_shocked_). Volunteered! + +WALLACE. Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night. + +HILDA. To-night? + +WALLACE. Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind, I couldn't wait to +be drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I didn't want to be made to +go. + +HILDA (_hardly grasping it_). But you are too young. + +WALLACE. I lied about my age. You and father can stop me if you +tell the truth. That's why I've come back. I want you to promise +you won't tell. + +HILDA. _You_ ask me to aid you in what I don't believe? +WALLACE. But you said you'd stick by me if _I_ thought it +was right. + +HILDA. But-- + +WALLACE (_with fervor_). And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was +right for America to go in. I see now we ought to have declared +war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in when +the Lusitania was sunk. But we've been patient. The President +tried to keep us out of it until we _had_ to go in to save +our self-respect. We had to go in to show we were men of honor, +not pussy-cats. We had to go in to show the world the Stars and +Stripes wasn't a dish-rag on which the Germans could dry their +bloody hands! + +HILDA (_gazing at him incredulously_). You hate them as much as +that? + +WALLACE. Hate? No, mother, no. (_As if questioning himself_) I +really haven't any hate for the German _people_. People are +just people everywhere, I suppose, and they're tricked and fooled +by their rotten government, as the President says. + +HILDA. Then why fight them? + +WALLACE. Because they're standing back of their government, doing +what it says. And they've got to be licked to show them what kind +of a government they have. + +HILDA. At least you have no hate in your heart--that's something. + +WALLACE. Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor +devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home fellow here +in America who sits in a comfortable armchair, who applauds +patriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does nothing for his +country but hate and hate--while we fight for him. That's the +fellow I'll hate all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's +why I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day +longer; why I've got to go in; why I'm going to die if I must, +because _everybody_ ought to be willing to die for what he +believes. + +HILDA. You are my son, _too_! For I would willingly have +died if it could have kept us out of this war. + +WALLACE. Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you wouldn't +respect me if I didn't go through. + +HILDA. No. I wouldn't have respected you. But--but--(_She breaks +a bit, then controls herself._) You are quite sure you're doing +what's right? + +WALLACE (_tenderly_). Would I have been willing to hurt you like +this? + +HILDA (_holding him close to her_). My boy; my boy! + +WALLACE. It'll be all right, mother. + +HILDA. Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time: +it's only the moments that hurt. + +WALLACE (_after a pause_). Then you won't tell my real age, or +interfere? + +HILDA. I respect your right to decide your own life. + +WALLACE (_joyed_). Mother! + +HILDA. I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrifice +for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me to +stand in your way--even with my mother's love. (_He kisses her._) +Do it all as cleanly as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'll +come back to me. (_Half breaking down and taking him in her arms_). +Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. You'll never know how hard +it is for a mother. + +WALLACE (_gently_). But other mothers send their boys. + +HILDA. Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for. +Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how could they stand +the thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forth +in their own blood? (_There is a pause till she controls herself._) +I'll help you get your things together. + +WALLACE. And father? + +HILDA. He will be angry. + +WALLACE. But you will make him understand? + +HILDA. I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn't +understand. Don't ever forget his long fight against all kinds of +Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always +hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism, +are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them +after the war. He's been persecuted so by them--even back in the +days when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished +citizens were dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget all +this, my boy. These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhaps +than for you who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no +flags for us, no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer +in silence for what we believe. And it is only the strongest who +can survive.--Now call your father. + +WALLACE (_goes to door_). Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns to +his mother._) I'll be getting my things together. (_There is a +pause._ WHITE _enters._) Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_He +looks from father to mother._) Thanks, little mother. + +(_He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father and +mother stand facing each other._) + +HILDA. Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly._) He has +lied about his age. He wants us to let him go. + +WHITE. Volunteered? + +HILDA. Yes; he leaves to-night. + +WHITE (_after a pause_). And what have you told him? + +HILDA. That he must go. + +WHITE. You can say that? + +HILDA. It is the way he sees it. + +WHITE (_going to her sympathetically_). Hilda. + +HILDA (_looking up at him tenderly_). O Will, do you remember when +he was born? (_He soothes her._) And all we nursed him through +afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him about +war. (_With a shrug of her shoulders_) None of it has mattered. + +WHITE. War is stronger than all that. + +HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him? + +WHITE. He fears I will? + +HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves you +deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't? + +WHITE (_wearily_). Is there any use opposing anybody or anything +these days? + +HILDA. We must wait till the storm passes. + +WHITE. That's never been my way. + +HILDA. No. You've fought all your life. But now we must sit +silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will, +think of it; we are going to have a boy "over there," too. + +WHITE. Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been all +wrong? (_She looks at him, as she holds his hand._) What could +these frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt +this tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, after +all, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation +upon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility of +war? May it not become so terrible that men--the workers, I +mean--will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord? +Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than +talk--talk--talk? + +HILDA (_touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling_). Here +is your answer to your own question. + +WHITE. Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say yourself we +can't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to direct the current +to our own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it? + +HILDA. Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who _could_ +compromise. + +WHITE. But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of compromise? + +HILDA. That has been _your_ strength. And it is your +strength I'm relying on now that Wallace--Shall I call him? + +WHITE (_significantly_). No; wait. + +HILDA (_apprehensive at his turn_). Oh, yes. Before he came you +said there was something--(_The phone rings. They both look at +it._) That's for you. + +WHITE (_not moving_). Yes. + +HILDA _hardly believing his attititde_). Is--is it private? + +WHITE. No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (_He hesitates, +then goes to phone as she stands expectant._) Yes. Yes. Long +Distance? Washington? (_Her lips repeat the word._) Yes. This is +William White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I +appreciate the honor of having you confirm it personally. Senator +Bough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; war makes strange +bedfellows. Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I'll be ready. +Yes. Good-bye. + +(_He hangs up the receiver and looks at her._) + +HILDA. You, too! + +WHITE. I've been trying to tell you these last weeks; but I +couldn't somehow. + +HILDA. You were ashamed? + +WHITE. No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you. + +HILDA. I'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are going to be +part of this war? + +WHITE. I'm going to do what I can to help finish it. + +HILDA. By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime? + +WHITE. No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appointment on this +commission because I'm going to accept facts. + +HILDA. Have the facts of war changed, or is it you? + +WHITE. Neither has changed; but I'm going to act differently. I'm +going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to help direct the +current. + +HILDA. I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, William +White, speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood against +all war! + +WHITE. Yes. + +HILDA. And now, when the test comes, you are going to lend +yourself to it! You of all men! + +WHITE. Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; but +I think I can make you see if you will let me. + +HILDA (_poignantly_). If I will let you! Why, Will, I must +understand; I must. + +WHITE. Perhaps it will be difficult at first--with your +standards. + +HILDA. But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me. +You taught me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showed +her the truth, and she followed you and has followed you gladly +through hard years of struggle and poverty because of those +ideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, don't you see, I +must understand? + +WHITE. Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with +circumstance. + +HILDA. Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suit +the weather? + +WHITE. It's the end we must keep in mind. I haven't changed or +compromised one bit in that. I'm working in changed conditions, +that's all; working with all my heart to do away with all war. + +HILDA. By fighting one? + +WHITE (_with eloquence_). Yes. Because it is necessary. I've come +to see we can't argue war out of the world with words. We've got +to beat it out of the world. It can't be done with our hands +lifted up in prayer; it can only be done with iron hands crushing +it down. War is the mood of the world. Well, I'm going to fight +in my fashion. And when it is over, I'm going to keep on +fighting; for the next war will be greater than this. It will be +economic revolution. It will be the war of capital and labor. And +I mean to be ready. + +HILDA (_listening incredulously_). And to get ready you are willing +to link arms now with Senator Bough--a man you once called the +lackey of Wall Street--a man who has always opposed every +democratic principle. + +WHITE. Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning to realize +it can't do without us? Don't you see my appointment is an +acknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world? +Don't you see, with the prestige that will come to me from this +appointment, I will have greater power after the war; power to +bring about the realization of all our dreams; power to +demand--even at the Peace table itself, perhaps--that all wars +must end? + +HILDA. Do you actually believe you will have any power with your +_own_ people when you have compromised them for a temporary +expediency? + +WHITE (_with a gesture_). The leader must be wiser than the people +who follow. + +HILDA. So, contempt for your people is the first thing your new +power has brought you! (_He makes a gesture of denial._) You feel +you are above them--not of them. Do you believe for a moment that +Senator Bough has anything but contempt for you, too? + +WHITE (_confidently_). He needs me. + +HILDA. Needs you? Don't you understand why he had you appointed +on that committee? He wanted to get you out of the way. + +WHITE. Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power? + +HILDA. Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a "reformed" +radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the capitals of Europe to +advertise his liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits a +reformed drunkard. + +WHITE. And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be stronger +than he is, stronger than any of them. + +HILDA. No man is strong unless he does what he feels is right. +No, no, Will; you've convicted yourself with your own eloquence. +You've wanted to do this for some reason. But it isn't the one +you've told me. No; no. + +WHITE (_angrily_). You doubt my sincerity? + +HILDA. No; only the way you have read yourself. + +WHITE. Well, if you think I've tried to make it easy for myself +you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit of +years? Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I've sold out? +Easy to have you misunderstand? (_Goes to her._) Hilda, I'm doing +this for their good. I'm doing it--just as Wallace is--because I +feel it's right. + +HILDA. No; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this for the +same reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted +it all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his +eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was +no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe +differently! You can't hush the mind that for twenty years has +thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can't give +yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You +see power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests._) That's +your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--not +what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives with those of +our son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he +wishes to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals +for the ideals of others! (_She turns away._) Oh, Will, that's what +hurts. If you were only like him, I--I could stand it. + +WHITE (_quietly, after a pause_). I can't be angry at you--even +when you say such things. You've been too much a part of my life, +and work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't you, dear? +(_He sits beside her and takes her hand._) I knew it would be +difficult to make you understand. Only once have I lacked +courage, and that was when I felt myself being drawn into this +and they offered me the appointment. For then I saw I must tell +you. You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. But when you +asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would understand my +going, too.--Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young; +war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to +accomplish my ideals. + +HILDA. Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter +enemies praying to the same God as they kill each other. + +WHITE. Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can't. +It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I'll grant all +that. Only, America has gone in. The whole tide was against us, +dear. It is sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki +sweeping everything before it. All my life I've fought against +the current. (_Wearily_) And now that I've gone in, too, my arms +seem less tired. Yes; and except for the pain I've caused you, +I've never in all my life felt so--so happy. + +(_Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with tenderness +in her eyes._) + +HILDA. Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason +for what you've done. + +WHITE (_defensively_). I've given the real reason. + +HILDA (_her heart going out to him_). You poor tired man. My dear +one. Forgive me if I made it difficult for you, if I said cruel +words. I ought to have guessed; ought to have seen what life has +done to you. (_He looks up, not understanding her words_). Those +hands of yours first dug a living out of the ground. Then they +built houses and grew strong because you were a workman--a man of +the people. You saw injustice, and all your life you fought +against those who had the power to inflict it: the press; the +comfortable respectables, like my brother; and even those of your +own group who opposed you--you fought them all. And they look at +you as an outsider, an alien in your own country. O Will, I know +how hard it has been for you to be always on the defensive, +against the majority. It is hard to live alone, away from the +herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the +comfort and security they find by being together. + +WHITE. Yes--but-- + +HILDA. Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to be +part of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those who +have fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, to +have the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reason +you're going in. You're tired and worn out with the fight. I +know. I understand now. + +WHITE (_earnestly_). If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself. + +HILDA. There's been enough killing already. I have to understand +it somehow to accept it at all. + +(_He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles. He goes to +a chair and sits down, gazing before him. The music of Over There +is now heard outside in the street, approaching nearer and +nearer. It is a military band. WALLACE excitedly rushes in +dressed in khaki._) + +WALLACE. Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street. +(_Sees father._) Dad! Mother has told you? + +HILDA (_calmly_). Yes; I've told him. + +WALLACE. And you're going to let me go, Dad? + +HILDA. Yes. + +WALLACE. Oh, thanks, Dad (_grasping his hand_). + +I knew mother would make you see. (_Music nearer._) Listen! Isn't +that a great tune? Lifts you up on your feet and carries you over +there. Gee, it just gets into a fellow and makes him want to run +for his gun and charge over the top. (_He goes to balcony._) Look! +They're nearing here; all ready to sail with the morning tide. +They've got their helmets on. You can't see the end of them +coming down the avenue. Oh, thank God, I'm going to be one of +them soon. Thank God! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and the +Stars and Stripes. (_Calls off_) Hurrah! (_To them_) Oh, I wish I had +a flag. Why haven't we got a flag here?--Hurrah!! + +(_As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder. HILDA has +gone to WHITE during this, and stands behind him, with her arms +down his arms, as he sits there, gazing before him._) + +HILDA (_fervently_). Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does!! + +(_The music begins to trail off as WHITE tenderly takes hold of +her hands._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +ILE + +Eugene O'Neill + + +SCENE: CAPTAIN KEENEY'S cabin on board the steam whaling ship +Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment, about eight feet +high, with a skylight in the centre looking out on the poop deck. +On the left (_the stern of the ship_) a long bench with rough +cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, a +table. Over the bench, several curtained portholes. + +In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain's +sleeping-quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, +looking as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall. + +On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped, sideboard. On the +sideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther forward, a doorway +leading to the companion way, and past the officers' quarters to +the main deck. + +In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of the +ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are +painted white. + +There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes +through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of those +gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence +is unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking up +and down on the poop deck overhead. + +It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day +in the year 1895. + +At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. +Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of the +few dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN'S dinner. +He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, +and a woolen cap with ear-flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. +He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward +at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and +listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes +his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise +from the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table. + +BEN enters. He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinched +face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are +chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he +stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping +them against his sides, on the verge of crying. + +THE STEWARD (_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_). Oh, 'tis you, +is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye +belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'. + +BEN. It's c-c-old. (_Trying to control his chattering +teeth--derisively_) Who d' ye think it were--the Old Man? + +THE STEWARD. (_He makes a threatening move--BEN shrinks away._) +None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (_More kindly_) Where +was it ye've been all o' the time--the fo'c's'le? + +BEN. Yes. + +THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkey-shinin' +with the handstand ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a +hurry. + +BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (_A trace of awe in his tones--he +glances upward._) He just walks up and down like he didn't notice +nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard. + +THE STEWARD (_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_). He's +always starin' at the ice. (_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at +the skylight_) Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' +us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it +like a fly in molasses! + +BEN (_apprehensively_). Ssshh! He'll hear ye. + +THE STEWARD (_raging_). Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas, +and damn this stinkin' whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a +fool to ever ship on it! (_Subsiding, as if realizing the +uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep +conviction_) He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the +seas. + +BEN (_solemnly_). Aye. + +THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this +day. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in +the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin' +low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for +home! (_Bitterly_) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on +land again. (_Excitedly_) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do? +Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last +man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly +to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men +goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le? + +BEN (_going over to him--in a half-whisper_). They said if he don't +put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny. + +THE STEWARD (_with grim satisfaction_). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only +thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's +treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs. + +BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water's +far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back +for home, the men says. + +THE STEWARD (_bitterly_). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd where +they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. +All he thinks on is gittin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he +ain't had good luck with the whales. (_Shaking his head_) I think +the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses. + +BEN (_awed_). D' you really think he's crazy? + +THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye hear +ever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (_Pointing +to the door in rear_) Who but a man that's mad would take his +woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a stinkin' whalin' +ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for +nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure +she'll never be the same again. + +BEN (_sadly_). She useter be awful nice to me before--(_his eyes +grow wide and frightened_) she got--like she is. + +THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have been +hell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard +man--a driver if there ever was one. (_With a grim laugh_) I hope +he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. +And who could blame her? 'T is a God's wonder we're not a ship +full of crazed people--with the damned ice all the time, and the +quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice. + +BEN (_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_). She +don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me's if she didn't +know me. + +THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to +him--when she does talk--right enough. + +BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then +she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her. + +THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back. + +BEN (_tiptoes over to the door and listens_). She's cryin' now. + +THE STEWARD (_furiously--shaking his fist_). God send his soul to +hell for the devil he is! + +(_There is the noise of someone coming slowly down the +companionway stairs._ THE STEWARD _hurries to his stacked-up +dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top +one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, +trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ with +a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket_, CAPTAIN +KEENEY _appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, +removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, +around five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account of +the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is +massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak +hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick +hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and +blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots._ + +_He is followed into the cabin by the_ SECOND MATE, _a rangy +six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face._ The MATE _is dressed +about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so._) + +KEENEY. (_Comes toward the_ STEWARD--_with a stern look on his +face. The_ STEWARD _is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes +rattles in his trembling hands._ KEENEY _draws back his fist and +the_ STEWARD _shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and_ +KEENEY _speaks slowly._) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Is +nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet. + +THE STEWARD (_stammering_). Y-y-yes, sir. + +KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here +gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (_To_ BEN _fiercely_) Get +out o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN _darts past the_ +MATE _to the open doorway._) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward! + +THE STEWARD (_doing so with difficulty_). Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in +the Bering Sea at the end of a rope. + +THE STEWARD (_tremblingly_). Yes, sir. + +(_He hurries out. The_ SECOND MATE _walks slowly over to the_ +CAPTAIN.) + +MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should +catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to +come below. + +KEENEY (_impatiently_). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum. + +MATE (_unconsciously lowering his voice_). I'm afeard there'll be +trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn +ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two +years they signed up for is up to-day. + +KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr. +Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think +I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked? + +(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in the +doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed +in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and +pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands +as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and +unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at +her._) + +KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She is +silent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway._) + +KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait! + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to be +endeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go up +on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air. + +(_She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the_ MATE +_exchange a significant glance._) + +KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day. +There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice. + +MRS. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's +nothing to see down here but these walls. + +(_She makes a gesture of loathing._) + +KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of +home. + +KEENEY (_a touch of resentment in his voice_). I got it jest for +you. + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I know. (_She turns away from them and walks +slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and +looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._) Ah, +water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after +all these months of ice! (_She turns round to them, her face +transfigured with joy._) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at +it, David. + +KEENEY (_frowning_). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day +when the sun shines. + +MRS. KEENEY (_desperately_). But the sun never shines in this +terrible place. + +KEENEY (_a tone of command in his voice_). Best not to-day, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY (_crumbling before this command--abjectly_). Very well, +David. + +(_She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze. +The two men look at her uneasily._) + +KEENEY (_sharply_). Annie! + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). Yes, David. + +KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's +business. + +MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David. + +(_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters +shut behind her._) + +KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any +trouble. + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones. + +(_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._) + +Got yourn? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed +of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (_Grimly_) I ain't never +been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by +sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I +reckon. + +MATE (_hesitatingly_). Then you ain't goin'--to turn back? + +KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' +s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in +the hold? + +MATE (_hastily_). No, sir--but the grub's gittin' low. + +KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful +with it; and they's plenty o' water. + +MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two +years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble +for you in the courts when we git home. + +KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they +kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the +ile! (_Glancing sharply at the_ MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned +sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum? + +MATE (_flushing_). Not by a hell of a sight, sir. + +KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' +the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco. + +MATE (_slowly_). They wants to git back to their folks an' things, +I s'pose. + +KEENEY (_looking at him searchingly_). 'N' you want to turn back, +too. (THE MATE _looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._) +Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (_With +grim sarcasm_) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the +men agin me. + +MATE (_indignantly_). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things. + +KEENEY (_with satisfaction_). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. +You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No +man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one. + +MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I +mean. (_Desperately_) But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't +jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad +luck an' the ice an' all. + +KEENEY (_his face clouding--rebukingly but not severely_). That's +my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' +that. (_A pause._) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could +see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun, +Annie'll perk up. (_Another pause--then he bursts forth_) It ain't +the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. +But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel +of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days +without a full ship. Ain't that truth? + +MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'-- + +KEENEY (_scornfully_). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believe +that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't +you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms +and the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney +what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin' +back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (_The thought of +this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on +the marble top of the sideboard._) Hell! I got to git the ile, I +tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad +before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it's +breakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they's +whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone +wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all +hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do git it! + +(_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The +two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then_ KEENEY _goes +over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he +were going to enter--then closes the door softly._ JOE, _the +harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, +enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice +him._) + +KEENEY (_turning and seeing him_). Don't be standin' there like a +gawk, Harpooner. Speak up! + +JOE (_confusedly_). We want--the men, sir--they want send a +depitation aft to have a word with you. + +KEENEY (_furiously_). Tell 'em to go to--(_checks himself and +continues grimly_) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em. + +JOE. Aye, aye, sir. + +(_He goes out._) + +KEENEY (_with a grim smile_). Here it comes, the trouble you spoke +of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to +crush such things at the start than let them make headway. + +MATE (_worriedly_). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We +might need their help. + +KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, +Mr. Slocum. + +(_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the +crew crowd into the cabin, led by_ JOE. _All are dressed +alike--sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the_ +CAPTAIN, _twirling their fur caps in their hands._) + +KEENEY (_after a pause_). Well? Who's to speak fur ye? + +JOE (_stepping forward with an air of bravado_). I be. + +KEENEY (_eyeing him up and down coldly_). So you be. Then speak +your say and be quick about it. + +JOE (_trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoiding +his eyes_). The time we signed up for is done to-day. + +KEENEY (_icily_). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know. + +JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far's we kin see. + +KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile. + +JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye. + +KEENEY. The ice is breaking up. + +JOB (_after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily +to one another_). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten. + +KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have +eaten worse. + +(_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._) + +JOE (_encouraged by this support_). We ain'ta-goin' to work no more +'less you puts back fur home. + +KEENEY (_fiercely_). You ain't, ain't you? + +JOE. No; and the law courts 'll say we was right. + +KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm +the law on this ship. (_Edging up toward the harpooner._) And every +mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons. + +(_There are more angry exclamations from the crew._ MRS. KEENEY +_appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. +None of the men notices her._) + +JOE (_with bravado_). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and take the +old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys? + +(_As he turns his head to look at the others_, KEENEY'S _fist +shoots out to the side of his jaw._ JOE _goes down in a heap and +lies there._ MRS. KEENEY _gives a shriek and hides her face in +her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, +but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers +of_ KEENEY _and the_ MATE.) + +KEENEY (_his eyes and voice snapping_). Hold still! (_The men +stand huddled together in a sullen silence._ KEENEY'S _voice is +full of mockery._) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on +this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and +(_he gives_ JOE'S _body a contemptuous kick_) drag him with you. +And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead +as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the +same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (_The men leave in cowed silence, +carrying_ JOE _with them._ KEENEY _turns to the_ MATE _with a +short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._) Best get +up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of +their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now +on. I know 'em. + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +(_He goes out, right._ KEENEY _hears his wife's hysterical +weeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her +side._) + +KEENEY (_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff +tenderness_). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all past +and gone. + +MRS. KEENEY (_shrinking away from, him_). Oh, I can't bear it! I +can't bear it any longer! + +KEENEY (_gently_). Can't bear what, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_hysterically_). All this horrible brutality, and +these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell +of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence. + +(_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her +handkerchief._) + +KEENEY (_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a +puzzled frown_). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on +this voyage, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I +didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've +been doing these last six years since we were married--waiting, +and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mind +occupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of being +Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, +wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger +and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they +make you out to be in Homeport. And instead--(_her voice grows +tremulous_) all I find is ice--and cold--and brutality! + +(_Her voice breaks._) + +KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no +ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home +where you've got all your woman's comforts." (_Shaking his head_) +But you was so set on it. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You +see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old +Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them. + +KEENEY (_protestingly_). I done my best to make it as cozy and +comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY _looks around her in wild +scorn._) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' +it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was +calms and things was dull like. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Yes, you were very kind, David. I know +that. (_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole +and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth._) I won't stand it--I +can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (_She runs +over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his +arm protectingly over her shoulders._) Take me away from here, +David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, +I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel +as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. +I'm afraid. Take me home! + +KEENEY (_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face +anxiously_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got +fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you +look this way before. + +MRS. KEENEY (_laughing hysterically_). It's the ice and the cold +and the silence--they'd make anyone look strange. + +KEENEY (_soothingly_). In a month or two, with good luck, three at +the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her +everything she'll stand and p'int for home. + +MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to +get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's +cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. +You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If +you've a heart at all, you've got to turn back. + +KEENEY (_harshly_). I can't, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you? + +KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, +I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other +captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a +full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if +you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it. + +KEENEY (_his jaw set stubbornly_). It ain't that, Annie. Them +skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what +anyone'd say--but--(_He hesitates, struggling to express his +meaning._) You see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as +skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem +right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' +Homeport, and--Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (_He glances at +her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, +not hearing a word he is saying._) Annie! (_She comes to herself +with a start._) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You +ain't well. + +MRS. KEENEY (_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in +rear_). David! Won't you please turn back? + +KEENEY (_gently_). I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my +meanin'. I got to git the ile. + +MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you +don't. You've got more than plenty. + +KEENEY (_impatiently_). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you +think I'm as mean as that? + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). No--I don't know--I can't +understand--(_Intensely_) Oh, I want to be home in the old house +once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice +talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so +long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back. + +KEENEY (_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her +eyes_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well. + +MRS. KEENEY (_not appearing to hear him_). I used to be lonely when +you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous +place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it +was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the +fine free life you must be leading. (_She gives a laugh which is +half a sob._) I used to love the sea then. (_She pauses; then +continues with slow intensity._) But now--I don't ever want to see +the sea again. + +KEENEY (_thinking to humor her_). 'Tis no fit place for a woman, +that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye. + +MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a +gesture of pathetic weariness_). How long would it take us to +reach home--if we started now? + +KEENEY (_frowning_). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair +luck. + +MRS. KEENEY (_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt +smile_). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't +it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, +wasn't it? + +KEENEY (_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved +him--gruffly_). Don't you remember? + +MRS. KEENEY (_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_). My +memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (_A +pause--then she smiles dreamily._) It's June now. The lilacs will +be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the +trellis to the side of the house--they're budding. + +(_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to +sob._) + +KEENEY (_disturbed_). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore out +cryin' over what can't be helped. + +MRS. KEENEY (_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and +clinging to him_). You love me, don't you, David? + +KEENEY (_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_) Love you? Why +d'you ask me such a question, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him--fiercely_). But you do, don't you, +David? Tell me! + +KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there +be aught but love between us after all these years? + +MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him again--still more fiercely_). Then you do +love me. Say it! + +KEENEY (_simply_). I do, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. (_Gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her +sides._ KEENEY _regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across +her eyes and murmurs half to herself._) I sometimes think if we +could only have had a child. (KEENEY _turns away from her, deeply +moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face +her--intensely._) And I've always been a good wife to you, +haven't I, David? + +KEENEY (_his voice betraying his emotion_). No man ever had a +better, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, +David? Have I? + +KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, +Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Then do this, this once, for my sake, for +God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the +brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel +the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me--day +after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. +(_Sobbing._) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if +you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me +home! + +(_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. +His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He +holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a +moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens +as he looks at her tear-stained face._) + +KEENEY (_dragging out the words with an effort_). I'll do it, +Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye. + +MRS. KEENEY (_with wild joy--kissing him_). God bless you for that, +David! + +(_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the +companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps +on the stairs and the_ SECOND MATE _enters the cabin._) + +MATE (_excitedly_). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd, sir. +There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, +the lookout says. + +(KEENEY _straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance._ +MRS. KEENEY _looks at the_ MATE _with terrified eyes._) + +KEENEY (_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_). A clear +passage? To no'th'rd? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY (_his voice suddenly grim with determination_). Then get her +ready and we'll drive her through. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. + +MRS. KEENEY (_appealingly_). David! + +KEENEY (_not heeding her_). Will the men turn to willin' or must we +drag 'em out? + +MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God +into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs. + +KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. (_With grim determination_) +They's whale t' other side o' this floe and we're going to git +'em. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. + +(_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of +scuffing feet from the deck outside and the_ MATE'S _voice shouting +orders._) + +KEENEY (_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_). And I was a-goin' +home like a yaller dog! + +MRS. KEENEY (_imploringly_). David! + +KEENEY (_sternly_). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddle +in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I +got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. +I got to git the ile, I tell ye. + +MRS. KEENEY (_supplicatingly_). David! Aren't you going home? + +KEENEY (_ignoring this question--commandingly_). You ain't well. Go +and lay down a mite. (_He starts for the door._) I got to git on +deck. + +(_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. +She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh +hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to +play wildly an old hymn._ KEENEY _reënters from the doorway to the +deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs +her roughly by the shoulder._) + +KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (_She laughs wildly, +and he starts back from her in alarm._) Annie! What is it? (_She +doesn't answer him._ KEENEY'S _voice trembles._) Don't you know me, +Annie? + +(_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that +he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid +expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, +and she commences softly to play the organ again._) + +KEENEY (_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had +difficulty in speaking_). You said--you was agoin' mad--God! + +(_A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" A +moment later the_ MATE'S _face appears through the skylight. He +cannot see_ MRS. KEENEY.) + +MATE (_in great excitement_). Whales, sir--a whole school of +'em--off the starb'd quarter 'bout five mile away--big ones! + +KEENEY (_galvanized into action_). Are you lowerin' the boats? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY (_with grim decision_). I'm a-comin' with ye. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (_Jubilantly_) You'll git the ile now right +enough, sir. + +(_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._) + +KEENEY (_turning to his wife_). Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git +the ile. (_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He +gives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan._) I know you're +foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--(_anxiously_) be +you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while +longer, Annie--then we'll turn hom'ard. I can't turn back now, +you see that, don't ye? I've got to git the ile. (_In sudden +terror_) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you? + +(_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The_ MATE'S +_face appears again through the skylight._) + +MATE. All ready, sir. + +(KEENEY _turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, +where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, +fighting to control his feelings._) + +MATE. Comin', sir? + +KEENEY (_his face suddenly grown hard with determination_). Aye. + +(_He turns abruptly and goes out._ MRS. KEENEY _does not appear to +notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centred in the +organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little +from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move +faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as +the Curtain falls._) + + + + +CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR[1] + +J.A. Ferguson + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the publishers, +Messrs. Gowans and Gray, Glasgow.] + +CHARACTERS + +MARY STEWART +MORAG CAMERON +DUGALD STEWART +CAPTAIN SANDEMAN +ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL +JAMES MACKENZIE + +SCENE: _Interior of a lonely cottage on the road from Struan to +Rannoch in North Perthshire._ + +TIME: _After the Rising of 1745._ + + +MORAG _is restlessly moving backwards and forwards. The old woman +is seated on a low stool beside the peat fire in the centre of +the floor._ + +_The room is scantily furnished and the women are poorly clad. +MORAG is barefooted. At the back is the door that leads to the +outside. On the left of the door is a small window. On the right +side of the room there is a door that opens into a barn. MORAG +stands for a moment at the window, looking out._ + + +MORAG. It is the wild night outside. + +MARY STEWART. Is the snow still coming down? + +MORAG. It is that, then--dancing and swirling with the wind too, +and never stopping at all. Aye, and so black I cannot see the +other side of the road. + +MARY STEWART. That is good. + +(MORAG _moves across the floor and stops irresolutely. She is +restless, expectant._) + +MORAG. Will I be putting the light in the window? + +MARY STEWART. Why should you be doing that? You have not heard +his call (_turns eagerly_), have you? + +MORAG (_with sign of head_). No, but the light in the window would +show him all is well. + +MARY STEWART. It would not, then! The light was to be put there +_after_ we had heard the signal. + +MORAG. But on a night like this he may have been calling for long +and we never hear him. + +MARY STEWART. Do not be so anxious, Morag. Keep to what he says. +Put more peat on the fire now and sit down. + +MORAG (_with increasing excitement_). I canna, I canna! There is +that in me that tells me something is going to befall us this +night. Oh, that wind! Hear to it, sobbing round the house as if +it brought some poor lost soul up to the door, and we refusing it +shelter. + +MARY STEWART. Do not be fretting yourself like that. Do as I bid +you. Put more peats to the fire. + +MORAG (_at the wicker peat-basket_). Never since I.... What was +that? + +(_Both listen for a moment._) + +MARY STEWART. It was just the wind; it is rising more. A sore +night for them that are out in the heather. + +(MORAG _puts peat on the fire without speaking._) + +MARY STEWART. Did you notice were there many people going by +to-day? + +MORAG. No. After daybreak the redcoats came by from Struan; and +there was no more till nine, when an old man like the Catechist +from Killichonan passed. At four o'clock, just when the dark was +falling, a horseman with a lad holding to the stirrup, and +running fast, went by towards Rannoch. + +MARY STEWART. But no more redcoats? + +MORAG (_shaking her head_). The road has been as quiet as the +hills, and they as quiet as the grave. Do you think will he come? + +MARY STEWART. Is it you think I have the gift, girl, that you ask +me that? All I know is that it is five days since he was here for +meat and drink for himself and for the others--five days and five +nights, mind you; and little enough he took away; and those in +hiding no' used to such sore lying, I'll be thinking. He must try +to get through to-night. But that quietness, with no one to be +seen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag. They must +know something. They must be watching. + +(_A sound is heard by both women. They stand listening._) + +MARY STEWART. Haste you with the light, Morag. + +MORAG. But it came from the back of the house--from the hillside. + +MARY STEWART. Do as I tell you. The other side may be watched. + +(_A candle is lit and placed in the window. Girl goes hurrying to +the door._) + +MARY STEWART. Stop, stop! Would you be opening the door with a +light like that shining from the house? A man would be seen +against it in the doorway for a mile. And who knows what eyes may +be watching? Put out the light now and cover the fire. + +(_Room is reduced to semi-darkness, and the door unbarred. Someone +enters._) + +MORAG. You are cold, Dugald! + +(STEWART, _very exhausted, signs assent._) + +MORAG. And wet, oh, wet through and through! + +STEWART. Erricht Brig was guarded, well guarded. I had to win +across the water. + +(_The old woman has now relit candle and taken away plaid from +fire._) + +MARY STEWART. Erricht Brig--then-- + +STEWART (_nods_). Yes--in a corrie, on the far side of Dearig, +half-way up. + +MARY STEWART. Himself is there then? + +STEWART. Aye, and Keppoch as well, and another and a greater is +with them. + +MARY STEWART. Wheest! (_Glances at_ MORAG.) + +STEWART. Mother, is it that you can-- + +MARY STEWART. Yes, yes, Morag will bring out the food for ye to +carry back. It is under the hay in the barn, well hid. Morag will +bring it.--Go, Morag, and bring it. + +(MORAG _enters other room or barn which opens on right._) + +STEWART. Mother, I wonder at ye; Morag would never tell--never. + +MARY STEWART. Morag is only a lass yet. She has never been tried. +And who knows what she might be made to tell. + +STEWART. Well, well, it is no matter, for I was telling you where +I left them, but not where I am to _find_ them. + +MARY STEWART. They are not where you said now? + +STEWART. No; they left the corrie last night, and I am to find +them (_whispers_) in a quiet part on Rannoch moor. + +MARY STEWART. It is as well for a young lass not to be knowing. +Do not tell her. + +(_He sits down at table; the old woman ministers to his wants._) + +STEWART. A fire is a merry thing on a night like this; and a roof +over the head is a great comfort. + +MARY STEWART. Ye'll no' can stop the night? + +STEWART. No. I must be many a mile from here before the day +breaks on Ben Dearig. + +(MORAG _reënters._) + +MORAG. It was hard to get through, Dugald? + +STEWART. You may say that. I came down Erricht for three miles, +and then when I reached low country I had to take to walking in +the burns because of the snow that shows a man's steps and tells +who he is to them that can read; and there's plenty can do that +abroad, God knows. + +MORAG. But none spied ye? + +STEWART. Who can tell? Before dark came, from far up on the +slopes of Dearig I saw soldiers about; and away towards the +Rannoch Moor they were scattered all over the country like black +flies on a white sheet. A wild cat or anything that couldna fly +could never have got through. And men at every brig and ford and +pass! I had to strike away up across the slopes again; and even +so as I turned round the bend beyond Kilrain I ran straight into +a sentry sheltering behind a great rock. But after that it was +easy going. + +MORAG. How could that be? + +STEWART. Well, you see I took the boots off him, and then I had +no need to mind who might see my steps in the snow. + +MORAG. You took the boots off him! + +STEWART (_laughing_). I did that same. Does that puzzle your bonny +head? How does a lad take the boots off a redcoat? Find out the +answer, my lass, while I will be finishing my meat. + +MORAG. Maybe he was asleep? + +STEWART. Asleep! Asleep! Well, well, he sleeps sound enough now, +with the ten toes of him pointed to the sky. + +(_The old woman has taken up dirk from table. She puts it down +again._ MORAG _sees the action and pushes dirk away so that it +rolls off the table and drops to the floor. She hides her face in +her hands._) + +MARY STEWART. Morag, bring in the kebbuck o' cheese. Now that all +is well and safe it is we that will look after his comfort +to-night. (MORAG _goes into barn._)--I mind well her mother saying +to me--it was one day in the black winter that she died, when the +frost took the land in its grip and the birds fell stiff from the +trees, and the deer came down and put their noses to the door--I +mind well her saying just before she died-- + +(_Loud knocking at the door._) + +A VOICE. In the King's name! + +(_Both rise._) + +MARY STEWART. The hay in the barn, quick, my son. + +(_Knocking continues._) + +A VOICE. Open in the King's name! + +(STEWART _snatches up such articles as would reveal his presence +and hurries into barn. He overlooks dirk on floor. The old woman +goes towards door._) + +MARY STEWART. Who is there? What do you want? + +A VOICE. Open, open. + +(MARY STEWART _opens door and_ CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _follows_ CAPTAIN +SANDEMAN _into the house. Behind_ KILMHOR _comes a man carrying a +leather wallet_, JAMES MACKENZIE, _his clerk. The rear is brought +up by soldiers carrying arms._) + +SANDEMAN. Ha, the bird has flown. + +CAMPBELL (_who has struck dirk with his foot and picked it up_). +But the nest is warm; look at this. + +SANDEMAN. It seems as if we had disturbed him at supper. Search +the house, men. + +MARY STEWART. I'm just a lonely old woman. You have been +misguided. I was getting through my supper. + +CAMPBELL (_holding up dirk_). And this was your toothpick, eh? Na! +Na! We ken whaur we are, and wha we want, and by Cruachan, I +think we've got him. + +(_Sounds are heard from barn, and soldiers return with MORAG. She +has stayed in hiding from fear, and she still holds the cheese in +her hands._) + +SANDEMAN. What have we here? + +CAMPBELL. A lass! + +MARY STEWART. It's just my dead brother's daughter. She was +getting me the cheese, as you can see. + +CAMPBELL. On, men, again: the other turtle doo will no' be far +away. (_Banteringly to the old woman_) Tut, tut, Mistress Stewart, +and do ye have her wait upon ye while your leddyship dines alane! +A grand way to treat your dead brother's daughter; fie, fie, upon +ye! + +(_Soldiers reappear with_ STEWART, _whose arms are pinioned._) + +CAMPBELL. Did I no' tell ye! And this, Mrs. Stewart, will be your +dead sister's son, I'm thinking; or aiblins your leddyship's +butler! Weel, woman, I'll tell ye this: Pharaoh spared ae butler, +but Erchie Campbell will no' spare anither. Na! na! Pharaoh's +case is no' to be taken as forming ony preceedent. And so if he +doesna answer certain questions we have to speir at him, before +morning he'll hang as high as Haman. + +(STEWART _is placed before the table at which_ CAMPBELL _has seated +himself. Two soldiers guard_ STEWART. _Another is behind_ CAMPBELL'S +_chair and another is by the door. The clerk_, MACKENZIE, _is seated +at up corner of table._ SANDEMAN _stands by the fire._) + +CAMPBELL (_to STEWART_). Weel, sir, it is within the cognizance of +the law that you have knowledge and information of the place of +harbor and concealment used by certain persons who are in a state +of proscription. Furthermore, it is known that four days ago +certain other proscribed persons did join with these, and that +they are banded together in an endeavor to secure the escape from +these dominions of His Majesty, King George, of certain persons +who by their crimes and treasons lie open to the capital charge. +What say ye? + +(STEWART _makes no reply._) + +CAMPBELL. Ye admit this then? + +(STEWART _as before._) + +CAMPBELL. Come, come, my lad. Ye stand in great jeopardy. Great +affairs of state lie behind this which are beyond your simple +understanding. Speak up and it will be the better for ye. + +(STEWART _silent as before._) + +CAMPBELL. Look you. I'll be frank with you. No harm will befall +you this night--and I wish all in this house to note my words--no +harm will befall you this night if you supply the information +required. + +(STEWART _as before._) + +CAMPBELL (_with sudden passion_). Sandeman, put your sword to the +carcass o' this muckle ass and see will it louse his tongue. + +STEWART. It may be as well then, Mr. Campbell, that I should say +a word to save your breath. It is this: Till you talk Rannoch +Loch to the top of Schiehallion, ye'll no' talk me into a yea or +nay. + +CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Say ye so? Noo, I widna be so very sure if I +were you. I've had a lairge experience o' life, and speaking out +of it I would say that only fools and the dead never change their +minds. + +STEWART (_quietly too_). Then you'll be adding to your experience +to-night, Mr. Campbell, and you'll have something to put on to +the other side of it. + +CAMPBELL (_tapping his snuff-box_). Very possibly, young sir, but +what I would present for your consideration is this: While ye may +be prepared to keep your mouth shut under the condition of a +fool, are ye equally prepared to do so in the condition of a dead +man? + +(CAMPBELL _waits expectantly._ STEWART _silent as before._) + +CAMPBELL. Tut, tut, now, if it's afraid ye are, my lad, with my +hand on my heart and on my word as a gentleman-- + +STEWART. Afraid! + +(_He spits in contempt towards_ CAMPBELL.) + +CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Ye damned stubborn Hieland stot. (_To_ +SANDEMAN) Have him taken out. We'll get it another way. + +(CAMPBELL _rises._ STEWART _is moved into barn by soldiers._) + +CAMPBELL (_walking_). Some puling eediots, Sandeman, would applaud +this contumacy and call it constancy. Constancy! Now, I've had a +lairge experience o' life, and I never saw yet a sensible man +insensible to the touch of yellow metal. If there may be such a +man, it is demonstrable that he is no sensible man. Fideelity! +quotha, it's sheer obstinacy. They just see that ye want +something oot o' them, and they're so damned selfish and thrawn +they winna pairt. And with the natural inabeelity o' their brains +to hold mair than one idea at a time they canna see that in +return you could put something into their palms far more +profitable. (_Sits again at table._) Aweel, bring Mistress Stewart +up. + +(_Old woman is placed before him where son had been._) + +CAMPBELL (_more ingratiatingly_). Weel noo, Mistress Stewart, good +woman, this is a sair predeecament for ye to be in. I would jist +counsel ye to be candid. Doubtless yer mind is a' in a swirl. Ye +kenna what way to turn. Maybe ye are like the Psalmist and say: +"I lookit this way and that, and there was no man to peety me, or +to have compassion upon my fatherless children." But, see now, ye +would be wrong; and, if ye tell me a' ye ken, I'll stand freends +wi' ye. Put your trust in Erchie Campbell. + +MARY STEWART. I trust no Campbell. + +CAMPBELL. Weel, weel noo, I'm no' jist that set up wi' them +myself. There's but ae Campbell that I care muckle aboot, after +a'. But, good wife, it's no' the Campbells we're trying the noo; +so as time presses we'll jist "_birze yont_," as they say +themselves. Noo then, speak up. + +(MARY STEWART _is silent._) + +CAMPBELL (_beginning grimly and passing through astonishment, +expostulation, and a feigned contempt for mother and pity for +son, to a pretence of sadness which, except at the end, makes his +words come haltingly_). Ah! ye also. I suppose ye understand, +woman, how it will go wi' your son? (_To his clerk_) Here's a fine +mother for ye, James! Would you believe it? She kens what would +save her son--the very babe she nursed at her breast; but will +she save him? Na! na! Sir, he may look after himself! A mother, a +mother! Ha! ha! + +(CAMPBELL _laughs._ MACKENZIE _titters foolishly._ CAMPBELL _pauses to +watch effect of his words._) + +Aye, you would think, James, that she would remember the time +when he was but little and afraid of all the terrors that walk in +darkness, and how he looked up to her as to a tower of safety, +and would run to her with outstretched hands, hiding his face +from his fear, in her gown. The darkness! It is the dark night +and a long journey before him now. + +(_He pauses again._) + +You would think, James, that she would mind how she happit him +from the cold of winter and sheltered him from the summer heats, +and, when he began to find his footing, how she had an eye on a' +the beasts of the field and on the water and the fire that were +become her enemies--And to what purpose all this care?--tell me +that, my man, to what good, if she is to leave him at the last to +dangle from a tree at the end of a hempen rope--to see his flesh +given to be meat for the fowls of the air--her son, her little +son! + +MARY STEWAET. My son is guilty of no crime! + +CAMPBELL. Is he no'! Weel, mistress, as ye'll no' take my word +for it, maybe ye'll list to Mr. Mackenzie here. What say ye, +James? + +MACKENZIE. He is guilty of aiding and abetting in the concealment +of proscribed persons; likewise with being found in the +possession of arms, contrary to statute, both very heinous +crimes. + +CAMPBELL. Very well said, James! Forby, between ourselves, Mrs. +Stewart, the young man in my opeenion is guilty of another crime +(_snuffs_)--he is guilty of the heinous crime of not knowing on +which side his bread is buttered.--Come now-- + +MARY STEWART. Ye durst not lay a finger on the lad, ye durst not +hang him. + +MACKENZIE. And why should the gentleman not hang him if it +pleesure him? + +(CAMPBELL _taps snuff-box and takes pinch._) + +MARY STEWART (_with intensity_). Campbell of Kilmhor, lay but one +finger on Dugald Stewart and the weight of Ben Cruachan will be +light to the weight that will be laid on your soul. I will lay +the curse of the seven rings upon your life: I will call up the +fires of Ephron, the blue and the green and the gray fires, for +the destruction of your soul: I will curse you in your homestead +and in the wife it shelters and in the children that will never +bear your name. Yea, and ye shall be cursed. + +CAMPBELL. (_Startled--betrays agitation--the snuff is spilled from +his trembling hand._) Hoot toot, woman! ye're, ye're--(_Angrily_) Ye +auld beldame, to say such things to me! I'll have ye first +whippet and syne droont for a witch. Damn thae stubborn and +supersteetious cattle! (_To_ SANDEMAN) We should have come in here +before him and listened in the barn, Sandeman! + +SANDEMAN. Ah, listen behind the door you mean! Now I never +thought of that! + +CAMPBELL. Did ye not! Humph! Well, no doubt there are a good many +things in the universe that yet wait for your thought upon them. +What would be your objections, now? + +SANDEMAN. There are two objections, Kilmhor, that you would +understand. + +CAMPBELL. Name them. + +SANDEMAN. Well, in the first place, we have not wings like crows +to fly--and the footsteps on the snow--Second point--the woman +would have told him we were there. + +CAMPBELL. Not if I told her I had power to clap her in Inverness +jail. + +MARY STEWART (_in contempt_). Yes, even if ye had told me ye had +power to clap me in hell, Mr. Campbell. + +CAMPBELL. Lift me that screeching Jezebel oot o' here; Sandeman, +we'll mak' a quick finish o' this. (_Soldiers take her towards +barn._) No, not there; pitch the old girzie into the snow. + +MARY STEWART. Ye'll never find him, Campbell, never, never! + +CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Find him! Aye, by God I'll find him, if I +have to keek under every stone on the mountains from the Boar of +Badenoch to the Sow of Athole. (_Old woman and soldiers go +outside._) And now, Captain Sandeman, you an' me must have a word +or two. I noted your objection to listening ahint doors and so +on. Now, I make a' necessary allowances for youth and the grand +and magneeficent ideas commonly held, for a little while, in that +period. I had them myself. But, man, gin ye had trod the floor of +the Parliament Hoose in Edinburry as long as I did, wi' a pair o' +thin hands at the bottom o' toom pockets, ye'd ha'e shed your +fine notions, as I did. Noo, fine pernickety noansense will no' +do in this business-- + +SANDEMAN. Sir! + +CAMPBELL. Softly, softly, Captain Sandeman, and hear till what I +have to say. I have noticed with regret several things in your +remarks and bearing which are displeasing to me. I would say just +one word in your ear; it is this. These things, Sandeman, are not +conducive to advancement in His Majesty's service. + +SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, I am a soldier, and if I speak out my mind, +you must pardon me if my words are blunt. I do not like this +work, but I loathe your methods. + +CAMPBELL. Mislike the methods you may, but the work ye must do! +Methods are my business. Let me tell you the true position. In ae +word it is no more and no less than this. You and me are baith +here to carry out the proveesions of the Act for the Pacification +of the Highlands. That means the cleaning up of a very big mess, +Sandeman, a very big mess. Now, what is your special office in +this work? I'll tell ye, man; you and your men are just beesoms +in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown. In this district, +I order and ye soop! (_He indicates door of barn._) Now soop, +Captain Sandeman. + +SANDEMAN (_in some agitation_). What is your purpose? What are you +after? I would give something to see into your mind. + +CAMPBELL. Ne'er fash aboot my mind: what has a soldier to do with +ony mental operations? It's His Grace's orders that concern you. +Oot wi' your man and set him up against the wa'. + +SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, it is murder--murder, Kilmhor! + +CAMPBELL. Hoots, awa', man, it's a thing o' nae special +significance. + +SANDEMAN. I must ask you for a warrant. + +CAMPBELL. Quick then: Mackenzie will bring it out to you. + +(CLERK _begins writing._ SANDEMAN _and soldiers lead_ STEWART +_outside_, CAMPBELL _sits till they are out._ CLERK _finishes_, +CAMPBELL _signs warrant--and former goes._ CAMPBELL _is alone, +save for_ MORAG CAMERON, _who is sitting huddled up on stool by +fire, and is unnoticed by_ CAMPBELL.) + +CAMPBELL (_as one speaking his thoughts aloud_). I've been beaten +for a' that. A strange thing, noo. Beforehand I would ha'e said +naething could be easier. And yet--and yet--there it is!... It +would have been a grand stroke for me.... Cluny--Keppoch--Lochiel, +and maybe ... maybe--Hell! when I think of it! Just a whispered +word--a mere pointed finger would ha'e telled a'. But no! their +visions, their dreams beat me. "You'll be adding to your +experience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and have something to put to +the other side of it," says he; aye, and by God I have added +something to it, and it is a thing I like but little--that a +dream can be stronger than a strong man armed.--Here come I, +Archibald Campbell of Kilmhor, invested with authority as +law-officer of the Crown, bearing in my hand the power of life +and death, fire and the sword, backed up by the visible authority +of armed men, and yet I am powerless before the dreams of an old +woman and a half-grown lad--soldiers and horses and the gallows +and yellow gold are less than the wind blowing in their +faces.--It is a strange thing that: it is a thing I do not +understand.--It is a thing fit to sicken a man against the notion +that there are probabeelities on this earth.--have been beaten +for a' that. Aye, the pair o' them have beat me--though it's a +matter of seconds till one of them be dead. + +MORAG (_starting into upright position and staring at him; her +voice is like an echo to his_). Dead! + +CAMPBELL (_turning hastily_). What is that! + +MORAG. Is he dead? + +CAMPBELL (_grimly_). Not yet, but if ye'll look through this window +(_he indicates window_) presently, ye'll see him gotten ready for +death. + +(_He begins to collect articles of personal property, hat, etc._) + +MORAG. I will tell you. + +CAMPBELL (_astounded_). What! + +MORAG. I will tell you all you are seeking to know. + +CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Good God, and to think, to think I was on the +very act--in the very act of--tell me--tell me at once. + +MORAG. You will promise that he will not be hanged? + +CAMPBELL. He will not. I swear it. + +MORAG. You will give him back to me? + +CAMPBELL. I will give him back unhung. + +MORAG. Then (CAMPBELL _comes near_), in a corrie half-way up the +far side of Dearig--God save me! + +CAMPBELL. Dished after a'. I've clean dished them! Loard, Loard! +once more I can believe in the rationality of Thy world. (_Gathers +up again his cloak, hat, etc._) And to think--to think--I was on +the very act of going away like a beaten dog! + +MORAG. He is safe from hanging now? + +CAMPBELL (_chuckles and looks out at window before replying, and +is at door when he speaks_). Very near it, very near it. Listen! + +(_He holds up his hand--a volley of musketry is heard. KILMHOR +goes out, closing the door behind him. After a short interval of +silence the old woman enters and advances a few steps._) + +MARY STEWART. Did you hear, Morag Cameron, did you hear? + +(_The girl is sobbing, her head on her arms._) + +MARY STEWART. Och! be quiet now; I would be listening till the +last sound of it passes into the great hills and over all the +wide world.--It is fitting for you to be crying, a child that +cannot understand; but water shall never wet eye of mine for +Dugald Stewart. Last night I was but the mother of a lad that +herded sheep on the Athole hills: this morn it is I that am the +mother of a man who is among the great ones of the earth. All +over the land they will be telling of Dugald Stewart. Mothers +will teach their children to be men by him. High will his name be +with the teller of fine tales.--The great men came, they came in +their pride, terrible like the storm they were, and cunning with +words of guile were they. Death was with them.... He was but a +lad, a young lad, with great length of days before him, and the +grandeur of the world. But he put it all from him. "Speak," said +they, "speak, and life and great riches will be for yourself." +But he said no word at all! Loud was the swelling of their wrath! +Let the heart of you rejoice, Morag Cameron, for the snow is red +with his blood. There are things greater than death. Let them +that are children shed the tears. + +(_She comes forward and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder._) + +MARY STEWART. Let us go and lift him into the house, and not be +leaving him lie out there alone. + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE SUN[1] + +John Glasworthy + + +SCENE: A GIRL sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to a +river. A MAN with a silver badge stands beside her clutching the +worn top plank. THE GIRL'S level brows are drawn together; her +eyes see her memories. THE MAN'S eyes see THE GIRL; he has a +dark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; the quiet river flows; +the cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along the hedge +that ends in the stile on the towing-path. + +[Footnote 1: From _Scribner's Magazine_, May, 1919. +Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons; included by special +permission of the writer and publishers.] + +THE GIRL. God knows what 'e'll say, Jim. + +THE MAN. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all. + +THE GIRL. He couldn't come before. I'm frightened. 'E was fond o' +me. + +THE MAN. And aren't I fond of you? My Gawd! + +THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'. + +THE MAN (_passionately_). And what about me? Aren't I been in the +fightin'--earned all I could get? + +THE GIRL (_touching him_). Ah! + +THE MAN. Did you-- + +(_He cannot speak the words._) + +THE GIRL. Not like you, Jim--not like you. + +THE MAN. 'Ave a spirit, then. + +THE GIRL. I promised 'im. + +THE MAN. One man's luck'a another's poison. I've seen it. + +THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited. I never thought 'e'd come back +from the fightin'. + +THE MAN (_grimly_). Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave. + +THE GIRL (_looking back along the tow-path_). What'll 'e be like, I +wonder? + +THE MAN (_gripping her shoulder_). Daise, don't you never go back +on me, or I should kill you, and 'im too. + +(THE GIRL _looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his._) + +THE GIRL. I never could. + +THE MAN. Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us. + +(THE GIRL _shakes her head._) + +THE MAN (_dully_). What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide. + +THE GIRL. I'd rather have it off me mind, with him 'ome. + +THE MAN (_clenching his hands_). It's temptin' Providence. + +THE GIRL. What's the time, Jim? + +THE MAN (_glancing at the sun_). 'Alf past four. + +THE GIRL (_looking along the towing-path_). 'E said four o'clock. +Jim, you better go. + +THE MAN. Not I. _I've_ not got the wind up. I've seen as +much of hell as he has, any day. What like is he? + +THE GIRL (_dully_). I dunno, just. I've not seen 'im these three +years. I dunno no more, since I've known you. + +THE MAN. Big, or little chap? + +THE GIRL. 'Bout your size. Oh! Jim, go along! + +THE MAN. No fear! What's a blighter like that to old Fritz's +shells? We didn't shift when they was comin'. If you'll go, I'll +go; not else. + +(_Again she shakes her head._) + +THE GIRL. Jim, do you love me true? (_For answer_, THE MAN _takes +her avidly in his arms._) I ain't ashamed--I ain't ashamed. If 'e +could see me 'eart. + +THE MAN. Daise! If I'd known you out there I never could 'a' +stuck it. They'd 'a' got me for a deserter. That's 'ow I love +you! + +THE GIRL. Jim, don't lift your 'and to 'im. Promise! + +THE MAN. That's according. + +THE GIRL. Promise! + +THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable--not +always, I tell you straight--not since I've been through that. + +THE GIRL (_with a shiver_). Nor p'r'aps 'e isn't. + +THE MAN. Like as not. It takes the lynchpins out, I tell you. + +THE GIRL. God 'elp us! + +THE MAN (_grimly_). Ah! We said that a bit too often. What we want, +we take, now; there's no one to give it us, and there's no +fear'll stop us; we seen the bottom o' things. + +THE GIRL. P'r'aps 'e'll say that too. + +THE MAN. Then it'll be 'im or me. + +THE GIRL. I'm frightened. + +THE MAN (_tenderly_). No, Daise, no! (_He takes out a knife._) The +river's 'andy. One more or less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor me +neither. + +THE GIRL (_seizing his hand_). Oh! no! Give it to me, Jim! + +THE MAN (_smiling_). No fear! (_He puts it away._) Shan't 'ave no +need for it, like as not. All right, little Daise; you can't be +expected to see things like what we do. What's a life, anyway? +I've seen a thousand taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men on +the wires like flies on a fly-paper; I've been as good as dead +meself an 'undred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. +'E's safe, if 'e don't get my blood up. If 'e does, nobody's +safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin' +sober. + +THE GIRL (_softly_). Jim, you won't go fightin', wi' the sun out +and the birds all callin'? + +THE MAN. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' for it. Daise, I +love you. I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love you. + +THE GIRL. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin' more than you +in the whole world. + +THE MAN. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me close! + +(_The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace._ THE +GIRL _starts from his arms and looks behind her along the +towing-path._ THE MAN _draws back against the hedge, fingering his +side, where the knife is hidden. The song comes nearer._) + + I'll be right there to-night + Where the fields are snowy white; + Banjos ringin', darkies singin'-- + All the world seems bright. + +THE GIRL. It's 'im! + +THE MAN. Don't get the wind up, Daise. I'm here! + +(_The singing stops. A man's voice says: Christ! It's Daise; it's +little Daise 'erself_! THE GIRL _stands rigid. The figure of a +soldier appears on the other side of the stile. His cap is tucked +into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is lean, +wasted, brown, and laughing._) + +SOLDIER. Daise! Daise! Hallo, old pretty girl! + +(THE GIRL _does not move, barring the way, as it were._) + +THE GIRL. Hallo, Jack! (_Softly_) I got things to tell you. + +SOLDIER. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I got things +that'd take me years to tell. 'Ave you missed me, Daise? + +THE GIRL. You been so long. + +SOLDIER. So I 'ave. My Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in the Army. I +said when I got out of it I'd laugh. Like as the sun itself I +used to think of you, Daise, when the crumps was comin' over, and +the wind was up. D' you remember that last night in the wood? +"Come back, and marry me quick, Jack!" Well, 'ere I am--got me +pass to 'eaven. No more fightin', an' trampin,' no more sleepin" +rough. We can get married now, Daise. We can live soft an' 'appy. +Give us a kiss, old pretty. + +THE GIRL (_drawing back_). No. + +SOLDIER (_blankly_). Why not? + +(THE MAN, _with a swift movement, steps along the hedge to_ THE +GIRL'S _side._) + +THE MAN. That's why, soldier. + +SOLDIER (_leaping over the stile_). 'Oo are you, Pompey? The sun +don't shine in your inside, do it? 'Oo is 'e, Daise? + +THE GIRL. My man. + +SOLDIER. Your--man! Lummy! "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a +thief"! Well, soldier? So you've been through it, too. I'm +laughin' this mornin', as luck will 'ave it. Ah! I can see your +knife. + +THE MAN (_who has half drawn his knife_). Don't laugh at _me_, +I tell you. + +SOLDIER. Not at you, soldier, not at you. (_He looks from one to +the other._) I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you get +it, soldier? + +THE MAN (_watchfully_). Through the lung. + +SOLDIER. Think o' that! An' I never was touched. Four years an' +never was touched. An' so you've come an' took my girl. Nothin' +doin'! Ha! (_Again he looks from one to the other--then away._) +Well! The world's before me. (_He laughs._) I'll give you Daise for +a lung protector. + +THE MAN (_fiercely_). You won't. I've took her. + +SOLDIER. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got a laugh +in me you can't put out, black as you are! Good-bye, little Daise! + +(THE GIRL _makes a movement toward him._) + +THE MAN. Don't touch 'im! + +(THE GIRL _stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into tears._) + +SOLDIER. Look 'ere, soldier; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a +girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much +o' sorrer. You an' me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our +whack. Shake! + +THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er! + +SOLDIER. Oh! I thought I did. + +THE MAN (_fiercely_). I'll fight you for her. + +(_He drops his knife._) + +SOLDIER (_slowly_). Soldier, you done your bit, an' I done mine. +It's took us two ways, seemin'ly. + +THE GIRL (_pleading_). Jim! + +THE MAN (_with clenched fists_). I don't want 'is charity. I only +want what I can take. + +SOLDIER. Daise, which of us will you 'ave? + +THE GIRL (_covering her face_). Oh! _Him._ + +SOLDIER. You see, soldier! Drop your 'ands, now. There's nothin' +for it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, soldier! + +THE MAN. You blarsted-- + +(THE GIRL _springs to him and stops his mouth._) + +SOLDIER. It's no use, soldier. I can't do it. I said I'd laugh +to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all the +stink of it; I've come through sorrer. Never again! Cheer-o, +mate! The sun's shinin'! + +(_He turns away._) + +THE GIRL. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me! + +SOLDIER (_looking back_). No fear, old pretty girl! Enjoy your +fancy! So long! Gawd bless you both! + +(_He sings and goes along the path, and the song_-- + + I'll be right there to-night + Where the fields are snowy white; + Banjos ringin', darkies singin'-- + All the world seems bright!-- + +_fades away._) + +THE MAN. 'E's mad. + +THE GIRL (_looking down the path, with her hands clasped_). The +sun 'as touched 'im, Jim! + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE KNAVE OF HEARTS[1] + +Louise Saunders + +[Footnote 1: This play is fully protected by copyright and may be +used only with the written permission of, and the payment of +royalty to, Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, New Jersey. Included by +permission of the author and Mr. Swartout.] + +CHARACTERS + +THE MANAGER +BLUE HOSE +YELLOW HOSE +1ST HERALD +2D HERALD +POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS + (pronounced Pomp-_di_biley) +THE CHANCELLOR +THE KNAVE OF HEARTS +URSULA +THE LADY VIOLETTA +SIX LITTLE PAGES + + +(THE MANAGER _appears before the curtain in doublet and hose. He +carries a cap with a long, red feather._) + +THE MANAGER (_bowing deeply_). Ladies and gentlemen, you are about +to hear the truth of an old legend that has persisted wrongly +through the ages, the truth that, until now, has been hid behind +the embroidered curtain of a rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts, +who was no knave but a very hero indeed. The truth, you will +agree with me, gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It is +only the quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem what +they are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue, pines +shadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still waters, the +contemplative mystery of the hills--these things which exist, +absorbed but in their own existence--these are the perfect +chalices of truth. + +But we, gentlemen and thrice-honored ladies, flounder about in a +tangled net of prejudice, of intrigue. We are blinded by +conventions, we are crushed by misunderstanding, we are +distracted by violence, we are deceived by hypocrisy, until only +too often villains receive the rewards of nobility and the truly +great-hearted are suspected, distrusted, and maligned. + +And so, ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of justice and also, I +dare to hope, for your approval, I have taken my puppets down +from their dusty shelves. I have polished their faces, brushed +their clothes, and strung them on wires, so that they may enact +for you this history. + +(_He parts the curtains, revealing two_ PASTRY COOKS _in flaring +white caps and spotless aprons leaning over in stiff profile, +their wooden spoons, three feet long, pointing rigidly to the +ceiling. They are in one of the kitchens of_ POMPDEBILE THE +EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS. _It is a pleasant kitchen, with a row of +little dormer windows and a huge stove, adorned with the crest of_ +POMPDEBILE--_a heart rampant, on a gold shield._) + +THE MANAGER. You see here, ladies and gentlemen, two pastry cooks +belonging to the royal household of Pompdebile the Eighth--Blue +Hose and Yellow Hose, by name. At a signal from me they will +spring to action, and as they have been made with astonishing +cleverness, they will bear every semblance of life. Happily, +however, you need have no fear that, should they please you, the +exulting wine of your appreciation may go to their heads--their +heads being but things of wire and wood; and happily, too, as +they are but wood and wire, they will be spared the shame and +humiliation that would otherwise be theirs should they fail to +meet with your approval. + +The play, most honored ladies and gentlemen, will now begin. + +(_He claps his hands. Instantly the two_ PASTRY COOKS _come to life._ +THE MANAGER _bows himself off the stage._) + +BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready for this great event? + +YELLOW HOSE. Everything. The fire blazing in the stove, the +Pages, dressed in their best, waiting in the pantry with their +various jars full of the finest butter, the sweetest sugar, the +hottest pepper, the richest milk, the-- + +BLUE HOSE. Yes, yes, no doubt. (_Thoughtfully_) It is a great +responsibility, this that they have put on our shoulders. + +YELLOW HOSE. Ah, yes. I have never felt more important. + +BLUE HOSE. Nor I more uncomfortable. + +YELLOW HOSE. Even on the day, or rather the night, when I awoke +and found myself famous--I refer to the time when I laid before +an astonished world my creation, "Humming birds' hearts souffle, +au vin blanc"--I did not feel more important. It is a pleasing +sensation! + +BLUE HOSE. I like it not at all. It makes me dizzy, this eminence +on which they have placed us. The Lady Violetta is slim and fair. +She does not, in my opinion, look like the kind of person who is +capable of making good pastry. I have discovered through long +experience that it is the heaviest women who make the lightest +pastry, and _vice versa._ Well, then, suppose that she does +not pass this examination--suppose that her pastry is lumpy, +white like the skin of a boiled fowl. + +YELLOW HOSE. Then, according to the law of the Kingdom of Hearts, +we must condemn it, and the Lady Violetta cannot become the bride +of Pompdebile. Back to her native land she will be sent, riding a +mule. + +BLUE HOSE. And she is so pretty, so exquisite! What a law! What +an outrageous law! + +YELLOW HOSE. Outrageous law! How dare you! There is nothing so +necessary to the welfare of the nation as our art. Good cooks +make good tempers, don't they? Must not the queen set an example +for the other women to follow? Did not our fathers and our +grandfathers before us judge the dishes of the previous queens of +hearts? + +BLUE HOSE. I wish I were mixing the rolls for to-morrow's +breakfast. + +YELLOW HOSE. Bah! You are fit for nothing else. The affairs of +state are beyond you. + +(_Distant sound of trumpets._) + +BLUE HOSE (_nervously_). What's that? + +YELLOW HOSE. The King is approaching! The ceremonies are about to +commence! + +BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready? + +YELLOW HOSE. I told you that everything was ready. Stand still; +you are as white as a stalk of celery. + +BLUE HOSE (_counting on his fingers_). Apples, lemons, peaches, +jam--Jam! Did you forget jam? + +YELLOW HOSE. Zounds, I did! + +BLUE HOSE (_wailing_). We are lost! + +YELLOW HOSE. She may not call for it. + +(_Both stand very erect and make a desperate effort to appear +calm._) + +BLUE HOSE (_very nervous_). Which door? Which door? + +YELLOW HOSE. The big one, idiot. Be still! + +(_The sound of trumpets increases, and cries of "Make way for the +King." Two_ HERALDS _come in and stand on either side of the door. +The_ KING OF HEARTS _enters, followed by ladies and gentlemen of +the court._ POMPDEBILE _is in full regalia, and very imposing +indeed with his red robe bordered with ermine, his crown and +sceptre. After him comes the_ CHANCELLOR, _an old man with a short, +white beard. The_ KING _strides in a particularly kingly fashion, +pointing his toes in the air at every step, toward his throne, +and sits down. The_ KNAVE _walks behind him slowly. He has a sharp, +pale face._) + +POMPDEBILE (_impressively_). Lords and ladies of the court, this is +an important moment in the history of our reign. The Lady +Violetta, whom you love and respect--that is, I mean to say, whom +the ladies love and the lords--er--respect, is about to prove +whether or not she be fitted to hold the exalted position of +Queen of Hearts, according to the law, made a thousand years ago +by Pompdebile the Great, and steadily followed ever since. She +will prepare with her own delicate, white hands a dish of pastry. +This will be judged by the two finest pastry cooks in the land. + +(BLUE HOSE _and_ YELLOW HOSE _bow deeply._) + +If their verdict be favorable, she shall ride through the streets +of the city on a white palfrey, garlanded with flowers. She will +be crowned, the populace will cheer her, and she will reign by +our side, attending to the domestic affairs of the realm, while +we give our time to weightier matters. This of course you all +understand is a time of great anxiety for the Lady Violetta. She +will appear worried--(_To_ CHANCELLOR) The palfrey is in readiness, +we suppose. + +CHANCELLOR. It is, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Garlanded with flowers? + +CHANCELLOR. With roses, Your Majesty. + +KNAVE (_bowing_). The Lady Violetta prefers violets, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Let there be a few violets put in with the +roses--er--We are ready for the ceremony to commence. We confess +to a slight nervousness unbecoming to one of our station. The +Lady Violetta, though trying at times, we have found--er--shall +we say--er--satisfying? + +KNAVE (_bowing_). Intoxicating, Your Majesty? + +CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). His Majesty means nothing of the sort. + +POMPDEBILE. No, of course not--er--The mule--Is that--did you--? + +CHANCELLOR (_in a grieved tone_). This is hardly necessary. Have I +ever neglected or forgotten any of your commands, Your Majesty? + +POMPDEBILE. You have, often. However, don't be insulted. It takes +a great deal of our time and it is most uninteresting. + +CHANCELLOR (_indignantly_). I resign, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Your thirty-seventh resignation will be accepted +to-morrow. Just now it is our wish to begin at once. The anxiety +that no doubt gathered in the breast of each of the seven +successive Pompdebiles before us seems to have concentrated in +ours. Already the people are clamoring at the gates of the palace +to know the decision. Begin. Let the Pages be summoned. + +KNAVE (_bowing_). Beg pardon, Your Majesty; before summoning the +Pages, should not the Lady Violetta be here? + +POMPDEBILE. She should, and is, we presume, on the other side of +that door--waiting breathlessly. + +(THE KNAVE _quietly opens the door and closes it._) + +KNAVE (_bowing_). She is not, Your Majesty, on the other side of +that door waiting breathlessly. In fact, to speak plainly, she is +not on the other side of that door at all. + +POMPDEBILE. Can that be true? Where are her ladies? + +KNAVE. They are all there, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Summon one of them. + +(THE KNAVE _goes out, shutting the door. He returns, following_ +URSULA, _who, very much frightened, throws herself at the_ KING'S +_feet._) + +POMPDEBILE. Where is your mistress? + +URSULA. She has gone, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Gone! Where has she gone? + +URSULA. I do not know, Your Majesty. She was with us a while ago, +waiting there, as you commanded. + +POMPDEBILE. Yes, and then--speak. + +URSULA. Then she started out and forbade us to go with her. + +POMPDEBILE. The thought of possible divorce from us was more than +she could bear. Did she say anything before she left? + +URSULA (_trembling_). Yes, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. What was it? She may have gone to self-destruction. +What was it? + +URSULA. She said-- + +POMPDEBILE. Speak, woman, speak. + +URSULA. She said that Your Majesty-- + +POMPDEBILE. A farewell message! Go on. + +URSULA (_gasping_). That Your Majesty was "pokey" and that she +didn't intend to stay there any longer. + +POMPDEBILE (_roaring_). _Pokey!!_ + +URSULA. Yes, Your Majesty, and she bade me call her when you +came, but we can't find her, Your Majesty. + +(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _whisper._ URSULA _is in tears._) + +CHANCELLOR. This should not be countenanced, Your Majesty. The +word "pokey" cannot be found in the dictionary. It is the most +flagrant disrespect to use a word that is not in the dictionary +in connection with a king. + +POMPDEBILE. We are quite aware of that, Chancellor, and although +we may appear calm on the surface, inwardly we are swelling, +_swelling_, with rage and indignation. + +KNAVE (_looking out the window_). I see the Lady Violetta in the +garden. (_He goes to the door and holds it open, bowing._) The Lady +Violetta is at the door, Your Majesty. + +(_Enter the_ LADY VIOLETTA, _her purple train over her arm. She has +been running._) + +VIOLETTA. Am I late? I just remembered and came as fast as I +could. I bumped into a sentry and he fell down. I didn't. That's +strange, isn't it? I suppose it's because he stands in one +position so long he--Why, Pompy dear, what's the matter? Oh, oh! +(_Walking closer_) Your feelings are hurt! + +POMPDEBILE. _Don't_ call us Pompy. It doesn't seem to matter +to you whether you are divorced or not. + +VIOLETTA (_anxiously_). Is that why your feelings are hurt? + +POMPDEBILE. Our feelings are not hurt, not at all. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they are, Pompdebile dear. I know, because +they are connected with your eyebrows. When your feelings go +down, up go your eyebrows, and when your feelings go up, they go +down--always. + +POMPDEBILE (_severely_). Where have you been? + +VIOLETTA. I, just now? + +POMPDEBILE. Just now, when you should have been outside that door +waiting _breathlessly._ + +VIOLETTA. I was in the garden. Really, Pompy, you couldn't expect +me to stay all day in that ridiculous pantry; and as for being +breathless, it's quite impossible to be it unless one has been +jumping or something. + +POMPDEBILE. What were you doing in the garden? + +VIOLETTA (_laughing_). Oh, it was too funny. I must tell you. I +found a goat there who had a beard just like the Chancellor's--really +it was quite remarkable, the resemblance--in other ways too. I +took him by the horns and I looked deep into his eyes, and I +said, "Chancellor, if you try to influence Pompy--" + +POMPDEBILE (_shouting_). Don't call us Pompy. + +VIOLETTA. Excuse me, Pomp-- + +(_Checking herself._) + +KNAVE. And yet I think I remember hearing of an emperor, a great +emperor, named Pompey. + +POMPDEBILE. We know him not. Begin at once; the people are +clamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients. + +(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _open the door, and, single file, six little +boys march in, bearing large jars labeled butter, salt, flour, +pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The_ COOKS _place a table and a large +bowl and a pan in front of the_ LADY VIOLETTA _and give her a +spoon. The six little boys stand three on each side._) + +VIOLETTA. Oh, what darling little ingredients. May I have an +apron, please? + +(URSULA _puts a silk apron, embroidered with red hearts, on the_ +LADY VIOLETTA.) + +BLUE HOSE. We were unable to find a little boy to carry the +pepper, My Lady. They all _would_ sneeze in such a disturbing +way. + +VIOLETTA. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He hasn't +sneezed once. + +YELLOW HOSE. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not a little +boy. + +VIOLETTA. Oh! How nice! Perhaps she will help me. + +CHANCELLOR (_severely_). You are allowed no help, Lady Violetta. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, Chancellor, how cruel of you. (_She takes up the +spoon, bowing._) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of the court, I +propose to make (_impressively_) raspberry tarts. + +BLUE HOSE. Heaven be kind to us! + +YELLOW HOSE (_suddenly agitated_). Your Majesty, I implore your +forgiveness. There is no raspberry jam in the palace. + +POMPDEBILE What! Who is responsible for this carelessness? + +BLUE HOSE. I gave the order to the grocer, but it didn't come. +(_Aside_) I knew something like this would happen. I knew it. + +VIOLETTA (_untying her apron_). Then, Pompdebile, I'm very +sorry--we shall have to postpone it. + +CHANCELLOR. If I may be allowed to suggest, Lady Violetta can +prepare something else. + +KNAVE. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect has the +privilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to prepare. + +VIOLETTA. Dear Pompdebile, let's give it up. It's such a silly +law! Why should a great splendid ruler like you follow it just +because one of your ancestors, who wasn't half as nice as you +are, or one bit wiser, said to do it? Dearest Pompdebile, please. + +POMPDEBILE. We are inclined to think that there may be something +in what the Lady Violetta says. + +CHANCELLOR. I can no longer remain silent. It is due to that +brilliant law of Pompdebile the First, justly called the Great, +that all members of our male sex are well fed, and, as a natural +consequence, happy. + +KNAVE. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew the +sunlight. + +POMPDEBILE. If we made an effort, we could think of a new +law--just as wise. It only requires effort. + +CHANCELLOR. But the constitution. We can't touch the +constitution. + +POMPDEBILE (_starting up_). We shall destroy the constitution! + +CHANCELLOR. The people are clamoring at the gates! + +POMPDEBILE. Oh, I forgot them. No, it has been carried too far. +We shall have to go on. Proceed. + +VIOLETTA. Without the raspberry jam? + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ KNAVE). Go you, and procure some. I will give a +hundred golden guineas for it. + +(_The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes forward._) + +BOY. Please, Your Majesty, I have some. + +POMPDEBILE. You! Where? + +BOY. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my cinnamon +jar--I could get it. + +(UBSULA _takes it. The boy struggles with his pocket and finally, +triumphantly, pulls out a small jar._) + +There! + +VIOLETTA. How clever of you! Do you always do that? + +BOY. What--eat raspberry jam? + +VIOLETTA. No, supply the exact article needed from your pocket. + +BOY. I eat it for my lunch. Please give me the hundred guineas. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes--Chancellor--if I may trouble you. + +(_Holding out her hand._) + +CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, this is an outrage! Are you going to +allow this? + +POMPDEBILE (_sadly_). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsive +nature! + +(_The_ LADY VIOLETTA _receives the money._) + +VIOLETTA. Thank you. (_She gives it to the boy._) Now we are ready +to begin. Milk, please. (_The boy who holds the milk jar comes +forward and kneels._) I take some of this milk and beat it well. + +YELLOW HOSE (_in a whisper_). _Beat_ it--milk! + +VIOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, taking great +care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (_To the +little boy_) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, and +then--one pound of butter. I hope that it is good butter, or the +whole thing will be quite spoiled. + +BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have ever +witnessed. + +YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it. + +VIOLETTA (_stirring_). I find that the butter is _not_ very +good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more +pepper to counteract it. That's better. (_She pours in pepper. The +boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently._) Oh, oh, dear! Lend +him your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE +_silences the boy's sneezes with the_ KNAVE'S _handkerchief._) I +think that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad, +Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smile +nicely--a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now +for a dash of vinegar. + +COOKS (_in horror_). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar! + +VIOLETTA (_stops stirring_). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do you +like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you, +you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all the +wives how to please all the husbands. + +POMPDEBILE. Remember that they are to go in the museum with the +tests of the previous Queens. + +VIOLETTA (_thoughtfully_). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under the +circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them too +crumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully. +The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now I +dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice +little boy's raspberry jam--I'm sorry I have to use it all, but +you may lick the spoon--put them in the oven, slam the door. Now, +my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest. + +(_She curtsies before the_ KING.) + +POMPDEBILE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with which +you performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks. +This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been +suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of +checkers once more. How long a time will it take for your +creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested? + +VIOLETTA (_considering_). About twenty minutes, Pompy. + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ HERALD). Inform the people. Come, we will retire. +(_To_ KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands. + +(_All exit, left, except the_ KNAVE. _He stands in deep thought, his +chin in hand--then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. The +cuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors open +stealthily. Enter_ LADY VIOLETTA _at one door, the_ KNAVE _at the +other, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly and +see each other._) + +VIOLETTA (_tearfully_). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything--anything +at all, not even a baked potato. + +KNAVE. So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago. + +VIOLETTA (_pleadingly_). Don't you think it might just happen that +they turned out all right? (_Whispering_) Take them out of the +oven. Let's look. + +KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's +possible that a miracle has occurred. + +(_He tries the door of the oven._) + +VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief. + +KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady. + +(_He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out +the pan, which he puts on the table softly._) + +VIOLETTA (_with a look of horror_) How queer! They've melted or +something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that +they will be good for anything, Knave? + +KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful! + +KNAVE. It is. + +VIOLETTA (_beginning to cry_). I don't want to be banished, +especially on a mule-- + +KNAVE. Don't cry, My Lady. It's very--upsetting. + +VIOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The fêtes that I would +give--under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the +shadows, fêtes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young--like +you and me, Knave--would find the glowing flowers of youth ready +to be gathered in all their dewy freshness! + +KNAVE. Ah! + +VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty +picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers, +followed by the cheers of the populace--Long live Queen Violetta, +long live Queen Violetta! Those _abominable_ tarts! + +KNAVE. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain. + +VIOLETTA. I am indeed. Isn't it fortunate? + +KNAVE. Fortunate? + +VIOLETTA. Well, I mean it would be fortunate if I were going to +be queen. They get so much flattery. The queens who don't adore +it as I do must be bored to death. Poor things! I'm never so +happy as when I am being flattered. It makes me feel all warm and +purry. That is another reason why I feel sure I was _made_ +to be a queen. + +KNAVE (_looking ruefully at the pan_). You will never be queen, My +Lady, unless we can think of something quickly, some plan-- + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, dear Knave, please think of a plan at once. +Banished people, I suppose, have to comb their own hair, put on +their shoes, and button themselves up the back. I have never +performed these estimable and worthy tasks, Knave. I don't know +how; I don't even know how to scent my bath. I haven't the least +idea what makes it smell deliciously of violets. I only know that +it always _does_ smell deliciously of violets because I wish +it that way. I should be miserable; save me, Knave, please. + +KNAVE. My mind is unhappily a blank, Your Majesty. + +VIOLETTA. It's very unjust. Indeed, it's unjust! No other queen +in the world has to understand cooking; even the Queen of Spades +doesn't. Why should the Queen of Hearts, of all people! + +KNAVE. Perhaps it is because--I have heard a proverb: "The way to +the heart is through the--" + +VIOLETTA (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Don't repeat that hateful +proverb! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel like crying when +I hear it, too. Now see, I'm crying. You made me. + +KNAVE. Why does that proverb make you cry, My Lady? + +VIOLETTA. Oh, because it is such a stupid proverb and so silly, +because it's true in most cases, and because--I don't know why. + +KNAVE. We are a set of moles here. One might also say that we are +a set of mules. How can moles or mules either be expected to +understand the point of view of a Bird of Paradise when she-- + +VIOLETTA. Bird of Paradise! Do you mean me? + +KNAVE (_bowing_). I do, My Lady, figuratively speaking. + +VIOLETTA (_drying her eyes_). How very pretty of you! Do you know, +I think that you would make a splendid chancellor. + +KNAVE. Her Ladyship is vain, as I remarked before. + +VIOLETTA (_coldly_). As I remarked before, how fortunate. Have you +anything to suggest--a plan? + +KNAVE. If only there were time my wife could teach you. Her +figure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her eyes stumble +over it; but her cooking, ah--(_He blows a kiss_) it is a thing to +dream about. She cooks as naturally as the angels sing. The +delicate flavors of her concoctions float over the palate like +the perfumes of a thousand flowers. True, her temper, it is +anything but sweet--However, I am conceded by many to be the most +happily married man in the kingdom. + +VIOLETTA (_sadly_). Yes. That's all they care about here. One may +be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if +one can't cook nobody loves one at all. + +KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holding +such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers that +perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower +nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement-- + +VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done--I +shall have to be banished? + +KNAVE. I'm afraid--Wait, I have an idea! (_Excitedly_) Dulcinea, my +wife--her name is Dulcinea--made known to me this morning, very +forcibly--Yes, I remember, I'm sure--Yes, she was going to bake +this very morning some raspberry tarts--a dish in which she +particularly excels--If I could only procure some of them and +bring them here! + +VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean, +would you? Is there time? The court will return. + +(_They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily._) + +KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come in +until I get back, if you can help it. + +(_He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window._) + +VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it. It is the +custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her +coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor. + +KNAVE (_turning back_). Oh, please don't, My Lady, I implore you. + +VIOLETTA. Why not? + +KNAVE. It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I +would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, my +wife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, +the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she would +never wield a spoon again. + +VIOLETTA (_pursing her lips_). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly. +Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoys +social position, I might as well give her some. We have lots and +lots of it lying around. + +KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea is +a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies +solely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would be +miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectly +sure. + +VIOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away from you. +You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do you like that better? +Hurry, please. + +KNAVE. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly. + +(_He goes out with the tarts._ VIOLETTA _listens anxiously for a +minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers +and practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey. +She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers +the mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thought +saddens her, so she curls up in_ POMPDEBILE'S _throne and cries +softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There is +a knock. She flies to the door and holds it shut._) + +VIOLETTA (_breathlessly_). Who is there? + +CHANCELLOR. It is I, Lady Violetta. The King wishes to return. + +VIOLETTA (_alarmed_). Return! Does he? But the tarts are not done. +They are not done at all! + +CHANCELLOR. You said they would be ready in twenty minutes. His +Majesty is impatient. + +VIOLETTA. Did you play a game of checkers with him, Chancellor? + +CHANCELLOR. Yes. + +VIOLETTA. And did you beat him? + +CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). I did not. + +VIOLETTA (_laughing_). How sweet of you! Would you mind doing it +again just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you to +keep from beating him twice in succession? + +CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission. + +(VIOLETTA _runs to the window to see if the_ KNAVE _is in sight. The_ +CHANCELLOR _returns and knocks._) + +CHANCELLOR. The King wishes to come in. + +VIOLETTA. But the checkers! + +CHANCELLOR. The Knights of the Checker Board have taken them +away. + +VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really. + +CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes. + +VIOLETTA. No, I didn't--at least, I said twenty minutes for them +to get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them to +become brown. That makes forty--don't you remember? + +CHANCELLOR. I shall carry your message to His Majesty. + +(VIOLETTA _again runs to the window and peers anxiously up the +road._) + +CHANCELLOR (_knocking loudly_). The King commands you to open the +door. + +VIOLETTA. Commands! Tell him--Is he there--with you? + +CHANCELLOR. His Majesty is at the door. + +VIOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude indeed. I don't +see how you can be so rude--to command me, your own Violetta who +loves you so. (_She again looks in vain for the_ KNAVE.) Oh, dear! +(_Wringing her hands_) Where can he be! + +POMPDEBILE (_outside_). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worried +we are? It is a compliment to you-- + +VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care--only I'm sure they are not +finished. + +(_She opens the door for the_ KING, the CHANCELLOR, _and the two_ +PASTRY COOKS. _The_ KING _walks to his throne. He finds_ LADY +VIOLETTA'S _lace handkerchief on it._) + +POMPDEBILE (_holding up handkerchief_). What is this? + +VIOLETTA. Oh, that's my handkerchief. + +POMPDEBILE. It is very damp. Can it be that you are anxious, that +you are afraid? + +VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always does +after cooking; (_to the_ PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there was +no towel, so I used my handkerchief instead of my petticoat, +which is made of chiffon and is very perishable. + +CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work? + +VIOLETTA. I don't understand what you mean by work, Chancellor. +Oh, the tarts! (_Nervously_) They were quite simple--quite simple +to make--no work at all--A little imagination is all one needs +for such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you, +Pompy, that imagination will work wonders--will do almost +anything, in fact? I remember-- + +POMPDEBILE. The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, _no_, Pompy! They are not finished or cooked, +or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last five minutes is +of the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them! +_Please_-- + +POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If you +wish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm in +looking at them. Come, I will hold your hand. + +VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my +hand. + +(_She scrambles up on the throne beside the_ KING.) + +CHANCELLOR (_in horror_). On the throne, Your Majesty? + +POMPDEBILE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that you are not +yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while-- + +VIOLETTA (_coming down_). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, in +this seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't +_really_ be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying +it so much. + +POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (_To the_ PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts. +This suspense is unbearable! + +(_The_ KING'S _voice is husky with excitement. The two_ PASTRY COOKS, +_after bowing with great ceremony to the_ KING, _to each other, to +the_ CHANCELLOR--_for this is the most important moment of their +lives by far--walk to the oven door and open it, impressively. +They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their +balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again_). + +YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there! + +BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone! + +VIOLETTA (_clasping her hands_). Gone! Oh, where could they have +gone? + +POMPDEBILB (_coming down from throne_). That is impossible. + +PASTRY COOKS (_greatly excited_). You see, you see, the oven is +empty as a drum. + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room? + +VIOLETTA (_wailing_). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my +nose before the mirror in the pantry. (_To_ PASTRY COOKS) When one +cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I had +thought for one little minute-- + +POMPDEBILE (_interrupting_). The tarts have been stolen! + +VIOLETTA (_with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair_). Stolen! +Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that any one would +take my delicious little, my dear little tarts. My salts. Oh! Oh! + +(PASTRY COOKS _run to the door and call._) + +YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts. + +BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted! + +(URSULA _enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle._) + +URSULA. Here, here--What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet +mistress! + +POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts. + +(LADY VIOLETTA _moans._) + +URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and bathe +her forehead. + +VIOLETTA (_sitting up_). I feel better now. Where am I? What is the +matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts! + +(_She buries her face in her hands._) + +CHANCELLOR (_suspiciously_). Your Majesty, this is very strange. + +URSULA (_excitedly_). I know, Your Majesty. It was the Knave. One +of the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw the +Knave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was the +Knave. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really. + +POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banish +him for this or have him _beheaded._ + +CHANCELLOR. It should have been done long ago, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. You are right. + +CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty will never listen to me. + +POMPDEBILE. We _do_ listen to you. Be quiet. + +VIOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear? + +POMPDEBILE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let it be known +all over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought here +dead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in every +direction. + +CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had Your +Majesty listened to me. + +POMPDEBILE (_in a rage_). Be quiet. (_Exit_ HERALD.) I never have a +brilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable! + +(_The_ HERALDS _can be heard in the distance._) + +CHANCELLOR. I resign. + +POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation at +once. + +CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as your +Chancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me an +opportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You must +admit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as your +dressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, +your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will be +just--as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I will +give you a month's notice. + +POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary. + +CHANCELLOR (_referring to the constitution hanging at his belt_). +It's in the constitution. + +POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. + +VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so--so +unfortunately, I shall change my gown. (_To_ URSULA) Put out my +cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief to +change one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather a +pretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to my +calling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, like +holding your hand. + +POMPDEBILE (_magnanimously_). You may hold our hand too, Violetta. + +VIOLETTA (_fervently_). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! But +you see it's impossible just now, as I have to change my +gown--unless you will come with me while I change. + +CHANCELLOR (_in a voice charged with inexpressible horror_). Your +Majesty! + +POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (_He starts to +descend, when a_ HERALD _bursts through the door in a state of +great excitement. He kneels before_ POMPDEBILE.) + +HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. In +fact,_I_ found him all by myself! He was sitting under the +shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs and +fell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into the +dust," he said, and then--I saw him! + +POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? The +scoundrel! Bring him here immediately. + +(_The_ HERALD _rushes out and returns with the_ KNAVE, _followed +by the six little_ PAGES. _The_ KNAVE _carries a tray of tarts in +his hand._) + +POMPDEBILE (_almost speechless with rage_). How dare +you--you--you-- + +KNAVE (_bowing_). Knave, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this. + +CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough. + +POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really, +Violetta-- + +VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's +consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is +inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know? +Let us think of something really cruel--really fiendish. I have +it--deprive him of social position for the rest of his life--force +him to remain a mere knave, forever. + +POMPDEBILE. You are right. + +KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it, +Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly crime? + +KNAVE. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any kind. +There is something in my nature that demands tarts--something in +my constitution that cries out for them--and I obey my +constitution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his. +I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odor +floated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, light +brown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts +fit for the gods--- that I could stand it no longer. It was +stronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances +for future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the +window. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating +it, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. After +having eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts has +disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tart +before me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection. + +POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteen +strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, we +await your decision! + +(_The_ COOKS _bow as before; then each selects a tart from the +tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. An +expression of absolute ecstasy and beatitude comes over their +faces. They clasp hands, then fall on each other's necks, +weeping._) + +POMPDEBILE (_impatiently_). What on earth is the matter? + +YELLOW HOSE. Excuse our emotion. It is because we have at last +encountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, of +our art. + +(_They bow to_ VIOLETTA.) + +POMPDEBILE. They are good, then? + +BLUE HOSE (_his eyes to heaven_). Good! They are angelic! + +POMPDEBILE. Give one of the tarts to us. We would sample it. + +(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _hand the tray to the KING, who selects a +tart and eats it._) + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). My dear, they are marvels! marvels! +(_He comes down from the throne and leads_ VIOLETTA _up to the +dais._) Your throne, my dear. + +VIOLETTA (_sitting down, with a sigh_). I'm glad it's such a +comfortable one. + +POMPDEBILE. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temptation was +very great. There are things that mere human nature cannot be +expected to resist. Another tart, Cooks, and yet another! + +CHANCELLOR. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all. They must go +to the museum with the dishes of the previous Queens of Hearts. + +YELLOW HOSE. A museum--those tarts! As well lock a rose in a +money-box! + +CHANCELLOR. But the constitution commands it. How else can we +commemorate, for future generations, this event? + +KNAVE. An Your Majesty, please, I will commemorate it in a rhyme. + +POMPDEBILE. How can a mere rhyme serve to keep this affair in the +minds of the people? + +KNAVE. It is the only way to keep it in the minds of the people. +No event is truly deathless unless its monument be built in +rhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignificant in itself, +became the most famous of all history, because someone happened +to put it into rhyme. The crash of it sounded through centuries +and will vibrate for generations to come. + +VIOLETTA. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman Empire? + +KNAVE. No, Madam, I refer to the fall of Humpty Dumpty. + +POMPDEBILE. Well, make your rhyme. In the meantime let us +celebrate. You may all have one tart. (_The_ PASTRY COOKS _pass +the tarts. To_ VIOLETTA) Are you willing, dear, to ride the white +palfrey garlanded with flowers through the streets of the city? + +VIOLETTA. Willing! I have been practising for days! + +POMPDEBILE. The people, I suppose, are still clamoring at the +gates. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I _want_ them to. Herald, +tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to every woman +a shining gold piece, but to the babies I shall throw only +kisses, thousands of them, like little winged birds. Kisses and +gold and roses! They will surely love me then! + +CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what possible use to the +people--? + +POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. The Queen may scatter what she pleases. + +KNAVE. My rhyme is ready, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Repeat it. + +KNAVE. + + The Queen of Hearts + She made some tarts + All on a summer's day. + The Knave of Hearts + He stole those tarts + And took them quite away. + + The King of Hearts + Called for those tarts + And beat the Knave full sore. + The Knave of Hearts + Brought back the tarts + And vowed he'd sin no more. + +VIOLETTA (_earnestly_). My dear Knave, how wonderful of you! You +shall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has no social position, +has he? + +KNAVE. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not he chooses +to be more laureate than poet. + +VIOLETTA (_rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy_). _Your +Majesty!_ Those words go to my head--like wine! + +KNAVE. Long live Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta! + +(_The trumpets sound._) + +HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta! + +VIOLETTA (_excitedly_). _Vee_-oletta, please! + +HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen +_Vee_-oletta-- + +(_The_ KING _and_ QUEEN _show themselves at the door--and the people +can be heard clamoring outside._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +FAME AND THE POET[1] + +Lord Dunsany + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted from the _Atlantic Monthly_ for June, +1919, by special permission of Lord Dunsany and the editors of +the _Atlantic Monthly._] + +SCENE: The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen +in a corner. + +TIME: February 30th. + +CHARACTERS + +HARRY DE REVES.--A Poet. + +(_This name, though of course of French origin, has become +anglicized and is pronounced_ DE REEVES.) + +DICK PRATTLE.--A Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines. + +FAME. + + +(_The_ POET _is sitting at a table, writing. Enter_ DICK PRATTLE.) + +PRATTLE. Hullo, Harry. + +DE REVES. Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you from? + +PRATTLE (_casually_). The ends of the Earth. + +DE REVES. Well, I'm damned! + +PRATTLE. Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on. + +DE REVES. Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London? + +PRATTLE. Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decent +ties to wear,--you can get nothing out there,--then I thought +I'd have a look and see how London was getting on. + +DE REVES. Splendid! How's everybody? + +PRATTLE. All going strong. + +DE REVES. That's good. + +PRATTLE. (_seeing paper and ink_). But what are you doing? + +DE REVES. Writing. + +PRATTLE. Writing? I didn't know you wrote. + +DE REVES. Yes, I've taken to it rather. + +PRATTLE. I say--writing's no good. What do you write? + +DE REVES. Oh, poetry. + +PRATTLE. Poetry? Good Lord! + +DE REVES. Yes, that sort of thing, you know. + +PRATTLE. Good Lord! Do you make any money by it? + +DE REVES. No. Hardly any. + +PRATTLE. I say--why don't you chuck it? + +DE REVES. Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, +rather. That's why I go on. + +PRATTLE. I'd chuck it if there's no money in it. + +DE REVES. Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd +hardly approve of poetry if there _was_ money in it. + +PRATTLE. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry +as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, +only-- + +DE REVES. Only what? + +PRATTLE. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in +betting, somehow. + +DE REVES. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an +earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus-- + +PRATTLE. What's Pegasus? + +DE REVES. Oh, the winged horse of poets. + +PRATTLE. I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you? + +DE REVES. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They +all represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem like Pegasus +is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you. + +PRATTLE. I say. (_Give me a cigarette. Thanks._) What? Then you'd +believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of +birds? + +DE REVES. Yes. Yes. In all of them. + +PRATTLE. Good Lord! + +DE REVES. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you? + +PRATTLE. Yes, of course; but what has-- + +DE REVES. Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't +they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and +tradition of-- + +PRATTLE. Yes; but, I say, what has all this-- + +DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him +Lord Mayor, and so he is one.... + +PRATTLE. Well, of course he is. + +DE REVES. In the same way Pan has been made what he is by +millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions. + +PRATTLE. (_rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing +and looking at the POET in a kind of assumed wonder_). I say.... I +say.... You old heathen ... but Good Lord.... + +(_He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little._) + +DE REVES. Look out! Look out! + +PRATTLE. What? What's the matter? + +DE REVES. The screen! + +PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right. + +(_He is about to go round behind it._) + +DE REVES. No, don't go round there. + +PRATTLE. What? Why not? + +DE REVES. Oh, you wouldn't understand. + +PRATTLE. Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got? + +DE REVES. Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand. + +PRATTLE. Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look. (_The_ POET +_walks toward_ PRATTLE _and the screen. He protests no further._ +PRATTLE _looks round the corner of the screen._) An altar. + +DE REVES. (_removing the screen altogether_). That is all. What do +you make of it? + +(_An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. +Papers litter the floor all about it._) + +PRATTLE. I say--you always were an untidy devil. + +DE REVES. Well, what do you make of it? + +PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton. + +DE REVES. My room at Eton? + +PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor. + +DE REVES. Oh, yes-- + +PRATTLE. And what are these? + +DE REVES. All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame. + +PRATTLE. To Fame? + +DE REVES. The same that Homer knew. + +PRATTLE. Good Lord! + +DE REVES. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came +late at the best of times, now scarcely ever. + +PRATTLE. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there +really is such a person? + +DE REVES. I offer all my songs to her. + +PRATTLE. But you don't mean you think you could actually +_see_ Fame? + +DE REVES. We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only +but sculptors and painters too. All the great things of the world +are those abstract things. + +PRATTLE. But what I mean is they're not really there, like you or +me. + +DE REVES. To us these things are more real than men, they outlive +generations, they watch the passing of Kingdoms: we go by them +like dust; they are still here, unmoved, unsmiling. + +PRATTLE. But, but, you can't think that you could _see_ +Fame, you don't expect to _see_ it. + +DE REVES. Not to me. Never to me. She of the golden trumpet and +Greek dress will never appear to me.... We all have our dreams. + +PRATTLE. I say--what have you been doing all day? + +DE REVES. I? Oh, only writing a sonnet. + +PRATTLE. Is it a long one? + +DE REVES. Not very. + +PRATTLE. About how long is it? + +DE REVES. About fourteen lines. + +PRATTLE (_impressively_). I tell you what it is. + +DE REVES. Yes? + +PRATTLE. I tell you what. You've been overworking yourself. I +once got like that on board the Sandhurst, working for the +passing-out exam. I got so bad that I could have seen anything. + +DE REVES. Seen anything? + +PRATTLE. Lord, yes: horned pigs, snakes with wings, anything, one +of your winged horses even. They gave me some stuff called +bromide for it. You take a rest. + +DE REVES. But my dear fellow, you don't understand at all. I +merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and real +and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids. + +PRATTLE. I know. You take a rest. + +DE REVES. Well, perhaps I will. I'd come with you to that musical +comedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit tired after writing +this; it's a tedious job. I'll come another night. + +PRATTLE. How do you know I'm going to see a musical comedy? + +DE REVES. Well, where would you go? _Hamlet's_ on at the +Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there. + +PBATTLE. Do I look like it? + +DE REVES. No. + +PRATTLE. Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see "The Girl +from Bedlam." So long. I must push off now. It's getting late. +You take a rest. Don't add another line to that sonnet; +fourteen's quite enough. You take a rest. Don't have any dinner +to-night, just rest. I was like that once myself. So long. + +DE REVES. So long. + +(_Exit_ PRATTLE. DE REVES _returns to his table and sits down._) + +Good old Dick. He's the same as ever. Lord, how time passes. + +(_He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations._) + +Well, that's finished. I can't do any more to it. + +(_He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and +goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverently +at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses._) + +No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar. + +(_He places the sonnet upon the altar itself._) + +If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have done +before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do. + +(_He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table. +Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, his +head on his hand, or however the actor pleases._) + +Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys his life, +so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money in +poetry. You'd better chuck it." Ten years' work and what have I +to show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, and +how many of _them_ are there? There's a bigger demand for +smoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Fame +come to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough to +keep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to +slight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame +care for us? Yes, Dick is right. It's a poor game chasing +illusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? Why, +we are ourselves dreams. (_He leans back in his chair._) + + We are such stuff + As dreams are made on, and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep. + +(_He is silent for a while. Suddenly he lifts his head_) + +My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess. + +(_As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place +to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play +may have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more +than a poet's dream._) + +So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (_looking at screen_) too. +Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole damned heap. +(_He advances impetuously toward the screen_) Every damned poem +that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on. + +(_He pushes back the screen._ FAME _in a Greek dress with a long +golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the +altar like a marble goddess._) + +So ... you have come! + +(_For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches the +altar._) + +Divine fair lady, you have come. + +(_He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar +and into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor +finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet +that he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME.) + +This is my sonnet. Is it well done? + +(FAME _takes it, reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches her +rapturously._) + +FAME. You're a bit of all right. + +DE REVES. What? + +FAME. Some poet. + +DE REVES. I--I--scarcely ... understand. + +FAME. You're IT. + +DE REVES. But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer? + +FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard. + +DE REVES. O Heavens! + +(FAME _walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts her +head out._) + +FAME (_in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry +for help if the house was well alight_). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say, +folks! Hi! + +(_The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard._ FAME _blows her +trumpet._) + +FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (_Quickly, over her shoulder._) What's your +name? + +DE REVES. De Reves. + +FAME. His name's de Reves. + +DE REVES. Harry de Reves. + +FAME. His pals call him Harry. + +THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! + +FAME. Say, what's your favourite color? + +DE REVES. I ... I ... I don't quite understand. + +FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue? + +DE REVES. Oh--er--blue. (_She blows her trumpet out of the +window._) No--er--I think green. + +FAME. Green is his favourite colour. + +THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! + +FAME. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all about yer. + +DE REVES; Wouldn't you perhaps ... would they care to hear my +sonnet, if you would--er.... + +FAME (_picking up quill_). Here, what's this? + +DE REVES. Oh, that's my pen. + +FAME (_after another blast on her trumpet_). He writes with a +quill. (_Cheers from_ THE CROWD.) + +FAME (_going to a cupboard_). Here, what have you got in here? + +DE REVES. Oh ... er ... those are my breakfast things. + +FAME (_finding a dirty plate_). What have yer had on this one? + +DE REVES (_mournfully_). Oh, eggs and bacon. + +FAME (_at the window_). He has eggs and bacon for breakfast. + +THE CROWD. Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_ +Hip hip hip _hooray!_ + +FAME. Hi, and what's this? + +DE REVES (_miserably_). Oh, a golf stick. + +FAME. He's a man's man! He's a virile man! He's a manly man! + +(_Wild cheers from_ THE CROWD, _this time only from women's voices._) + +DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is +terrible. + +(FAME _gives another peal on her horn. She is about to speak._) + +DE REVES (_solemnly and mournfully_). One moment, one moment.... + +FAME. Well, out with it. + +DE REVES. For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped you, +offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not worthy.... + +FAME. Oh, you're all right. + +DE REVES. No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It cannot +possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! _I cannot +possibly love you._ Others are worthy. You will find others. +But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, but +it _must_ not. + +(_Meanwhile_ FAME _has been lighting one of his cigarettes. She sits +in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puts her feet right +up on the table amongst the poet's papers._) + +Oh, I fear I offend you. But--it cannot be. + +FAME. Oh, that's all right, old bird; no offence. I ain't going +to leave you. + +DE REVES. But--but--but--I do not understand. + +FAME. I've come to stay, I have. + +(_She blows a puff of smoke through her trumpet._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE[1] + +Beulah Marie Dix + + +SCENE: In the cheerless hour before the dawn of a wet spring +morning five gentlemen-troopers of the broken Royalist army, +fagged and outworn with three long days of siege, are holding, +with what strength and courage are left them, the Gatehouse of +the Bridge of Cashala, which is the key to the road that leads +into Connaught. The upper chamber of the Gatehouse, in which they +make their stand, is a narrow, dim-lit apartment, built of stone. +At one side is a small fireplace, and beside it a narrow, barred +door, which leads to the stairhead. At the end of the room, +gained by a single raised step, are three slit-like windows, +breast-high, designed, as now used, for defense in time of war. +The room is meagrely furnished, with a table on which are +powder-flask, touch-box, etc., for charging guns, a stool or two, +and an open keg of powder. The whole look of the place, bare and +martial, but depressed, bespeaks a losing fight. On the hearth +the ashes of a fire are white, and on the chimneypiece a brace of +candles are guttering out. + +The five men who hold the Gatehouse wear much soiled and torn +military dress. They are pale, powder-begrimed, sunken-eyed, with +every mark of weariness of body and soul. Their leader, JOHN +TALBOT, is standing at one of the shot-windows, with piece +presented, looking forth. He is in his mid-twenties, of +Norman-Irish blood, and distinctly of a finer, more nervous type +than his companions. He has been wounded, and bears his left hand +wrapped in a bloody rag. DICK FENTON, a typical, careless young +English swashbuckler, sits by the table, charging a musket, and +singing beneath his breath as he does so. He, too, has been +wounded, and bears a bandage about his knee. Upon the floor (_at +right_) KIT NEWCOMBE lies in the sleep of utter exhaustion. He is +an English lad, in his teens, a mere tired, haggard child, with +his head rudely bandaged. On a stool by the hearth sits MYLES +BUTLER, a man of JOHN TALBOT'S own years, but a slower, heavier, +almost sullen type. Beside him kneels PHELIMY DRISCOLL, a +nervous, dark Irish lad, of one and twenty. He is resting his +injured arm across BUTLER'S knee, and BUTLER is roughly bandaging +the hurt. + +For a moment there is a weary, heavy silence, in which the words +of the song which FENTON sings are audible. It is the doleful old +strain of "the hanging-tune." + +[Footnote 1: Included by permission of the author and of Messrs. +Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume +_Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes._ (1910).] + +FENTON (_singing_). + +Fortune, my foe, why dost thou frown on me, +And will thy favors never greater be? +Wilt thou, I say, forever breed me pain, +And wilt thou not restore my joys again? + +BUTLER (_shifting_ DRISCOLL'S _arm, none too tenderly_). More to the +light! + +DRISCOLL (_catching breath with pain_). Ah! Softly, Myles! + +JOHN TALBOT (_leaning forward tensely_). Ah! + +FENTON. Jack! Jack Talbot! What is it that you see? + +JOHN TALBOT (_with the anger of a man whose nerves are strained +almost beyond endurance_). What should I see but Cromwell's +watch-fires along the boreen? What else should I see, and the +night as black as the mouth of hell? What else should I see, and +a pest choke your throat with your fool's questions, Dick Fenton! + +(_Resumes his watch._) + +FENTON (_as who should say: "I thank you!"_). God 'a' +mercy--_Captain_ Talbot! + +(_Resumes his singing._) + +DRISCOLL. God's love! I bade ye have a care, Myles Butler. + +BUTLEK (_tying the last bandage_). It's a stout heart you have in +you, Phelimy Driscoll--you to be crying out for a scratch. It's +better you would have been, you and the like of you, to be +stopping at home with your mother. + +(_Rises and takes up his musket from the corner by the fireplace._) + +DRISCOLL. You--you dare--you call me--coward? Ye black liar! I'll +lesson ye! I'll-- + +(_Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and rests +with his head upon the stool which_ BUTLER _has quitted._) + +BUTLER. A'Heaven's name, ha' done with that hanging tune! Ha' +done, Dick Fenton! We're not yet at the gallows' foot. + +(_Joins_ JOHN TALBOT _at the shot-windows._) + +FENTON. Nay, Myles, for us 'tis like to be nothing half so merry +as the gallows. + +BUTLER. Hold your fool's tongue! + +NEWCOMBE (_crying out in his sleep_). Oh! Oh! + +JOHN TALBOT. What was that? + +FENTON. 'Twas naught but young Newcombe that cried out in the +clutch of a nightmare. + +BUTLER. 'Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his watch. + +JOHN TALBOT (_leaving the window_). Nay, 'tis only a boy. Let him +sleep while he can! Let him sleep! + +BUTLER. Turn and turn at the watch, 'tis but fair. Stir yonder +sluggard awake, Dick! + +FENTON. Aye. (_Starts to rise._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Who gives commands here? Sit you down, Fenton! To +your place, Myles Butler! + +BUTLER. Captain of the Gate! D'ye mark the high tone of him, +Dick? + +JOHN TALBOT (_tying a fresh bandage about his hand_). You're out +there, Myles. There is but one Captain of the Gate of +Connaught--he who set me here--my cousin, Hugh Talbot. + +BUTLER (_muttering_). Aye, and it's a deal you'll need to be +growing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot's shoes. + +JOHN TALBOT. And that's a true word! But 'twas Hugh Talbot's will +that I should command, here at the Bridge of Cashala. And as long +as breath is in me I-- + +DRISCOLL (_raising his head heavily_). Water! Water! Myles! Dick! +Will ye give me to drink, lads? Jack Talbot! I'm choked wi' +thirst. + +JOHN TALBOT. There's never a drop of water left us, Phelimy, lad. + +FENTON. Owen Bourke drained the last of it, God rest him! + +BUTLER. 'Tis likely our clever new Captain of the Gate will hit +on some shift to fill our empty casks. + +(DRISCOLL _rises heavily._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The old Captain of +the Gate--Hugh Talbot. He'll be here this day--this hour, maybe. + +FENTON. That tale grows something old, Jack Talbot. + +JOHN TALBOT. He swore he'd bring us succor. He-- + +(DRISCOLL _tries to unbar the exit door._) + +Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door! + +(_Thrusts_ DRISCOLL _from the door._) + +DRISCOLL (_half delirious_). Let me forth! The spring--'tis just +below--there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it--but a +moment--and drink! + +JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell's soldiers hold the spring. + +DRISCOLL. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me forth! + +JOHN TALBOT. 'T would be to your death. + +BUTLER. And what will he get but his death if he stay here, +Captain Talbot? + +DRISCOLL (_struggling with_ JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, I +tell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go! + +NEWCOMBE (_still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terrible +cry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head_). God's +pity! No! no! no! + +DRISCOLL (_shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing himself_). +God shield us! + +BUTLER. Silence that whelp! + +FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him! + +JOHN TALBOT (_catching_ NEWCOMBE _by the shoulder_). Newcombe! Kit +Newcombe! + +NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me! + +JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done! + +NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Not +that! + +JOHN TALBOT (_stifling_ NEWCOMBE'S _outcry with a hand upon his +mouth_). Wake! You're dreaming! + +DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming! + +NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my +brother--my brother--they beat out his brains--Cromwell's +men--with their clubbed muskets--they-- + +(_Clings shuddering to_ JOHN TALBOT.) + +FENTON. English officers that serve amongst the Irish--'t is thus +that Cromwell uses them! + +BUTLER. English officers--aye, like ourselves! + +JOHN TALBOT. Be quiet, Kit! You're far from Drogheda--here at +the Bridge of Cashala. + +BUTLER. Aye, safe in Cashala Gatehouse, with five hundred of +Cromwell's men sitting down before it. + +JOHN TALBOT. Keep your watch, Butler! + +NEWCOMBE. You give orders? You still command, Jack? Where's +Captain Talbot, then? + +(_Snatches up his sword and rises._) + +BUTLER (_quitting the window_). Aye, where _is_ Captain +Talbot? + +JOHN TALBOT. You say-- + +FENTON (_rising_). We all say it. + +JOHN TALBOT. Even thou, Dick? + +DRISCOLL. He does not come! Hugh Talbot does not come! + +FENTON. He bade us hold the bridge one day. We've held it three +days now. + +BUTLER. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he promised? + +JOHN TALBOT. He promised. He has never broken faith. He will +bring us aid. + +FENTON. Aye, if he be living! + +DRISCOLL. Living? You mean that he--Och, he's dead! Hugh Talbot's +dead! And we're destroyed! We're destroyed! + +NEWCOMBE (_cowering_). The butt of the muskets! + +FENTON. God! + +(_Deliberately_ BUTLER _lays down his musket._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Take up your piece! + +BUTLER. Renounce me if I do! + +FENTON. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms for us, John +Talbot, or, on my soul, we'll make them for ourselves. + +JOHN TALBOT. Surrender? + +NEWCOMBE. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now? Will +he spare us? Will he-- + +FENTON. 'Tis our one chance. + +NEWCOMBE. Give me that white rag! + +(_Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece._) + +FENTON (_drawing his ramrod_). Here's a staff! + +(_Together FENTON and NEWCOMBE make ready a flag of truce._) + +JOHN TALBOT (_struggling with_ BUTLER _and_ DRISCOLL). A black curse +on you! + +BUTLER. We'll not be butchered like oxen in the shambles! + +JOHN TALBOT. Your oaths! + +BUTLER. We'll not fight longer to be knocked on the head at the +last. + +NEWCOMBE. No! No! Not that! Out with the flag, Dick! + +FENTON. A light here at the grating! + +(NEWCOMBE _turns to take a candle, obedient to_ FENTON'S _order. At +that moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Hark! + +DRISCOLL. The bugle! They're upon us! + +BUTLER (_releasing his hold on_ JOHN TALBOT). What was that? + +JOHN TALBOT. You swore to hold the bridge. + +BUTLER. Swore to hold it one day. We've held it three days now. + +FENTON. And the half of us are slain. + +NEWCOMBE. And we've no water--and no food! + +JOHN TALBOT (_pointing to the powder-keg_). We have powder in +plenty. + +DRISCOLL. We can't drink powder. Ah, for God's love, be swift, +Dick Fenton! Be swift! + +JOHN TALBOT. You shall not show that white flag! + +(_Starts toward_ FENTON, _hand on sword._) + +BUTLER (_pinioning_ JOHN TALBOT). God's death! We shall! Help me +here, Phelimy! + +JOHN TALBOT. A summons to parley. What see you, Fenton? + +FENTON (_at the shot-window_). Torches coming from the boreen, and +a white flag beneath them. I can see the faces. (_With a cry_) +Look, Jack! A'God's name! Look! + +(JOHN TALBOT _springs to the window._) + +DRISCOLL. What is it you're seeing? + +FENTON. It _is_-- + +JOHN TALBOT (_turning from the window_). 'Tis Hugh Talbot comes! +'Tis the Captain of the Gate! + +BUTLER. With them? A prisoner? + +JOHN TALBOT. No, no! No prisoner! He wears his sword. + +(BUTLER _snatches up his piece and resumes watch._) + +FENTON. Then he'll have made terms with them! Terms! + +NEWCOMBE (_embracing_ DRISCOLL). Terms for us! Terms for us! + +JOHN TALBOT. I told ye truth. He has come. Hugh Talbot has come. + +(_Goes to door._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_speaks outside_). Open! I come alone, and in peace. +Open unto me! + +JOHN TALBOT. Who goes there? + +HUGH TALBOT (_outside_). The Captain of the Gate! + +(JOHN TALBOT _unbars the door, and bars it again upon the entrance +of_ HUGH TALBOT. _The latter comes slowly into the room. He is a +man in his late thirties, a tall, martial figure, clad in +much-worn velvet and leather, with sword at side. The five salute +him as he enters._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_halts and for a moment surveys his followers_). Well, +lads? + +(_The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break, unable +for the moment to speak._) + +NEWCOMBE. We thought--we thought--that you--that you-- + +(_Breaks into childish sobbing._) + +FENTON. What terms will they grant us, sir? + +JOHN TALBOT. Sir, we have held the bridge. + +HUGH TALBOT. You five-- + +JOHN TALBOT. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and Langdale, +and--and James Talbot, my brother. + +DRISCOLL. And we've had no water, sir, these many hours. + +HUGH TALBOT. So! You're wounded, Phelimy. + +DRISCOLL. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (_At the voice_ NEWCOMBE _pulls himself +together._) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand? + +FENTON. 'Tis here, sir. + +(_Offers his tobacco pouch._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_filling his pipe_). Leave the window, Myles! They've +promised us a half hour's truce--and Cromwell's a man of his +word. + +NEWCOMBE (_bringing a lighted candle_). He'll let us pass free now, +sir, will he not? + +HUGH TALBOT (_lighting his pipe at the candle_). You're not afraid, +Kit? + +NEWCOMBE. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now! + +HUGH TALBOT. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look dead on your +feet. Give me to see that arm! (_As_ HUGH TALBOT _starts toward_ +DRISCOLL, _his eye falls on the open keg of powder. He draws back +hastily, covering his lighted pipe._) Jack Talbot! Who taught ye +to leave your powder uncovered, where lighted match was laid? + +BUTLER. My blame, sir. + +(_Covers the keg._) + +JOHN TALBOT. We opened the keg, and then-- + +FENTON. Truth, we did not cover it again, being somewhat pressed +for time. + +(_The five laugh, half hysterically._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_sitting by fire_). And you never thought, maybe, that +in that keg there was powder enough to blow the bridge of Cashala +to hell? + +JOHN TALBOT. It seemed a matter of small moment, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. Small moment! Powder enough, put case ye set it +there, at the stairhead--d'ye follow me?--powder enough to make +an end of Cashala Bridge for all time--aye, and of all within the +Gatehouse. You never thought on that, eh? + +JOHN TALBOT. We had so much to think on, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. I did suspect as much. So I came hither to recall +the powder to your minds. + +DRISCOLL. We thought--(BUTLER _motions him to be silent._) We +thought maybe you would not be coming at all, sir. Maybe you +would be dead. + +HUGH TALBOT. Well? What an if I had been dead? You had your +orders. You did not dream of giving up the Bridge of Cashala--eh, +Myles Butler? + +BUTLER (_after a moment_). No, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. Nor you, Dick Fenton? + +FENTON. Sir, I--No! + +HUGH TALBOT (_smoking throughout_). Good lads! The wise heads were +saying I was a stark fool to set you here at Cashala. But I said: +I can be trusting the young riders that are learning their +lessons in war from me. I'll be safe putting my honor into their +hands. And I was right, wasn't I, Phelimy Driscoll? + +DRISCOLL. Give us the chance, sir, and we'll be holding Cashala, +even against the devil himself! + +FENTON. Aye, well said! + +HUGH TALBOT. Sure,'tis a passing good substitute for the devil +sits yonder in Cromwell's tent. + +NEWCOMBE (_with a shudder_). Cromwell! + +HUGH TALBOT. Aye, he was slaying your brother at Drogheda, Kit, +and a fine, gallant lad your brother was. And I'm thinking you're +like him, Kit. Else I shouldn't be trusting you here at Cashala. + +NEWCOMBE. I--I--Will they let us keep our swords? + +HUGH TALBOT. Well, it's with yourselves it lies, whether you'll +keep them or not. + +FENTON. He means--we mean--on what terms, sir, do we surrender? + +HUGH TALBOT. Surrender? Terms? + +JOHN TALBOT. We thought, sir, from your coming under their white +flag--perhaps you had made terms for us. + +HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms? + +NEWCOMBE. Captain! + +(_At a look from_ HUGH TALBOT _he becomes silent, fighting for +self-control._) + +HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms that you would hear to? +Cashala Bridge is the gate of Connaught. + +JOHN TALBOT. Yes. + +HUGH TALBOT. Give Cromwell Cashala Bridge, and he'll be on the +heels of our women and our little ones. At what price would ye be +selling their safety? + +DRISCOLL. Cromwell--when he takes us--when he takes us-- + +NEWCOMBE. He'll knock us on the head! + +HUGH TALBOT. Yes. At the last. Your five lives against our +people's safety. You'd not give up the bridge? + +JOHN TALBOT. Five? Our five? But you--you are the sixth. + +FENTON. You stay with us, Captain. And then we'll fight--you'll +see how we shall fight. + +HUGH TALBOT. I shall be seeing you fight, perhaps, but I cannot +stay now at Cashala. + +(_Rises._) + +DRISCOLL. Ye won't be staying with us? + +BUTLER (_laughing harshly_). Now, on my soul! Is this your faith, +Hugh Talbot? One liar I've followed, Charles Stuart, the son of a +liar, and now a second liar-- + +JOHN TALBOT (_catching BUTLER'S throat_). A plague choke you! + +HUGH TALBOT (_stepping between_ JOHN TALBOT _and_ BUTLER). Ha' done, +Jack! Ha' done! What more, Myles Butler? + +BUTLER. Tell us whither you go, when you turn your back on us +that shall die at Cashala--you that come walking under the rebel +flag--that swore to bring us aid--and have not brought it! Tell +us whither you go now! + +HUGH TALBOT. Well, I'm a shade doubtful, Myles, my lad, though +hopeful of the best. + +BUTLER. 'Tis to Cromwell you go--you that have made your peace +with him--that have sold us-- + +DRISCOLL. Captain! A' God's name, what is it that you're meaning? + +HUGH TALBOT. I mean that you shall hold the Bridge of +Cashala--whatever happen to you--whatever happen to me-- + +FENTON. To you? Captain Talbot! + +HUGH TALBOT. I am going unto Cromwell--as you said, Myles. I gave +my promise. + +DRISCOLL. Your promise? + +JOHN TALBOT. We--have been very blind. So--they made you +prisoner? + +HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Jack. When I tried to cut my way through to +bring you aid. And they granted me this half hour on my parole to +come unto you. + +JOHN TALBOT. To come-- + +HUGH TALBOT. To counsel you to surrender. And I have given you +counsel. Hold the bridge! Hold it! Whatever they do! + +DRISCOLL. Captain! Captain Talbot! God of Heaven! If you go +back--'tis killed you'll be among them! + +HUGH TALBOT. A little sooner than you lads? Aye, true! + +FENTON. They cannot! Even Cromwell-- + +HUGH TALBOT. Tut, tut, Dick! It's little ye know of Cromwell. + +JOHN TALBOT. Then--you mean-- + +HUGH TALBOT. An you surrender Cashala, we may all six pass free. +An you hold Cashala, they will hang me, here before your eyes. + +(DRISCOLL _gives a rattling cry._) + +BUTLER. God forgive me! + +HUGH TALBOT. You have your orders. Hold the bridge! + +(_Turns to door._) + +JOHN TALBOT (_barring his way_). No, no! You shan't go forth! + +FENTON. God's mercy, no! + +HUGH TALBOT. Are you stark crazed? + +FENTON. You shall stay with us. + +JOHN TALBOT. What's your pledged word to men that know not honor? + +HUGH TALBOT. My word. Unbar the door, Jack. Why, lad, we're +traveling the same road. + +FENTON. God! But we'll give them a good fight at the last. (_Goes +to the shot-window._) Take up your musket, Kit. + +NEWCOMBB. But I--Captain! When you are gone, I--I-- + +HUGH TALBOT. I'll not be far. You'll hold the bridge? + +JOHN TALBOT. Aye, sir. + +BUTLER. We've powder enough--you said it, sir,--laid there at the +stairhead, to blow the bridge to hell. + +HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Myles, you've hit it! + +(_Holds out his hand._) + +BUTLER. Not yet, sir! + +HUGH TALBOT. Hereafter, then. God speed you, lads! + +JOHN TALBOT. Speed you, sir! (_All five stand at salute as_ HUGH +TALBOT _goes out. In the moment's silence upon his exit_, JOHN +TALBOT _bars the door and turns to his comrades._) You have--Hugh +Talbot's orders. Take your pieces! Driscoll! Newcombe! + +(_Obediently the two join_ FENTON _at windows._) Butler! + +BUTLER. Aye! We have Hugh Talbot's orders. + +(_Points to powder-keg._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Are you meaning-- + +BUTLER. It's not I will be failing him now! + +FENTON (_at window_). God! They waste no time. + +JOHN TALBOT. Already--they have dared-- + +FENTON. Here--this moment--under our very eyes! + +DRISCOLL. Christ Jesus! + +(_Goes back from the window, with his arm across his eyes, and +falls on his knees in headlong prayer._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Kit! Kit Newcombe! + +(_Motions him to window._) + +NEWCOMBE. I cannot! I-- + +JOHN TALBOT. Look forth! Look! And remember--when you meet +them--remember! (NEWCOMBE _stands swaying, clutching at the +grating of the window, as he looks forth._) Lads! (_Motions to_ +BUTLER _and_ FENTON _to carry the powder to the stairhead._) The time +is short. His orders! + +(DRISCOLL _raises his head and gazes fixedly toward the centre of +the room._) + +FENTON. Yonder, at the stairhead. + +BUTLER. Aye. + +(FENTON _and_ BUTLER _carry the keg to the door._) + +NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not that death! No! No! + +JOHN TALBOT. Be silent! And look yonder! Driscoll! Fetch the +light! Newcombe! Come! You have your places, all. + +DRISCOLL. But, Captain! The sixth man--where will the sixth man +be standing? + +(_There is a blank silence, in which the men look questioningly at_ +DRISCOLL'S _rapt face and at one another._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Sixth? + +FENTON. What sixth? + +DRISCOLL. The blind eyes of ye! Yonder! + +(_Comes to the salute, even as, a few moments before, he has +saluted_ HUGH TALBOT, _living._ + +NEWCOMBE _gives a smothered cry, as one who half sees, and takes +courage._ FENTON _dazedly starts to salute. Outside a bugle +sounds, and a voice, almost at the door, is heard to speak._) + +VOICE OUTSIDE. For the last time: will you surrender you? + +JOHN TALBOT (_in a loud and confident voice_). No! Not while our +commander stands with us! + +VOICE OUTSIDE. And who might your commander be? + +JOHN TALBOT. Hugh Talbot, the Captain of the Gate! The light +here, Phelimy. + +(JOHN TALBOT _bends to set the candle to the powder that shall +destroy Cashala Gatehouse, and all within it. His mates are +gathered round him, with steady, bright faces, for in the little +space left vacant in their midst they know in that minute that_ +HUGH TALBOT _stands._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +GETTYSBURG[1] + +Percy MacKaye + + +SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of a farm-house. + +The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures +being slightly arched at the top. (_In bad weather, these +presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open +now--swung back outward beyond sight._) Thus the nearer opening is +the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks +through the shed to the background--a grassy yard, a road with +great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green +hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams. + +On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house +kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. +In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On +this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small +oil-stove, with steaming kettle upon it. + +Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is +stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stovewood and +kindlings mixed with small chips of the floor, which is piled +deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust. + +Not far from this mounded pile, at right centre of the scene, +stands a wooden armchair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his +shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, +his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair +cropped close, and gray moustache of a faded black hue at the +outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled +round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his +lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and +collar. Near him is a chopping-block. + +In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and +floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs +in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again. + +From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl of +seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In +one hand she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat, over the +other arm a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him +asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the +chopping-block, goes to the bench, and trims the wick of the +oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near +LINK, surveying the shed. + +On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain +order in its chaos; some of the splittings have been piled in +irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and +chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like +miniature valleys and hills. [2] + +Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among the +hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping and +smoothing the little mounds with the hoe. As she does so, from +far away, a bugle sounds. + +[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1912, by Percy Mackaye. All rights +reserved.] + +[Footnote 2: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of +these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexed +to the volume by Captain R.K. Beecham, entitled _Gettysburg_ +(A.C. McClurg, 1911).] + + + LINK + (_snapping his eyes wide open, sits up_) + + Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly? + + POLLY + Just + A kitten-nap, I guess. + + (_Laying the hoe down, she approaches_) + + The yoke done? + + LINK + (_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_) + + Thar! + When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug, + I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to-- + (_Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he + holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two + with expert eye_) + and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech + or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip + at birch, for ox-yokes.--Polly, are ye thar? + + POLLY + Yes, Uncle Link. + + LINK + What's that I used to sing ye? + + "Polly, put the kittle on, + Polly, put the kittle on, + Polly, put the kittle on--" + + (_Chuckling'_) + + We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea! + + POLLY + The kettle's boilin'. + + LINK + Wall, then, steep him good. + + (POLLY _takes from_ LINK _the collar-thong, carries it to the + work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she + then closes tight and connects--by a piece of hose--to the spout + of the kettle. At the farther end of the box, steam then emerges + through a small hole._) + + POLLY + You're feelin' smart to-day. + + LINK + Smart!--Wall, if I + could git a hull man to swap legs with me, + mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin' + dead an' alive, without no legs, day in, + day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats. + + POLLY + (_cheerfully_) + + I guess you'll soon be walkin' round. + + LINK + Not if + that doctor feller has his say: He says + I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan; + and looks like he's 'bout right.--Nine months to-morrer, + Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke. + + POLLY + (_pointing to the ox-yoke_) + + You're fitter + sittin' than most folks standin'. + + LINK + (_briskly_) + + Oh, they can't + keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's + my second natur' sence I was a boy. + + (_Again in the distance a bugle sounds._ LINK _starts._) + + What's that? + + POLLY + Why, that's the army veterans + down to the graveyard. This is Decoration + mornin': you ain't forgot? + + LINK + So't is, so't is. + Roger, your young man--ha! (_chuckling_) he come and axed me + was I a-goin' to the cemetery. + "Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?" + + POLLY + He meant--to decorate the graves. + + LINK + O' course; + but I must take my little laugh. I told him + I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow, + my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'. + I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.-- + Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks, + Polly? + + POLLY + Dear no! I told my boys and girls + to march up this way with the band. I said + I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how + to keep school in the woodpile here with you. + + LINK + (_looking up at her proudly_) + + Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye! + + POLLY + (_caressing him_) + + Schoolmaster, you, past seventy; that's smarter! + I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach + my young folks what the study-books leave out. + + LINK + Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'? + + POLLY + No, _sir!_ We're goin' to celebrate right here, + and you're to teach me to keep school some more. + + (_She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat._) + + LINK + (_looking up_) + + What's thar? + + POLLY + Your teachin' rig. + + (_She helps him on with it._) + + LINK + The old blue coat!-- + My, but I'd like to see the boys--(_gazing at the hat_) the Grand + Old Army Boys! (_dreamily_) Yes, we was boys: jest boys! + Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study + the books, that we was nothin' else but boys + jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home-- + the same as you; and when the shot was singin', + we pulled their picters out, and prayed to them + 'most morn'n the Almighty. + + (LINK _looks up suddenly--a strange light in his face. + Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds._) + + Thar she blows + Agin! + + POLLY + They're marchin' to the graves with flowers. + + LINK + My Godfrey!'t ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers + and the young folks, their faces, and the blue + line of old fellers marchin'--it's the music! + that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though, + legs or no legs, I'd have to up and foller + to God-knows-whar, and holler--holler back + to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no! + I jest can't stan' the music. + + POLLY + (_goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming_) + + Uncle Link, + you want that I should steam this longer? + + LINK + (_absently_) + + Oh, + A kittleful, a kittleful. + + POLLY + (_coming over to him_) + + Now, then, + I'm ready for school.--I hope I've drawed the map + all right. + + LINK + Map? Oh, the map! + + (_Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods._) + + Yes, thar she be: + old Gettysburg! + + POLLY + I know the places--most. + + LINK + So, _do_ ye? Good, now: whar's your marker? + + POLLY + (_taking up the hoe_) + + Here. + + LINK + Willoughby Run: whar's that? + + POLLY + (_pointing with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile_) + + That's farthest over + next the barn door. + + LINK + My, how we fit the Johnnies + thar, the fust mornin'! Jest behind them willers, + acrost the Run, that's whar we captur'd Archer. + My, my! + + POLLY + Over there--that's Seminary Ridge. + + (_She points to different heights and depressions, as_ LINK + _nods his approval._) + + Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheatfield-- + + LINK + Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield! + + POLLY + (_continuing_) + + Cemetery Hill, + Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here + is Cemetery Ridge. + + LINK + (_pointing to the little flag_) + + And colors flyin'! + We _kep_ 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days, + From start to finish. + + POLLY + Have I learned 'em right? + + LINK + _A_ number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill: + I don't jest spy Culp's Hill. + + POLLY + There wa'n't enough + kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay + east there, towards the kitchen. + + LINK + Let it go! + That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar + and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep' it thar, + too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum. + Let Culp's Hill lay for now.--Lend me your marker. + (POLLY _hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches + with it and digs in the chips._) + Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So: + smooth off them chips. + + (POLLY _does so with her foot._) + + You better guess't was deep + As hell, that second day, come sundown.--Here, + (_He hands back the hoe to her._) + flat down the Wheatfield yonder. + + (POLLY _does so._) + + God a'mighty! + That Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter + than any pancake what you ever cooked, + Polly; and't wa'n't no maple syrup neither + was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black, + all over it, that nightfall. + + POLLY + Here's the road + to Emmetsburg. + + LINK + No,'t 'ain't: this here's the pike + to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin', + after an all-night march, jest in the nick + to save our second day. The Emmetsburg + road's thar.--Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'? + + POLLY + At sunset, July second, sixty-three. + + LINK + (_nodding, reminiscent_) + + The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun: + she set a dozen times that afternoon, + red-yeller as a punkin jack-o'-lantern, + rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke + till she clean busted, like the other bombs, + behind the hills. + + POLLY + My! Wa'n't you never scart + and wished you'd stayed t' home? + + LINK + Scart? Wall, I wonder! + Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars. + I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,-- + a dressy mister, span-new from the city-- + layin' the law down: "All this stars and stripes," + says he, "and red and white and blue is rubbish, + mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!" + "I wan't' know!" says I. "In sixty-three, + I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown + I met him stumblin'--with two dead men's muskets + for crutches--towards a bucket, full of ink--- + water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell, + he tuk the rest to wash his bullet-holes.--- + Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, + with red and white and blue, tore'most t' tatters, + a-danglin' from it. 'Be you color sergeant?' + says I. 'Not me,' says Link; 'the sergeant's dead; + but when he fell, he handed me this bit + o' rubbish--red and white and blue.' And Link + he laughed. 'What be you laughin' for?' says I. + 'Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!'" says Link. + + POLLY + What did the span-new mister say to that? + + LINK + I didn't stop to listen. Them as never + heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't + guess what they be. + + (_Sitting up and blinking hard_) + + But this ain't keepin' school! + + POLLY + (_quietly_) + + I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link. + + LINK + The second day, 'fore sunset. + + (_He takes the hoe and points with it._) + + Yon's the Wheatfield. + Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels. + Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge + behind 'em. Hancock--he's our general-- + he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements + from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose + the Ridge, and lose the Ridge--lose God-and-all!-- + Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington, + Abe Lincoln, and the White House in one bite!-- + So the Union, Polly--me and you and Roger, + your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam--is all + thar--growin' in that Wheatfield. + + POLLY + (_smiling proudly_) + + And they're growin' + still! + + LINK + Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls, + thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers: + gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat-tops, + and now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat, + thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round + in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces, + and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke, + and stingin' smother, and--up thar through the dark-- + that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon + lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder! + + (_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial + music of a brass band begins. Again_ LINK'S _face + twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment + on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly + growing louder, permeates the scene._) + + POLLY + Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow + the created world to act that awful? + + LINK + Now, + I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe: + + (_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron._) + + Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see + yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy + I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link," + they call him, 'cause his legs is spry's a squirrel's.-- + Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes + like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day, + keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him. + + (_Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe_) + + If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you. + But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein' + them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps + o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized + Link as his livin' image, and so kep' him + to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs, + and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs, + list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'. + + (LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music + draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly.) + + POLLY + Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind'em. + + LINK + (_relaxing under her touch_) + + No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct-- + onct we was boys, onct we was boys--with legs. + But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle. + _Onct_, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin' + outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin' + outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds + a-blowin' _Glory Hallelujahs_, like + brass music, from his mouth.--But never mind! + 'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now. + Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin' + gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs. + + (_With smouldering fire_) + + But jest the same-- + + (_His face convulses and he cries out, terribly--straining + in his chair to rise._) + + --for holy God, that band! + Why don't they stop that band! + + POLLY + (_going_) + + I'll run and tell them. + Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back. + + (_Glancing back anxiously,_ POLLY _disappears outside. The + approaching band begins to play "John Brown's Body."_ + LINK _sits motionless, gripping his chair._) + + LINK + _Set quiet!_ + Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand, + and Link--he kin set quiet.--God a'mighty, + how kin he set, and them a-marchin' thar + with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot + the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin' + home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown, + a-singin' Glory to ye! Jest look down: + thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge: + don't say ye disremember them! And thar's + the colors. Look, he's picked 'em up--the sergeant's + blood splotched 'em some--but thar they be, still flyin'! + Link done that: Link--the spry boy, what they call + Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step, + have ye? + + (_Again he cries out, beseechingly_) + + My God, why do You keep on marchin' + and leave him settin' here? + (_To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing + the words of "John Brown's Body." At the sound,_ + LINK'S _face becomes transformed with emotion, his + body shakes, and his shoulders heave and straighten._) + No!--I--_won't_--set! + + (_Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands._) + + Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come + ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line. + Them voices--Lord, I guess you've brought along + Your Sunday choir of young angel folks + to help the boys out. + + (_Following the music with swaying arms_) + + Glory!--Never mind + me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm + goin' t' jine in, or bust! + + (_Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously + along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps--his + one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as + to unseen hands, that draw him--he totters toward + the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, + his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where + the children's are singing it._) + + "--a-mould'rin' in the grave, + John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave. + John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave, + But his soul goes--" + + (_Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries + aloud, astounded_) + Lord, Lord, my legs! + Whar did Ye git my legs? + + (_Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the + little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously._) + + I'm comin', boys! + Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap. + + (_With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the + woodpile._) + + Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge! + Jine in, jine in! + + (_Swinging the flag_) + + Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray! + + (_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old + men and children sing martially to the brass music._ + + _With his final cheer_, LINK _stumbles down from the + mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other + the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching + procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked + voice, jubilant, with the singers:_) + + "--ry hallelujah, + Glory, glory hallelujah, + His truth is marchin" on!" + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +LONESOME-LIKE[1] + +Harold Brighouse + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the author and of +the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow.] + +CHARACTERS + +SAKAH ORMEHOD, An old woman +EMMA BRIERLEY, A young woman +THE REV. FRANK ALLEYNE, A curate +SAM HORROCKS, A young man + +THE SCENE _represents the interior of a cottage in a Lancashire +village. Through the window at the back the gray row of cottages +opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window. +Door left. As regards furniture the room is very bare. The +suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. For +example, there are several square patches where the distemper of +the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating the +places once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered deal +the left wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above it containing a +few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. A +blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking-range, but the +room contains only the barest necessities. The floor is +uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheap +muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, high +enough to prevent a passer-by from looking in, should he wish to +do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin +trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door left +is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned beaded +bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises the room is +empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens and SARAH +ORMEROD, an old woman, enters, carrying clumsily in her arms a +couple of pink flannelette nightdresses, folded neatly. Her black +stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding-ring is her only +ornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short +skirt shows a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl +covers her shoulders. SARAH crosses and puts the nightdresses on +the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There is a knock at the +outside door and she looks up._ + + +SARAH. Who's theer? + +EMMA (_without_). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierley. + +SARAH. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass. + +(_Enter_ EMMA BRIERLEY. _She is a young weaver, and, having just +left her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of some +indeterminate blue-gray shade made of cotton, and a large shawl +over her head and shoulders in place of a jacket and hat. A +colored cotton apron covers her skirt below the waist, and the +short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She +wears clogs, and the clothes--except the shawl--are covered with +ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has not +escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist._) + +SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o' +coomin' to see an ould woman like me. + +EMMA (_by door_). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' mill's just +loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' and see 'ow tha +was feeling like. + +SARAH (_crossing to box_). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's +only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's no +manner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 'er'ands. A'm all +reeght in masel'. That's worst of it. + +EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A +can do for thee? + +SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma. + +EMMA (_taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a +peg in the door_). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' when +A coom in? Packin' yon box? + +SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer's a two three things as A canna bear +thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let me +tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' rest +of stuff. + +EMMA (_crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees_). Let me +help yo'. + +SARAH. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee. + +EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as they'd carry +safe that road. + +SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it difficult for +me. + +(_Sits on chair._) + +EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter. + +(_Lifts all out, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges its +contents._) + +SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll not weave +by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows. + +EMMA (_looking round_). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's stopped. +It's Saturday afternoon. + +SARAH. So 't is. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th' week +sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do. + +EMMA. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry about me. +Tha's got trouble enough of thy own. + +(_Resuming at the box_) + +SARAH. Aye, th' art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us likes +to think o' goin' to workus when we're ould. + +EMMA. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin' to +see thee. + +SARAH. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes 'e'll do +summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them folks can do. + +EMMA (_kneeling up_). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Ormerod. That's +what my moother says to me when A tould 'er A were coomin' in to +thee. Keep 'er pecker oop, she says. It's not as if she'd been +lazy or a wastrel, she says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in +'er day, she says. It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't +'elp tha 'ands goin' paralytic. + +(_She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking._) + +SARAH. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game enough for +work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 'ave to work for my +living all th' days o' my life. A never was a savin' sort. + +EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's soom as can be +careful o' theer brass an' soom as can't. It's not a virtue, it's +a gift. That's what my moother allays says. + +(_Resumes packing._) + +SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' savin', my +man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took an' died, the club money as +A drew all went on 'is funeral an' 'is gravestone. A warn't goin' +to 'ave it said as 'e warn't buried proper. + +EMMA. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Aye. + +EMMA. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a better, +an' A goes to all as A can. (_Rises._) A dotes on buryin's. Are +these the next? + +(_Crosses before table for nightdresses, takes the nightdresses +and resumes packing._) + +SARAH. Aye + +(_Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to Sarah's +next speech._) + +SARAH (_pause_). A've been a 'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, +an' A've took pride in 'avin' my bits o' sticks as good as +another's. Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, +she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though A says it +as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a decent 'ouse over your +yead. An' we allays 'ad our full week's 'ollydayin' at Blackpool +reg'lar at Wakes time. Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to +spend it on, an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty +o' good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'e +liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier, too, in +'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away wi' a mint o' +money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no brass to put in th' bank. +We was allays spent oop coom wages neeght. + +EMMA. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young, but A knaw 'ow 't +is. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an' when us plays, us plays +as 'ard too (_pause_), an' small blame to us either. It's our +_own_ we're spendin'. + +SARAH. Aye. It's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can mind me +many an' many's the time when th' warnin' bell went on th' +factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's mornin' as A've +craved for another ha'f hour in my bed, but Tom 'e got me oop an' +we was never after six passin' through factory gates all th' +years we were wed. There's not many as can say they were never +late. "Work or clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould +bell were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma. "Work or clem" is +God's truth. (EMMA'S _head in box._) An' now th' time's coom when A +can't work no more. But Parson's a good man, 'e'll mak' it all +reeght. (EMMA'S _head appears._) Eh, it were good o' thee to coom +in, lass. A bit o' coompany do mak' a world o' difference. A'm +twice as cheerful as A were. + +EMMA. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. (_Rises from the +box._) Is theer owt else? + +SARAH. A were thinkin' A'd like to tak' my black silk as A've +worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think it's reeght +thing for workus. + +EMMA. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt, nobbut what +chairs an table 'ull payfor, and A doan't like thowt o' leaving +owt as A'm greatly fond of. + +EMMA. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is it? A'll +put un in. Theer's lots o'room on top. A'll see un's noan +crushed. + +SARAH. It's hanging theer behind door. (EMMA _crosses back to +door, gets clothes._) A got un out to show Parson. A thowt A'd ask +un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go. My best bonnet's +with it, an' all. + +(EMMA _goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it on +the table, and packs it._) + +EMMA. A'll put un in. + +SARAH. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass. + +EMMA. That's nowt; neighbors mun be neighborly. + +(_Gets bonnet from table and packs it._) + +SARAH (_after a pause, looking round_). Place doan't look much, an' +that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and theer +ain't much left to part wi' now. + +EMMA. Never mind; it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takken thee +oop. + +SARAH. A'm hopin' so. A _am_ hopin' so. A never could abide +th' thowt o' th' workus--me as 'as bin an 'ard-workin' woman. A +couldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi' strange folk round +me, an' when th' Matron said, "Do that," A'd 'ave to do it, an' +when she said, "Go theer," A'd 'ave to a' gone wheer she tould +me--me as 'as allays 'eld my yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased +masel'. Eh, it's a terrible thowt, the workus. + +EMMA (_rising_). Now tha's sure that's all? + +SARAH (_after a pause, considers_). Eh, if A havna forgot my +neeghtcaps. (_Rises, moves centre and stops._) A suppose they'll +let me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly think as A'd get my +rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps. + +EMMA. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght. + +SARAH (_as she goes_). A'll go an' get un. (_Exit right, returning +presently with the white nightcaps._) That's all now. + +(_Gives them to_ EMMA _who meets her at centre._) + +EMMA (_putting them in_). Yo' never 'ad no childer, did yo', Mrs. +Ormerod? + +SARAH. No, Emma, no--maybe that's as broad as's long. (_Sits above +fire._) Yo' never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on 'em turn again yo' +when they're growed, or they get wed themselves an' forget all as +yo' 've done for 'em, like a many A could name, and they're +allays a worrit to yo' when they're young. + +EMMA. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Are yo', now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them +graceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother, A +knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin' coompany +with? + +EMMA. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. 'Indle, 'Indle? What, not son to Robert 'Indle, 'im as +used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to foreign +parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave? + +EMMA. Aye, that's 'im. + +SARAH. Well, A dunno aught about th' lad. 'Is faither were a fine +man. A minds 'im well. But A'll tell thee this, Emma, an' A'll +tell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for 'isself, is young +Joe 'Indle. + +EMMA. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as 't were only +t'other day as tha was runnin' about in short frocks, an' now +tha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed! Time do run on. Sithee, +Emma, tha's a good lass, A've gotten an ould teapot in yonder +(_indicating her bedroom_) as my moother give me when A was wed. A +weren't for packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A +were going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A +died, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus. + +EMMA. Tha's not gone theer yet. + +SARAH. Never mind that. (_Slowly rises._) A'm going to give it +thee, lass, for a weddin' gift. Tha'll tak' care of it, A knaw, +and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare me a thowt. + +EMMA. Oh, no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it. + +SARAH. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me? + +EMMA. No. Tha knaws A'm not. + +SARAH. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute. Happen A'd +best tidy masel' up too against Parson cooms. + +EMMA. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod? + +SARAH. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My 'ands isn't +that bad; A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do all as A need do. + +EMMA. Well, A'll do box up. + +(_Crosses to table right and gets cord._) + +SARAH. Aye. + +EMMA. All reeght. + +(_Exit_ SARAH. _A man's face appears outside at the window. He +surveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks at the +door._) + +Who's theer? + +SAM (_without_). It's me, Sam Horrocks. (_EMMA crosses left and +opens door._) May A coom in? + +EMMA. What dost want? + +SAM (_on the doorstep_). A want a word wi' thee, Emma Brierley. A +followed thee oop from factory and A've bin waitin' out theer +till A'm tired o' waitin'. + +EMMA. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk wi' thee +at door. + +(EMMA _lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in the +middle of the room, resumes work on her knees at the box._ SAM +HORROCKS _is a hulking young man of a rather vacant expression. He +is dressed in mechanic's blue dungarees. His face is oily and his +clothes stained. He wears boots, not clogs. He mechanically takes +a ball of oily black cotton-waste from his right pocket when in +conversational difficulties and wipes his hands upon it. He has a +red muffler round his neck without collar, and his shock affair +hair is surmounted by a greasy black cap, which covers perhaps +one tenth of it._) + +SAM (_after watching_ EMMA's _back for a moment_). Wheer's Mrs. +Ormerod? + +EMMA (_without looking up_). What's that to do wi' thee? + +SAM (_apologetically_). A were only askin'. Tha needn't be short +wi' a chap. + +EMMA. She's in scullery washin' 'er, if tha wants to knaw. + +SAM. Oh! + +EMMA (_looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause_). +Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks? + +SAM. Naw. + +EMMA. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' t'other +side o' door. + +SAM. (_Takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after +trying his right and finding the ball of waste in it._) Yes, Emma. + +(EMMA _resumes work with her back towards him and waits for him to +speak. But he is not ready yet._) + +EMMA. Well, what dost want? + +SAM. Nought.--Eh, but tha art a gradely wench. + +EMMA. What's that to do wi' thee? + +SAM. Nought. + +EMMA. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't pass +compliments behind folks' backs. + +SAM. A didn't mean no 'arm. + +EMMA. Well? + +SAM. It's a fine day, isn't it? For th' time o' th' year? + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. A very fine day. + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM (_desperately_). It's a damned fine day. + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM (_after a moment_). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma? + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. Wert ever in it? + +EMMA. Not sin' tha moother died. + +SAM. Naw. A suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died. She were a +fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed-ridden. + +EMMA. She were better than 'er son, though that's not saying much +neither. + +SAM. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were when she +were alive? + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. A 've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt on +bed from Co-op. Red un, it is, wi' blue stripes down 'er. + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. Well, Emma? + +EMMA (_over her shoulder_). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse an' thy +quilt to do wi' me? + +SAM. Oh, nought.--Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much, neither. + +EMMA. (_Rises and faces him. SAM is behind corner table and backs +a little before her._) What's tha gettin' at, Sam Horrocks? Tha's +got a tongue in thy faice, hasn't tha? + +SAM. A suppose so. A doan't use it much though. + +EMMA. No. Tha's not much better than a tongue-tied idiot, Sam +Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine-house in daytime an' +sulkin' at 'ome neeghttime. + +SAM. Aye, A'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave a way wi' +'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin t' same to me sin' +she went. Daytime, tha knaws, A'm all reeght. Tha sees, them +engines, them an' me's pals. They talks to me an' A understands +their ways. A doan't some'ow seem to understand th' ways o' folks +like as A does th' ways o' them engines. + +EMMA. Tha doesn't try. T' other lads goes rattin' or +dog-feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday +afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's not likely to +understand folks. Tha's not sociable. + +SAM. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed at when A +tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down at th' pub wi' th' +rest o' th' lads. It's no use ma tryin' to soop ale; A can't +carry th' drink like t' others. A knaws A've ways o' ma own. + +EMMA. Tha has that. + +SAM. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o' mine, it do +want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines is all reeght for +days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like tha wouldn't believe. + +EMMA. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi' me, +choosehow. + +SAM. Naw? A'd--A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave, Emma. + +EMMA (_approaching threateningly_). Sam Horrocks, if tha doan't +tell me proper what tha means A 'll give tha such a slap in th' +mouth. + +SAM (_backing before her_). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma. Just +like ma moother. + +EMMA. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into thy +silly yead. + +SAM (_suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table_). +Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak' good money in th'engine-house. + +EMMA. Get oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel' so +close wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' never +speakin' a word to nobody, tha'd knaw A were keepin' coompany wi' +Joe Hindle. + +SAM (_scrambling up_). Is that a fact, Emma? + +EMMA. Of course it's a fact. Banns 'ull be oop come Sunday +fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just like the great +blind idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long enough sin'. + +SAM. A wer'n't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha'd 'ave me, +Emma. + +EMMA (_a little more softly_). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee, Sam. + +SAM. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe A'd best be +goin'. + +EMMA (_lifts box to left_). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs. +Ormerod in a minute. + +SAM (_with pride_). A knaw all about that, anyhow. + +EMMA. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can do much +for 'er. + +SAM. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo' 'll not want +me'ere. A 'll be movin' on. (_Getting his cap out_) No offense, +Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd knawn as 'e were +after thee. A've bin tryin' for long enough. + +EMMA. No. Theer's no offense, Sam. Tha's a good lad if tha art a +fool, an' mebbe tha's not to blame for that. Good-bye. + +SAM. Good-bye, Emma. An'--An' A 'ope 'e'll mak' thee 'appy. A'd +dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' shake 'is 'and. + +(MRS. ORMEROD _heard off right._) + +EMMA. A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'. Tha'd +best be gettin'. + +SAM. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma. + +EMMA. Good-bye, Sam. + +(_Exit_ SAM _left centre._ MRS. ORMEROD _comes from the inside door. +She has a small blue teapot in her hand._) + +SARAH. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard someun talkin', +only my yearin' isn't what it used to be, an' A warn't sure. + +EMMA. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im as +isn't reeght in 'is yead? + +EMMA. Aye. 'E's bin askin' me to wed 'im. + +SARAH (_incensed_). In my 'ouse? Theer's imperence for thee, an' +tha promised to another lad, an' all. A'd 'ave set about 'im wi' +a stick, Emma. + +EMMA. 'E didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel like to +'ave to tell 'im. + +SARAH. 'E'll get ower it. Soom lass 'll tak' 'im. + +EMMA. A suppose so. + +SARAH (_coming down, putting the teapot in EMMA'S hands_). Well, +theer's teapot. + +EMMA (_meets SARAH right centre, examining teapot_). It's +beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak' care +on't, lass, won't thee? + +EMMA. A will an' all. + +SARAH. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than it would +be in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice. A goa cold all +ower at thowt of it. + +(_A knock at the door._) + +EMMA. That'll be Parson. + +SARAH (_crosses left, smoothing her hair_). Goa an' look through +window first, an' see who 't is. + +EMMA (_puts teapot on table; looking through window_). It is not +th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps. + +SARAH. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down. It won't do +to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's not th' ould +Parson. + +(EMMA _leaves the window and goes to right of table. The knock is +repeated._) + +SARAH (_raising her voice_). Coom in so who tha art. Door's on +latch. + +(_Enter the_ REV. FRANK ALLEYNE. _He is a young curate, a +Londoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and taste +totally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is, +unfortunately, no exception._) + +ALLEYNE. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Good day to thee. + +ALLEYNE. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to a +missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you in his +stead. + +SARAH. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee doon. + +(EMMA _comes below table left. Dusts a chair, which doesn't need +it, with her apron._ ALLEYNE _raises a deprecatory hand._ SARAH'S +_familiarity, as it seems to him, offends him. He looks sourly at_ +EMMA _and markedly ignores her._) + +ALLEYNE. Thank you; no, I won't sit; I cannot stay long. + +SARAH. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me. + +(EMMA _stays by right of table._) + +ALLEYNE. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod? + +SARAH. It might be worse. A've lost th' use o' my 'ands, and +they're takin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet, and that's +summat to be thankul for. + +ALLEYNE. Oh, yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The--er--message I am to +deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led you to hope +for. His efforts on your behalf have--er--- unfortunately failed. +He finds himself obliged to give up all hope of aiding you to a +livelihood. In fact--er--I understand that the arrangements made +for your removal to the workhouse this afternoon must be carried +out. It seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the +bearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a comfortable +home awaiting you, Mrs.--er--Ormerod. + +SARAH. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no tellin' 'ow +you'll favor a thing till you've tried it. + +ALLEYNE. You must resign yourself to the will of Providence. The +consolations of religion are always with us. Shall I pray with +you? + +SARAH. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off, an' A +doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me if A coom cryin' +to 'im now A'm 'urt. + +ALLEYNE. He will understand. Can I do nothing for you? + +SARAH. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same. + +ALLEYNE. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permission to bring +a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. (_Feeling in his coattails +and bringing out a Testament._) Allow me to present you with this +Testament, and may it help you to bear your Cross with resignation. +(_He hands her the Testament._ SARAH _does not raise her hands, +and it drops on her lap._ ALLEYNE _takes it again and puts it on +the table._) Ah, yes, of course--your poor hands--I understand. + +SARAH. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me, an' my eyes +aren't what they were, but A'll mak' most of it. + +ALLEYNE. You will never read that in vain. And now, dear sister, +I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All will be well. +Good day. + +SARAH. Good day to thee. + +(_Exit_ ALLEYNE.) + +EMMA. Tha doesn't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma. 'E should +'a' coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks like 'e were feart to do it. +A never could abide them curate lads. We doan't want no grand +Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 'E doan't understand us no more than +we understand 'im. 'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, +A've bin a church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop to +church, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o' me in my +time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate with a tuppenny +Testament. That's all th' good yo' get out o' they folks. + +EMMA. We'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to let me +see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony different wi' +chapels, neither. They get what they can outer yo', but yo' +mustn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch cooms. (_Clock +outside strikes three._) Sakes alive, theer's clock goin' three. +My dinner 'ull be nice an' cold. + +SARAH. Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's bin +clemmin' all this time? + +EMMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory. + +SARAH. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat. + +EMMA. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha 's no +reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'. + +EMMA (_putting her shawl on_). All reeght. A'm off. + +(_Picks up teapot._) + +SARAH. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll be 'arder +to bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much for me. Eh, lass, +A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building wi' th' drear windows. + +EMMA. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a bit o' +coompany. A 'll ask her to coom an' fetch thee a coop o' tea +bye-an'-bye. + +(_A knock at the door._) + +SARAH. Who's theer? + +SAM (_without_). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod. + +EMMA. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again. + +SARAH. Sam Horrocks! What can th'lad be after now? (_Calling_) Hast +tha wiped thy boots on scraper? + +SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Coom in then. (EMMA _in left corner. Enter_ SAM.) Tak' thy +cap off. + +SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. What dost want? + +SAM. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by thysel'. +A'll coom again (_bolting nervously for the door_). + +SARAH. Let that door be. Dost say tha's got business 'ere? + +SAM. Aye, wi' thee. A'd like a word wi' thee private. + +(EMMA _moves to open door._) + +SARAH. All reeght. Emma's just goin' to 'er dinner. + +EMMA (_speaking through door_). A'll ask my moother to step hi +later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for th' teapot. + +SARAH. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (_Exit_ EMMA _with teapot._) +Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee? + +SAM (_dropping the cotton-waste he is fumbling with and picking it +up_). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year. + +SARAH. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad? + +SAM. Naw, not exactly. + +SARAH. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on thee. Art +tongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawlin' yon bit o' waste an' tell me +what 'tis tha wants? + +SAM (_desperately_). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'. + +SARAH. A'll tell thee what A'd do to thee if A 'ad the use o' my +'ands, my lad. A'd coom aside thee and A'd box thy ears. If tha's +got business wi' me, tha'd best state it sharp or A 'll be +showin' thee the shape o' my door. + +SAM. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A am. A've +not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould moother died. + +SARAH. A've 'eerd folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi' 'er +tongue. + +SAM (_admiringly_). She were that. Rare talker she were. She'd lie +theer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon corner, an' call +me all th' names she could put her tongue to, till A couldn't +tell ma reeght 'and from ma left. (_Still reminiscent._) Wonnerful +sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she were bed-ridden so long. She +were only a little un an' cripple an' all, but by gum, she could +sling it at a feller if 'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. +Talk! She'd talk a donkey's yead off, she would. + +SARAH (_on her mettle_). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an' all +if tha doan't get sharp to tellin' me what tha wants after in my +'ouse, tha great mazed idiot. + +SAM. Eh, but she were a rare un. + +SARAH. The lad's daft aboot his moother. + +SAM (_detachedly, looking at window; pause_). Wunnerful breeght the +sky is, to-day. + +SARAH. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to thee +if--if A'd the use o' my 'ands. + +SAM. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say. + +SARAH. Dang thy moother. An' A doan't mean no disrepect to 'er +neither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more, poor woman. + +SAM. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she were +wunnerful. + +SARAH. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd call thee +if A were thy moother an' A'd to live aside o' thee neeght an' +day. + +SAM (_eagerly_). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would. + +SARAH. Would what? + +SAM. Would coom an' live along wi' me. + +SARAH. Tha great fool, what does mean? Art askin' me to wed thee? + +SAM. A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm sorry A +spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 'ope as tha might +coom. Tha sees A got used to moother. A got used to 'earin' 'er +cuss me. A got used to doin' for 'er an' A've nought to do in th' +evenings now. It's terrible lonesome in th' neeghttime. An' when +notion coom to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual. + +SARAH. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what tha's +sayin', or is tha foolin' me? + +SAM. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A'm not a marryin' sort. Th' +lasses won't look at me. A'm silly Sam to them, A knaws it. A've +a slate loose; A shan't never get wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chance +wi' yon lass as were 'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were too +late. A allays were slow. A left askin' too long an' A 've missed +'er. A gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a young +wench. They mak's me go 'ot and cowld all over. An' when curate +towld me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A'd a chance wi' +thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big chance, because my plaice ain't +much cop after what tha's bin used to 'ere. A've got no fine +fixin's nor big chairs an' things like as tha used to 'ave. Eh, +but A would 'ave loved to do for thee as A used to do for ma +moother, an' when A yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a fool +an' th' rest, by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. +Tha'd fill 'er plaice wunnerful well. A'd just a' loved to adopt +thee. + +SARAH. To adopt me? + +SAM. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way to let +me. A didn't mean no offence (_turning to the door_). + +SARAH. 'Ere, lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might tak' me +for thy moother, what wouldst ha' done? + +SAM. Why, kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms whoam to +thy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean sheets an' all, +an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll pardon th' liberty o' +mentioning it. + +SARAH. A new quilt, Sam? What's color? + +SAM. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er. + +SARAH. A'm not a light weight, tha knows. + +SAM. A'd carry thee easy--"Strong in th' arm and weak in th' +yead." It's an ould sayin', but it's a good un, an' it fits. + +SARAH. Wilt tha try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt tha try, +lad? + +SAM. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll coom? Tha's not +coddin' a feller, art tha? + +SARAH. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son. + +(_He kisses her and lifts her in his arms._) + +SAM. By gum, but that were good. A'll coom back fur thy box. + +SABAH. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack o' flour. + +SAM. Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real mootherly, +it were. + +(_Exit through door, carrying her._) + +[CURTAIN _at clink of latch_] + + + + +RIDERS TO THE SEA[1] + +J.M. Synge + +[Footnote 1: Included by permission of Messrs. John W. Luce and +Company.] + +CHARACTERS + +MAURYA, an old woman +BARTLEY, her son +CATHLEEN, her daughter +NORA, a younger daughter +MEN AND WOMEN + +SCENE: _An island off the West of Ireland. Cottage kitchen, with +nets, oilskins, spinning-wheel, some new boards standing by the +wall, etc._ CATHLEEN, _a girl of about twenty, finishes kneading +cake, and puts it down in the pot-oven by the fire; then wipes +her hands, and begins to spin at the wheel._ NORA, _a young girl, +puts her head in at the door._ + + +NORA (_in a low voice_). Where is she? + +CATHLEEN. She's lying down, God help her, and maybe sleeping, if +she's able. + +(NORA _comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her shawl._) + +CATHLEEN (_spinning the wheel rapidly_). What is it you have? + +NOBA. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a shirt and a +plain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal. + +(CATHLEEN _stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans out +to listen._) + +NORA. We're to find out if it's Michael's they are; some time +herself will be down looking by the sea. + +CATHLEEN. How would they be Michael's, Nora? How would he go the +length of that way to the far north? + +NORA. The young priest says he's known the like of it. "If it's +Michael's they are," says he, "you can tell herself he's got a +clean burial by the grace of God, and if they're not his, let no +one say a word about them, for she'll be getting her death," says +he, "with crying and lamenting." + +(_The door which_ NORA _half closed is blown open by a gust of +wind._) + +CATHLEEN (_looking out anxiously_). Did you ask him would he stop +Bartley going this day with the horses to the Galway fair? + +NORA. "I won't stop him," says he, "but let you not be afraid. +Herself does be saying prayers half through the night, and the +Almighty God won't leave her destitute," says he, "with no son +living." + +CATHLEEN. Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora? + +NORA. Middling bad, God help us. There's a great roaring in the +west, and it's worse it'll be getting when the tide's turned to +the wind. + +(_She goes over to the table with the bundle._) + +Shall I open it now? + +CATHLEEN. Maybe she'd wake up on us, and come in before we'd +done. (_Coming to the table_) It's a long time we'll be, and the +two of us crying. + +NORA (_goes to the inner door and listens_). She's moving about on +the bed. She'll be coming in a minute. + +CATHLEEN. Give me the ladder, and I'll put them up in the +turf-loft, the way she won't know of them at all, and maybe when +the tide turns she'll be going down to see would he be floating +from the east. + +(_They put the ladder against the gable of the chimney_; CATHLEEN +_goes up a few steps and hides the bundle in the turf-loft. MAURYA +comes from the inner room._) + +MAURYA (_looking up at CATHLEEN and speaking querulously_). Isn't +it turf enough you have for this day and evening? + +CATHLEEN. There's a cake baking at the fire for a short space +(_throwing down the turf_) and Bartley will want it when the tide +turns if he goes to Connemara. + +(NORA _picks up the turf and puts it round the pot-oven._) + +MAURYA (_sitting down on a stool at the fire_). He won't go this +day with the wind rising from the south and west. He won't go +this day, for the young priest will stop him surely. + +NORA. He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon Simon and +Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he would go. + +MAURYA. Where is he itself? + +NORA. He went down to see would there be another boat sailing in +the week, and I'm thinking it won't be long till he's here now, +for the tide's turning at the green head, and the hooker's +tacking from the east. + +CATHLEEN. I hear someone passing the big stones. + +NORA (_looking out_). He's coming now, and he in a hurry. + +BARTLEY (_comes in and looks round the room; speaking sadly and +quietly_). Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, was bought in +Connemara? + +CATHLEEN (_coming down_). Give it to him, Nora; it's on a nail by +the white boards. I hung it up this morning, for the pig with the +black feet was eating it. + +NORA (_giving him a rope_). Is that it, Bartley? + +MAURYA. You'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hanging by +the boards. (BARTLEY _takes the rope._) It will be wanting in this +place, I'm telling you, if Michael is washed up to-morrow +morning, or the next morning, or any morning in the week, for +it's a deep grave we'll make him by the grace of God. + +BARTLEY (_beginning to work with the rope_). I've no halter the way +I can ride down on the mare, and I must go now quickly. This is +the one boat going for two weeks or beyond it, and the fair will +be a good fair for horses, I heard them saying below. + +MAURYA. It's a hard thing they'll be saying below if the body is +washed up and there's no man in it to make the coffin, and I +after giving a big price for the finest white boards you'd find +in Connemara. + +(_She looks round at the boards._) + +BARTLEY. How would it be washed up, and we after looking each day +for nine days, and a strong wind blowing a while back from the +west and south? + +MAURYA. If it wasn't found itself, that wind is raising the sea, +and there was a star up against the moon, and it rising in the +night. If it was a hundred horses, or a thousand horses you had +itself, what is the price of a thousand horses against a son +where there is one son only? + +BARTLEY (_working at the halter, to_ CATHLEEN). Let you go down +each day, and see the sheep aren't jumping in on the rye, and if +the jobber comes you can sell the pig with the black feet if +there is a good price going. + +MAURYA. How would the like of her get a good price for a pig? + +BARTLEY (_to_ CATHLEEN). If the west wind holds with the last bit +of the moon let you and Nora get up weed enough for another cock +for the kelp. It's hard set we'll be from this day with no one in +it but one man to work. + +MAURYA. It's hard set we'll be surely the day you're drownd'd +with the rest. What way will I live and the girls with me, and I +an old woman looking for the grave? + +(BARTLEY _lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and puts +on a newer one of the same flannel._) + +BARTLEY (_to_ NORA). Is she coming to the pier? + +NORA (_looking out_). She's passing the green head and letting fall +her sails. + +BARTLEY (_getting his purse and tobacco_). I'll have half an hour +to go down, and you'll see me coming again in two days, or in +three days, or maybe in four days if the wind is bad. + +MAURYA (_turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over her +head_). Isn't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a word from an +old woman, and she holding him from the sea? + +CATHLEEN. It's the life of a young man to be going on the sea, +and who would listen to an old woman with one thing and she +saying it over? + +BARTLEY (_taking the halter_). I must go now quickly. I'll ride +down on the red mare, and the gray pony'll run behind me. The +blessing of God on you. + +(_He goes out._) + +MAURYA (_crying out as he is in the door_). He's gone now, God +spare us, and we'll not see him again. He's gone now, and when +the black night is falling I'll have no son left me in the world. + +CATHLEEN. Why wouldn't you give him your blessing and he looking +round in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough is on everyone in this +house without your sending him out with an unlucky word behind +him, and a hard word in his ear? + +(MAURYA _takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aimlessly +without looking round._) + +NORA (_turning towards her_). You're taking away the turf from the +cake. + +CATHLEEN (_crying out_). The Son of God forgive us, Nora, we're +after forgetting his bit of bread. + +(_She comes over to the fire._) + +NORA. And it's destroyed he'll be going till dark night, and he +after eating nothing since the sun went up. + +CATHLEEN (_turning the cake out of the oven_). It's destroyed he'll +be, surely. There's no sense left on any person in a house where +an old woman will be talking for ever. + +(MAURYA _sways herself on her stool._) + +CATHLEEN (_cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in a +cloth, to_ MAURYA). Let you go down now to the spring well and +give him this and he passing. You'll see him then and the dark +word will be broken, and you can say, "God speed you," the way +he'll be easy in his mind. + +MAURYA (_taking the bread_). Will I be in it as soon as himself? + +CATHLEEN. If you go now quickly. + +MAURYA (_standing up unsteadily_). It's hard set I am to walk. + +CATHLEEN (_looking at her anxiously_). Give her the stick, Nora, or +maybe she'll slip on the big stones. + +NORA. What stick? + +CATHLEEN. The stick Michael brought from Connemara. + +MAURYA (_taking a stick NORA gives her_). In the big world the old +people do be leaving things after them for their sons and +children, but in this place it is the young men do be leaving +things behind for them that do be old. + +(_She goes out slowly. NORA goes over to the ladder._) + +CATHLEEN. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd turn back quickly. She's that +sorry, God help her, you wouldn't know the thing she'd do. + +NORA. Is she gone round by the bush? + +CATHLEEN (_looking out_). She's gone now. Throw it down quickly, +for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it again. + +NORA (_getting the bundle from the loft_). The young priest said +he'd be passing to-morrow, and we might go down and speak to him +below if it's Michael's they are surely. + +CATHLEEN (_taking the bundle_). Did he say what way they were +found? + +NORA (_coming down_). "There were two men," says he, "and they +rowing round with poteen before the cocks crowed, and the oar of +one of them caught the body, and they passing the black cliffs of +the north." + +CATHLEEN (_trying to open the bundle_). Give me a knife, Nora; the +string's perished with the salt water, and there's a black knot +on it you wouldn't loosen in a week. + +NORA (_giving her a knife_). I've heard tell it was a long way to +Donegal. + +CATHLEEN (_cutting the string_). It is surely. There was a man in +here a while ago--the man sold us that knife--and he said if you +set off walking from the rocks beyond, it would be seven days +you'd be in Donegal. + +NORA. And what time would a man take, and he floating? + +(CATHLEEN _opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking. +They look at them eagerly._) + +CATHLEEN (_in a low voice_). The Lord spare us, Nora! Isn't it a +queer hard thing to say if it's his they are surely? + +NORA. I'll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the one +flannel on the other. (_She looks through some clothes hanging in +the corner_) It's not with them, Cathleen, and where will it be? + +CATHLEEN. I'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, for +his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it. (_Pointing to the +corner_) There's a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give me +that and it will do. + +(NORA _brings it to her and they compare the flannel._) + +CATHLEEN. It's the same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself, aren't +there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn't it many +another man may have a shirt of it as well as Michael himself? + +NORA (_who has taken up the stocking and counted the stitches, +crying out_) It's Michael, Cathleen, it's Michael; God spare his +soul and what will herself say when she hears this story, and +Bartley on the sea? + +CATHLEEN (_taking the stocking_). It's a plain stocking. + +NORA. It's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and I put +up three score stitches, and I dropped four of them. + +CATHLEEN (_counts the stitches_). It's that number is in it. +(_Crying out_) Ah, Nora, isn't it a bitter thing to think of him +floating that way to the far north, and no one to keen him but +the black hags that do be flying on the sea? + +NORA (_swinging herself round, and throwing out her arms on the +clothes_). And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is nothing left +of a man who was a great rower and fisher, but a bit of an old +shirt and a plain stocking? + +CATHLEEN (_after an instant_). Tell me is herself coming, Nora? I +hear a little sound on the path. + +NORA (_looking out_). She is, Cathleen. She's coming up to the +door. + +CATHLEEN. Put these things away before she'll come in. Maybe it's +easier she'll be after giving her blessing to Bartley, and we +won't let on we've heard anything the time he's on the sea. + +NORA (_helping CATHLEEN to close the bundle_). We'll put them here +in the corner. + +(_They put them into a hole in the chimney corner. CATHLEEN goes +back to the spinning wheel._) + +NORA. Will she see it was crying I was? + +CATHLEEN. Keep your back to the door the way the light'll not be +on you. + +(NORA _sits down at the chimney corner, with her back to the door._ +MAURYA _comes in very slowly, without looking at the girls, and +goes over to her stool at the other side of the fire. The cloth +with the bread is still in her hand. The girls look at each +other, and_ NORA _points to the bundle of bread._) + +CATHLEEN (_offer spinning for a moment_), You didn't give him his +bit of bread? + +(MAURYA _begins to keen softly, without turning round._) + +CATHLEEN. Did you see him riding down? + +(MAURYA _goes on keening._) + +CATHLEEN (_a little impatiently_). God forgive you; isn't it a +better thing to raise your voice and tell what you seen, than to +be making lamentation for a thing that's done? Did you see +Bartley, I'm saying to you. + +MAURYA (_with a weak voice_). My heart's broken from this day. + +CATHLEEN (_as before_). Did you see Bartley? + +MAURYA. I seen the fearfulest thing. + +CATHLEEN (_leaves her wheel and looks out_). God forgive you; he's +riding the mare now over the green head, and the gray pony behind +him. + +MAURYA (_starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head and +shows her white tossed hair; with a frightened voice_). The gray +pony behind him. + +CATHLEEN (_coming to the fire_). What is it ails you, at all? + +MAURYA (_speaking very slowly_). I've seen the fearfulest thing any +person has seen, since the day Bride Dara seen the dead man with +the child in his arms. + +CATHLEEN AND NORA. Uah. + +(_They crouch down in front of the old woman at the fire._) + +NORA. Tell us what it is you seen. + +MAURYA. I went down to the spring-well, and I stood there saying +a prayer to myself. Then Bartley came along, and he riding on the +red mare with the gray pony behind him. (_She puts up her hands, +as if to hide something from her eyes._) The Son of God spare us, +Nora! + +CATHLEEN. What is it you seen? + +MAURYA. I seen Michael himself. + +CATHLEEN (_speaking softly_). You did not, mother; it wasn't +Michael you seen, for his body is after being found in the far +north, and he's got a clean burial by the grace of God. + +MAURYA (_a little defiantly_). I'm after seeing him this day, and +he riding and galloping. Bartley came first on the red mare; and +I tried to say "God speed you," but something choked the words in +my throat. He went by quickly; and, "The blessing of God on you," +says he, and I could say nothing. I looked up then, and I crying, +at the gray pony, and there was Michael upon it--with fine +clothes on him, and new shoes on his feet. + +CATHLEEN (_begins to keen_). It's destroyed we are from this day. +It's destroyed, surely. + +NORA. Didn't the young priest say the Almighty God wouldn't leave +her destitute with no son living? + +MAUKYA (_in a low voice, but clearly_). It's little the like of him +knows of the sea.... Bartley will be lost now, and let you call +in Eamon and make me a good coffin out of the white boards, for I +won't live after them. I've had a husband, and a husband's +father, and six sons in this house--six fine men, though it was a +hard birth I had with every one of them and they coming to the +world--and some of them were found and some of them were not +found, but they're gone now, the lot of them.... There were +Stephen, and Shawn, were lost in the great wind, and found after +in the Bay of Gregory of the Golden Mouth, and carried up the two +of them on the one plank, and in by that door. + +(_She pauses for a moment, the girls start as if they heard +something through the door that is half-open behind them._) + +NORA (_in a whisper_). Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did you hear a +noise in the northeast? + +CATHLEEN (_in a whisper_). There's someone after crying out by the +seashore. + +MAURYA (_continues without hearing anything_). There was Sheamus +and his father, and his own father again, were lost in a dark +night, and not a stick or sign was seen of them when the sun went +up. There was Patch after was drowned out of a curagh that turned +over. I was sitting here with Bartley, and he a baby, lying on my +two knees, and I seen two women, and three women, and four women +coming in, and they crossing themselves, and not saying a word. I +looked out then, and there were men coming after them, and they +holding a thing in the half of a red sail, and water dripping out +of it--it was a dry day, Nora--and leaving a track to the door. + +(_She pauses again with her hand stretched out towards the door. +It opens softly and old women begin to come in, crossing +themselves on the threshold, and kneeling down in front of the +stage with red petticoats over their heads._) + +MAURYA (_half in a dream, to Cathleen_). Is it Patch, or Michael, +or what is it at all? + +CATHLEEN. Michael is after being found in the far north, and when +he is found there how could he be here in this place? + +MAURYA. There does be a power of young men floating round in the +sea, and what way would they know if it was Michael they had, or +another man like him, for when a man is nine days in the sea, and +the wind blowing, it's hard set his own mother would be to say +what man was it. + +CATHLEEN. It's Michael, God spare him, for they're after sending +us a bit of his clothes from the far north. + +(_She reaches out and hands MAURYA the clothes that belonged to_ +MICHAEL. MAURYA _stands up slowly, and takes them in her hands._ +NORA _looks out._) + +NORA. They're carrying a thing among them and there's water +dripping out of it and leaving a track by the big stones. + +CATHLEEN (_in a whisper to the women who have come in_). Is it +Bartley it is? + +ONE OF THE WOMEN. It is surely, God rest his soul. + +(_Two younger women come in and pull out the table. Then men carry +in the body of_ BARTLEY, _laid on a plank, with a bit of a sail +over it, and lay it on the table._) + +CATHLEEN (_to the women, as they are doing so_). What way was he +drowned? + +ONE OF THE WOMEN. The gray pony knocked him into the sea, and he +was washed out where there is a great surf on the white rocks. + +(MAURYA _has gone over and knelt down at the head of the table. +The women are keening softly and swaying themselves with a slow +movement._ CATHLEEN _and_ NORA _kneel at the other end of the table. +The men kneel near the door._) + +MAURYA (_raising her head and speaking as if she did not see the +people around her_). They're all gone now, and there isn't +anything more the sea can do to me.... I'll have no call now to +be up crying and praying when the wind breaks from the south, and +you can hear the surf is in the east, and the surf is in the +west, making a great stir with the two noises, and they hitting +one on the other. I'll have no call now to be going down and +getting Holy Water in the dark nights after Samhain, and I won't +care what way the sea is when the other women will be keening. +(_To_ NORA) Give me the Holy Water, Nora; there's a small sup still +on the dresser. + +(NORA _gives it to her._) + +MAURYA (_drops_ MICHAEL'S _clothes across_ BARTLEY'S _feet, and +sprinkles the Holy Water over him_). It isn't that I haven't +prayed for you, BARTLEY, to the Almighty God. It isn't that I +haven't said prayers in the dark night till you wouldn't know +what I'd be saying; but it's a great rest I'll have now, and it's +time surely. It's a great rest I'll have now, and great sleeping +in the long nights after Samhain, if it's only a bit of wet flour +we do have to eat, and maybe a fish that would be stinking. + +(_She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying prayers +under her breath._) + +CATHLEEN (_to an old man_). Maybe yourself and Eamon would make a +coffin when the sun rises. We have fine white boards herself +bought, God help her, thinking Michael would be found, and I have +a new cake you can eat while you'll be working. + +THE OLD MAN (_looking at the boards_). Are there nails with them? + +CATHLEEN. There are not, Colum; we didn't think of the nails. + +ANOTHER MAN. It's a great wonder she wouldn't think of the nails, +and all the coffins she's seen made already. + +CATHLEEN. It's getting old she is, and broken. + +(MAURYA _stands up again very slowly and spreads out the pieces of_ +MICHAEL'S _clothes beside the body, sprinkling them with the last +of the Holy Water._) + +NORA (_in a whisper to_ CATHLEEN). She's quiet now and easy; but +the day Michael was drowned you could hear her crying out from +this to the spring-well. It's fonder she was of Michael, and +would anyone have thought that? + +CATHLEEN (_slowly and clearly_). An old woman will be soon tired +with anything she will do, and isn't it nine days herself is +after crying and keening, and making great sorrow in the house? + +MAURYA (_puts the empty cup mouth downwards on the table, and lays +her hands together on_ BARTLEY'S _feet_). They're all together this +time, and the end is come. May the Almighty God have mercy on +Bartley's soul, and on Michael's soul, and on the souls of +Sheamus and Patch, and Stephen and Shawn (_bending her head_); and +may He have mercy on my soul, Nora, and on the soul of everyone +is left living in the world. + +(_She pauses, and the keen rises a little more loudly from the +women, then sinks away._) + +MAURYA (_continuing_). Michael has a clean burial in the far north, +by the grace of the Almighty God. Bartley will have a fine coffin +out of the white boards, and a deep grave surely. What more can +we want than that? No man at all can be living for ever, and we +must be satisfied. + +(_She kneels down again, and the curtain falls slowly_). + + + + +THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE[1] + +William Butler Yeats + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted by arrangement with Mr. Yeats and the +Macmillan Company, New York, publishers of Mr. Yeats's Collected +Works (1912).] + +CHARACTERS + +MAURTEEN BRUIN +BRIDGET BRUIN, his wife +SHAWN BRUIN, their son +MAIRE BRUIN, wife of Shawn +FATHER HART +A FAERY CHILD + +SCENE: _In the Barony of Kilmacowan, in the county of Sligo, at a +remote time._ + +SETTING: _a room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a +deep alcove on the right. There are benches in the alcove, and a +table; a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of +light from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience, +to the left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the door +one can see the forest. It is night, but the moon or a late +sunset glimmers through the trees, and carries the eye far off +into a vague, mysterious world. MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, and +BRIDGET BRUIN sit in the alcove at the table, or about the fire. +They are dressed in the costume of some remote time, and near +them sits an old priest, FATHER HART, in the garb of a friar. +There is food and drink upon the table. MAIRE BRUIN stands by the +door, reading a yellow manuscript. If she looks up, she can see +through the door into the wood._ + + + BRIDGET BRUIN + Because I bade her go and feed the calves, + She took that old book down out of the thatch + And has been doubled over it all day. + We should be deafened by her groans and moans + Had she to work as some do, Father Hart, + Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour; + Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you, + The pyx and blessed bread under your arm. + + SHAWN BRUIN + You are too cross. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The young side with the young. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + She quarrels with my wife a bit at times, + And is too deep just now in the old book! + But do not blame her greatly; she will grow + As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree + When but the moons of marriage dawn and die + For half a score of times. + + FATHER HART + Their hearts are wild + As be the hearts of birds, till children come. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow, + Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth. + + FATHER HART + I never saw her read a book before; + What may it be? + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + I do not rightly know; + It has been in the thatch for fifty years. + My father told me my grandfather wrote it, + Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide. + But draw your chair this way--supper is spread; + And little good he got out of the book, + Because it filled his house with roaming bards, + And roaming ballad-makers and the like, + And wasted all his goods.--Here is the wine: + The griddle bread's beside you, Father Hart. + Colleen, what have you got there in the book + That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I, + Or had my father, read or written books + There were no stocking stuffed with golden guineas + To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you. + + FATHER HART + You should not fill your head with foolish dreams. + What are you reading? + + MARIE BRUIN + How a Princess Edane, + A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard + A voice singing on a May Eve like this, + And followed, half awake and half asleep, + Until she came into the Land of Faëry, + Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, + Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, + Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue; + And she is still there, busied with a dance, + Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, + Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Persuade the colleen to put by the book: + My grandfather would mutter just such things, + And he was no judge of a dog or horse, + And any idle boy could blarney him: + Just speak your mind. + + FATHER HART + Put it away, my colleen. + God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, + And gives a little round of deeds and days, + And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, + And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams, + Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes, + Half shuddering and half joyous, from God's peace: + And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears, + Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words. + My colleen, I have seen some other girls + Restless and ill at ease, but years went by + And they grew like their neighbours and were glad + In minding children, working at the churn, + And gossiping of weddings and of wakes; + For life moves out of a red flare of dreams + Into a common light of common hours, + Until old age bring the red flare again. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + That's true--but she's too young to know it's true. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She's old enough to know that it is wrong + To mope and idle. + + SHAWN BRUIN + I've little blame for her; + And mother's tongue were harder still to bear, + But for her fancies: this is May Eve too, + When the good people post about the world, + And surely one may think of them to-night. + Maire, have you the primroses to fling + Before the door to make a golden path + For them to bring good luck into the house? + Remember, they may steal new-married brides + After the fall of twilight on May Eve. + + (MAIRE BRUIN _goes over to the window and takes flowers + from the bowl and strews them outside the door._) + + FATHER HART + You do well, daughter, because God permits + Great power to the good people on May Eve. + + SHAWN BRUIN + They can work all their will with primroses; + Change them to golden money, or little flames + To burn up those who do them any wrong. + + MARIE BRUIN (_in a dreamy voice_) + I had no sooner flung them by the door + Than the wind cried and hurried them away; + And then a child came running in the wind + And caught them in her hands and fondled them: + Her dress was green: her hair was of red gold; + Her face was pale as water before dawn. + + FATHER HART + Whose child can this be? + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + No one's child at all. + She often dreams that someone has gone by + When there was nothing but a puff of wind. + + MARIE BRUIN + They will not bring good luck into the house, + For they have blown the primroses away; + Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them, + For are not they, likewise, children of God? + + FATHER HART + Colleen, they are the children of the fiend, + And they have power until the end of Time, + When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle + And hack them into pieces. + + MARIE BRUIN + He will smile, + Father, perhaps, and open His great door, + And call the pretty and kind into His house. + + FATHER HART + Did but the lawless angels see that door, + They would fall, slain by everlasting peace; + And when such angels knock upon our doors + Who goes with them must drive through the same storm. + + (_A knock at the door._ MAIRE BRUIN _opens it and then + goes to the dresser and fills a porringer with milk and + hands it through the door, and takes it back empty and + closes the door._) + + MARIE BRUIN + A little queer old woman cloaked in green, + Who came to beg a porringer of milk. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The good people go asking milk and fire + Upon May Eve--Woe on the house that gives, + For they have power upon it for a year. + I knew you would bring evil on the house. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Who was she? + + MARIE BRUIN + Both the tongue and face were strange. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill; + She must be one of them. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I am afraid. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + The priest will keep all harm out of the house. + + FATHER HART + The cross will keep all harm out of the house + While it hangs there. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Come, sit beside me, colleen, + And put away your dreams of discontent, + For I would have you light up my last days + Like the good glow of the turf, and when I die + I will make you the wealthiest hereabout: + For hid away where nobody can find + I have a stocking full of yellow guineas. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + You are the fool of every pretty face, + And I must pinch and pare that my son's wife + May have all kinds of ribbons for her head. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Do not be cross; she is a right good girl! + The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart. + My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change + Done well for me and for old Bridget there? + We have a hundred acres of good land, + And sit beside each other at the fire, + The wise priest of our parish to our right, + And you and our dear son to left of us. + To sit beside the board and drink good wine + And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire + And feel content and wisdom in your heart, + This is the best of life; when we are young + We long to tread a way none trod before, + But find the excellent old way through love + And through the care of children to the hour + For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye. + + (_A knock at the door._ MAIRE BRUIN _opens it and then + takes a sod of turf out of the hearth in the tongs and + goes out through the door._ SHAWN _follows her and + meets her coming in._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + What is it draws you to the chill o' the wood? + There is a light among the stems of the trees + That makes one shiver. + + MARIE BRUIN + A little queer old man + Made me a sign to show he wanted fire + To light his pipe. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + You've given milk and fire, + Upon the unluckiest night of the year, and brought, + For all you know, evil upon the house. + Before you married you were idle and fine, + And went about with ribbons on your head; + And now--no, father, I will speak my mind, + She is not a fitting wife for any man-- + + SHAWN BRUIN + Be quiet, mother! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You are much too cross! + + MARIE BRUIN + What do I care if I have given this house, + Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue, + Into the power of faëries! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + You know well + How calling the good people by that name + Or talking of them over much at all + May bring all kinds of evil on the house. + + MARIE BRUIN + Come, faëries, take me out of this dull house! + Let me have all the freedom I have lost; + Work when I will and idle when I will! + Faëries, come take me out of this dull world, + For I would ride with you upon the wind, + Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, + And dance upon the mountains like a flame! + + FATHER HART + You cannot know the meaning of your words. + + MARIE BRUIN + Father, I am right weary of four tongues: + A tongue that is too crafty and too wise, + A tongue that is too godly and too grave, + A tongue that is more bitter than the tide, + And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love, + Of drowsy love and my captivity. + + (SHAWN BRUIN _comes over to her and leads her to the + settle._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + Do not blame me: I often lie awake + Thinking that all things trouble your bright head-- + How beautiful it is--such broad pale brows + Under a cloudy blossoming of hair! + Sit down beside me here--these are too old, + And have forgotten they were ever young. + + MARIE BRUIN + Oh, you are the great door-post of this house, + And I, the red nasturtium, climbing up. + + (_She takes_ SHAWN'S _hand, but looks shyly at the priest + and lets it go._) + + FATHER HART + Good daughter, take his hand--by love alone + God binds us to Himself and to the hearth + And shuts us from the waste beyond His peace, + From maddening freedom and bewildering light. + + SHAWN BRUIN + Would that the world were mine to give it you + With every quiet hearth and barren waste, + The maddening freedom of its woods and tides, + And the bewildering light upon its hills. + + MARIE BRUIN + Then I would take and break it in my hands + To see you smile watching it crumble away. + + SHAWN BRUIN + Then I would mould a world of fire and dew + With no one bitter, grave, or over wise, + And nothing marred or old to do you wrong, + And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky + With candles burning to your lonely face. + + MARIE BRUIN + Your looks are all the candles that I need. + + SHAWN BRUIN + Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun, + Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn, + Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew, + But now the indissoluble sacrament + Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold + With my warm heart forever; and sun and moon + Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll; + But your white spirit still walk by my spirit. + + (_A_ VOICE _sings in the distance._) + + MARIE BRUIN + Did you hear something call? Oh, guard me close, + Because I have said wicked things to-night; + And seen a pale-faced child with red-gold hair, + And longed to dance upon the winds with her. + + A VOICE (_close to the door_) + The wind blows out of the gates of the day, + The wind blows over the lonely of heart + And the lonely of heart is withered away, + While the faëries dance in a place apart, + Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, + Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; + For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing + Of a land where even the old are fair, + And even the wise are merry of tongue; + But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, + "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, + The lonely of heart is withered away!" + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + I am right happy, and would make all else + Be happy too. I hear a child outside, + And will go bring her in out of the cold. + + (_He opens the door. A_ CHILD _dressed in pale green and + with red-gold hair comes into the house._) + + THE CHILD + I tire of winds and waters and pale lights! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You are most welcome. It is cold out there; + Who would think to face such cold on a May Eve? + + THE CHILD + And when I tire of this warm little house + There is one here who must away, away, + To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams + Are holding a continual festival. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Oh, listen to her dreamy and strange talk. + Come to the fire. + + THE CHILD + I will sit upon your knee, + For I have run from where the winds are born, + And long to rest my feet a little while. + + (_She sits upon his knee._) + + BRIDGET BRUIN + How pretty you are! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Your hair is wet with dew! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I will warm your chilly feet. + + (_She takes the child's feet in her hands._) + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You must have come + A long, long way, for I have never seen + Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry; + Here is some bread and wine. + + THE CHILD + The wine is bitter. + Old mother, have you no sweet food for me? + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I have some honey! + + (_She goes into the next room._) + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You are a dear child; + The mother was quite cross before you came. + + (BRIDGET _returns with the honey, and goes to the dresser + and fills a porringer with milk._) + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She is the child of gentle people; look + At her white hands and at her pretty dress. + I've brought you some new milk, but wait awhile, + And I will put it by the fire to warm, + For things well fitted for poor folk like us + Would never please a high-born child like you. + + THE CHILD + Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn + Brightens above while you blow up the fire; + And evening finds you spreading the white cloth. + The young may lie in bed and dream and hope, + But you work on because your heart is old. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The young are idle. + + THE CHILD + Old father, you are wise + And all the years have gathered in your heart + To whisper of the wonders that are gone. + The young must sigh through many a dream and hope, + But you are wise because your heart is old. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Oh, who would think to find so young a child + Loving old age and wisdom? + + (BRIDGET _gives her more bread and honey._) + + THE CHILD + No more, mother. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + What a small bite! The milk is ready now; + What a small sip! + + THE CHILD + Put on my shoes, old mother, + For I would like to dance now I have eaten. + The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake, + And I would like to dance until the reeds + And the white waves have danced themselves to sleep. + + BRIDGET + (_Having put on her shoes, she gets off the old man's knees + and is about to dance, but suddenly sees the crucifix + and shrieks and covers her eyes._) + What is that ugly thing on the black cross? + + FATHER HART + You cannot know how naughty your words are! + That is our Blessed Lord! + + THE CHILD + Hide it away! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I have begun to be afraid, again! + + THE CHILD + Hide it away! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + That would be wickedness! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + That would be sacrilege! + + THE CHILD + The tortured thing! + Hide it away! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Her parents are to blame. + + FATHER HART + That is the image of the Son of God. + + (THE CHILD _puts her arm around his neck and kisses him._) + + THE CHILD + Hide it away! Hide it away! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + No! no! + + FATHER HART + Because you are so young and little a child + I will go take it down. + + THE CHILD + Hide it away, + And cover it out of sight and out of mind. + + (FATHER HART _takes it down and carries it towards the + inner room._) + + FATHER HART + Since you have come into this barony + I will instruct you in our blessed faith: + Being a clever child you will soon learn. + + (_To the others_) + + We must be tender with all budding things. + Our Maker let no thought of Calvary + Trouble the morning stars in their first song. + + (_Puts the crucifix in the inner room._) + + THE CHILD + Here is level ground for dancing. I will dance. + The wind is blowing on the waving reeds, + The wind is blowing on the heart of man. + + (_She dances, swaying about like the reeds._) + + MAIRE (_to_ SHAWN BRUIN) + Just now when she came near I thought I heard + Other small steps beating upon the floor, + And a faint music blowing in the wind, + Invisible pipes giving her feet the time. + + SHAWN BRUIN + I heard no step but hers. + + MARIE BRUIN + Look to the bolt! + Because the unholy powers are abroad. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN (_to_ THE CHILD) + Come over here, and if you promise me + Not to talk wickedly of holy things + I will give you something. + + THE CHILD + Bring it me, old father! + + (MAURTEEN BRUIN _goes into the next room._) + + FATHER HART + I will have queen cakes when you come to me! + + (MAURTEEN BRUIN _returns and lays a piece of money on + the table._ THE CHILD _makes a gesture of refusal._) + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + It will buy lots of toys; see how it glitters! + + THE CHILD + Come, tell me, do you love me? + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + I love you! + + THE CHILD + Ah! but you love this fireside! + + FATHER HART + I love you. + When the Almighty puts so great a share + Of His own ageless youth into a creature, + To look is but to love. + + THE CHILD + But you love Him above. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She is blaspheming. + + THE CHILD (_to_ MAIRE) + And do you love me? + + MARIE BRUIN + I--I do not know. + + THE CHILD + You love that great tall fellow over there: + Yet I could make you ride upon the winds, + Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, + And dance upon the mountains like a flame! + + MARIE BRUIN + Queen of the Angels and kind Saints, defend us! + Some dreadful fate has fallen: a while ago + The wind cried out and took the primroses, + And she ran by me laughing in the wind, + And I gave milk and fire, and she came in + And made you hide the blessed crucifix. + + FATHER HART + You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle; + She knows no better. + + (_To_ THE CHILD) + + Child, how old are you? + + THE CHILD + When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin, + My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken + My mother carries me in her golden arms. + I will soon put on my womanhood and marry + The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell + When I was born for the first time? I think + I am much older than the eagle cock + That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill, + And he is the oldest thing under the moon. + + FATHER HART + She is of the faëry people. + + THE CHILD + I am Brig's daughter. + I sent my messengers for milk and fire, + And then I heard one call to me and came. + + (_They all except_ SHAWN _and_ MAIRE BRUIN _gather + behind the priest for protection._) + + SHAWN (_rising_) + Though you have made all these obedient, + You have not charmed my sight, and won from me + A wish or gift to make you powerful; + I'll turn you from the house. + + FATHER HART + No, I will face her. + + THE CHILD + Because you took away the crucifix + I am so mighty that there's none can pass + Unless I will it, where my feet have danced + Or where I've twirled my finger tops. + + (SHAWN _tries to approach her and cannot._) + + MAURTEEN + Look, look! + There something stops him--look how he moves his hands + As though he rubbed them on a wall of glass. + + FATHER HART + I will confront this mighty spirit alone. + + (_They cling to him and hold him back._) + + THE CHILD (_while she strews primroses_) + No one whose heart is heavy with human tears + Can cross these little cressets of the wood. + + FATHER HART + Be not afraid, the Father is with us, + And all the nine angelic hierarchies, + The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents, + The adoring Magi in their coats of mail, + And He who died and rose on the third day, + And Mary with her seven times wounded heart. + + (THE CHILD _ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels + upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about + her neck._) + + Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints. + + THE CHILD + You shall go with me, newly married bride, + And gaze upon a merrier multitude; + White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the birds, + Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him + Who is the ruler of the Western Host, + Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire, + Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, + But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song. + I kiss you and the world begins to fade. + + FATHER HART + Daughter, I call you unto home and love! + + THE CHILD + Stay, and come with me, newly married bride, + For, if you hear him, you grow like the rest: + Bear children, cook, be mindful of the churn, + And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs, + And sit at last there, old and bitter of tongue, + Watching the white stars war upon your hopes. + + SHAWN + Awake out of that trance, and cover up + Your eyes and ears. + + FATHER HART + She must both look and listen, + For only the soul's choice can save her now. + Daughter, I point you out the way to heaven. + + THE CHILD + But I can lead you, newly married bride, + Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, + Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, + Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue, + And where kind tongues bring no captivity; + For we are only true to the far lights + We follow singing, over valley and hill. + + FATHER HART + By the dear name of the one crucified, + I bid you, Maire Bruin, come to me. + + THE CHILD + I keep you in the name of your own heart! + + (_She leaves the settle, and stooping takes up a mass + of primroses and kisses them._) + + We have great power to-night, dear golden folk, + For he took down and hid the crucifix. + And my invisible brethren fill the house; + I hear their footsteps going up and down. + Oh, they shall soon rule all the hearts of men + And own all lands; last night they merrily danced + About his chapel belfry! (_To_ MAIRE) Come away, + I hear my brethren bidding us away! + + FATHER HART + I will go fetch the crucifix again. + + (_They hang about him in terror and prevent him from + moving._) + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The enchanted flowers will kill us if you go. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + They turn the flowers to little twisted flames. + + SHAWN BRUIN + The little twisted flames burn up the heart. + + THE CHILD + I hear them crying, "Newly married bride, + Come to the woods and waters and pale lights." + + MARIE BRUIN + I will go with you. + + FATHER HART + She is lost, alas! + + THE CHILD (_standing by the door_) + But clinging mortal hope must fall from you: + For we who ride the winds, run on the waves + And dance upon the mountains, are more light + Than dewdrops on the banners of the dawn. + + MARIE BRUIN + Oh, take me with you. + + (SHAWN BRUIN _goes over to her._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + Beloved, do not leave me! + Remember when I met you by the well + And took your hand in mine and spoke of love. + + MARIE BRUIN + Dear face! Dear voice! + + THE CHILD + Come, newly married bride! + + MARIE BRUIN + I always loved her world--and yet--and yet-- + + (_Sinks into his arms._) + + THE CHILD (_from the door_) + White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird. + + MARIE BRUIN + She calls to me! + + THE CHILD + Come with me, little bird! + + MARIE BRUIN + I can hear songs and dancing! + + SHAWN BRUIN + Stay with me! + + MARIE BRUIN + I think that I would stay--and yet--and yet-- + + THE CHILD + Come, little bird with crest of gold! + + MARIE BRUIN (_very softly_) + And yet-- + + THE CHILD + Come, little bird with silver feet! + + (MAIRE _dies, and the child goes._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + She is dead! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + Come from that image: body and soul are gone. + You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves + Or bole of an ash tree changed into her image. + + FATHER HART + Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey + Almost out of the very hand of God; + And day by day their power is more and more, + And men and women leave old paths, for pride + Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart. + + A VOICE (_singing outside_) + The wind blows out of the gates of the day, + The wind blows over the lonely of heart, + And the lonely of heart is withered away + While the faëries dance in a place apart, + Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, + Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; + For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing + Of a land where even the old are fair, + And even the wise are merry of tongue; + But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, + "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, + The lonely of heart is withered away." + + (_The song is taken up by many voices, who sing loudly, + as if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from + within the house._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE RIDING TO LITHEND[1] + +Gordon Bottomley + +[Footnote 1: This play is reprinted by permission of and by +arrangement with Constable and Company, Limited, London.] + +CHARACTERS + +GUNNAR HAMUNDSSON +HALLGERD LONGCOAT, his wife +RANNVEIG, his mother +ODDNY, ASTRID, and STEINVOR, Hallgerd's housewomen +ORMILD, a woman thrall +BIARTEY, JOFRID, and GUDFINN, beggar-women +GIZUR THE WHITE, MORD VALGARDSSON, THORGRIM THE + EASTERLING, THORBRAND THORLEIKSSON and ASBRAND + his brother, AUNUND, THORGEIB, and HROALD, + riders +MANY OTHER RIDERS AND VOICES OF RIDERS + +TIME: _Iceland, A.D. 990_ + +SCENE: _The hall of GUNNAR'S house at Lithend in South Iceland. +The portion shewn is set on the stage diagonally, so that to the +right one end is seen, while from the rear corner of this, one +side runs down almost to the left front._ + +_The side wall is low and wainscoted with carved panelling on +which hang weapons, shields, and coats of mail. In one place a +panel slid aside shews a shut bed._ + +_In front of the panelling are two long benches with a carved +high-seat between them. Across the end of the hall are similar +panellings and the seats, with corresponding tables, of the +women's dais; behind these and in the gable wall is a high narrow +door with a rounded top._ + +_A timber roof slopes down to the side wall and is upheld by +cross-beams and two rows of tall pillars which make a rather +narrow nave of the centre of the hall. One of these rows runs +parallel to the side wall, the pair of pillars before the +high-seat being carved and ended with images; of the other row +only two pillars are visible at the extreme right._ + +_Within this nave is the space for the hearths; but the only +hearth visible is the one near the women's dais. In the roof +above it there is a louvre: the fire glows and no smoke rises. +The hall is lit everywhere by the firelight._ + +_The rafters over the women's dais carry a floor at the level of +the side walls, forming an open loft which is reached by a wide +ladder fixed against the wall: a bed is seen in this loft. Low in +the roof at intervals are shuttered casements, one being above +the loft: all the shutters are closed. Near the fire a large +shaggy hound is sleeping; and ORMILD, in the undyed woollen dress +of a thrall, is combing wool._ + +ODDNY _stands spinning at the side; near her_ ASTRID _and_ STEINVOR +_sit stitching a robe which hangs between them._ + + + ASTRID + Night is a winter long: and evening falls. + Night, night and winter and the heavy snow + Burden our eyes, intrude upon our dreams, + And make of loneliness an earthly place. + + ORMILD + This bragging land of freedom that enthralls me + Is still the fastness of a secret king + Who treads the dark like snow, of old king Sleep. + He works with night, he has stolen death's tool frost + That makes the breaking wave forget to fall. + + ASTRID + Best mind thy comb-pot and forget our king + Before the Longcoat helps at thy awaking.... + I like not this forsaken quiet house. + The housemen out at harvest in the Isles + Never return. Perhaps they went but now, + Yet I am sore with fearing and expecting + Because they do not come. They will not come. + I like not this forsaken quiet house, + This late last harvest, and night creeping in. + + ODDNY + I like not dwelling in an outlaw's house. + Snow shall be heavier upon some eyes + Than you can tell of--ay, and unseen earth + Shall keep that snow from filling those poor eyes. + This void house is more void by brooding things + That do not happen, than by absent men. + Sometimes when I awaken in the night + My throbbing ears are mocking me with rumours + Of crackling beams, beams falling, and loud flames. + + ASTRID (_pointing to the weapons by the high-seat_) + The bill that Gunnar won in a far sea-fight + Sings inwardly when battle impends; as a harp + Replies to the wind, thus answers it to fierceness, + So tense its nature is and the spell of its welding; + Then trust ye well that while the bill is silent + No danger thickens, for Gunnar dies not singly. + + STEINVOR + But women are let forth free when men go burning? + + ODDNY + Fire is a hurrying thing, and fire by night + Can see its way better than men see theirs. + + ASTRID + The land will not be nobler or more holpen + If Gunnar burns and we go forth unsinged. + Why will he break the atonement that was set? + That wise old Njal who has the second sight + Foretold his death if he should slay twice over + In the same kin, or break the atonement set: + Yet has he done these things and will not care. + Kolskegg, who kept his back in famous fights, + Sailed long ago and far away from us + Because that doom is on him for the slayings; + Yet Gunnar bides although that doom is on him + And he is outlawed by defiance of doom. + + STEINVOR + Gunnar has seen his death: he is spoken for. + He would not sail because, when he rode down + Unto the ship, his horse stumbled and threw him, + His face toward the Lithe and his own fields. + Olaf the Peacock bade him be with him + In his new mighty house so carven and bright, + And leave this house to Rannveig and his sons: + He said that would be well, yet never goes. + Is he not thinking death would ride with him? + Did not Njal offer to send his sons, + Skarphedin ugly and brave and Hauskuld with him, + To hold this house with Gunnar, who refused them, + Saying he would not lead young men to death? + I tell you Gunnar is done.... His fetch is out. + + ODDNY + Nay, he's been topmost in so many fights + That he believes he shall fight on untouched. + + STEINVOR + He rides to motes and Things before his foes. + He has sent his sons harvesting in the Isles. + He takes deliberate heed of death--to meet it, + Like those whom Odin needs. He is fey, I tell you-- + And if we are past the foolish ardour of girls + For heroisms and profitless loftiness + We shall get gone when bedtime clears the house. + 'T is much to have to be a hero's wife, + And I shall wonder if Hallgerd cares about it: + Yet she may kindle to it ere my heart quickens. + I tell you, women, we have no duty here: + Let us get gone to-night while there is time, + And find new harbouring ere the laggard dawn, + For death is making narrowing passages + About this hushed and terrifying house. + + (RANNVEIG, _an old wimpled woman, enters as if from a door at the + unseen end of the hall._) + + ASTRID + He is so great and manly, our master Gunnar, + There are not many ready to meet his weapons: + And so there may not be much need of weapons. + He is so noble and clear, so swift and tender, + So much of Iceland's fame in foreign places, + That too many love him, too many honour him + To let him die, lest the most gleaming glory + Of our grey country should be there put out. + + RANNVEIG + Girl, girl, my son has many enemies + Who will not lose the joy of hurting him. + This little land is no more than a lair + That holds too many fiercenesses too straitly, + And no man will refuse the rapture of killing + When outlawry has made it cheap and righteous. + So long as anyone perceives he knows + A bare place for a weapon on my son + His hand shall twitch to fit a weapon in. + Indeed he shall lose nothing but his life + Because a woman is made so evil fair, + Wasteful and white and proud in harmful acts. + I lose two sons when Gunnar's eyes are still, + For then will Kolskegg never more turn home.... + If Gunnar would but sail, three years would pass; + Only three years of banishment said the doom-- + So few, so few, for I can last ten years + With this unshrunken body and steady heart. + + (_To_ ORMILD) + + Have I sat down in comfort by the fire + And waited to be told the thing I knew? + Have any men come home to the young women, + Thinking old women do not need to hear, + That you can play at being a bower-maid + In a long gown although no beasts are foddered? + Up, lass, and get thy coats about thy knees, + For we must cleanse the byre and heap the midden + Before the master knows--or he will go, + And there is peril for him in every darkness. + + ORMILD (_tucking up her skirts_) + Then are we out of peril in the darkness? + We should do better to nail up the doors + Each night and all night long and sleep through it, + Giving the cattle meat and straw by day. + + ODDNY + Ay, and the hungry cattle should sing us to sleep. + +(_The others laugh. ORMILD goes out to the left_; RANNVEIG _is +following her, but pauses at the sound of a voice._) + + HALLGERD (_beyond the door of the women's dais_) + Dead men have told me I was better than fair, + And for my face welcomed the danger of me: + Then am I spent? + + (_She enters angrily, looking backward through the doorway._) + + Must I shut fast my doors + And hide myself? Must I wear up the rags + Of mortal perished beauty and be old? + Or is there power left upon my mouth + Like colour, and lilting of ruin in my eyes? + Am I still rare enough to be your mate? + Then why must I shame at feasts and bear myself + In shy ungainly ways, made flushed and conscious + By squat numb gestures of my shapeless head-- + Ay, and its wagging shadow--clouted up, + Twice tangled with a bundle of hot hair, + Like a thick cot-quean's in the settling time? + There are few women in the Quarter now + Who do not wear a shapely fine-webbed coif + Stitched by dark Irish girls in Athcliath + With golden flies and pearls and glinting things: + Even my daughter lets her big locks show, + Show and half show, from a hood gentle and close + That spans her little head like her husband's hand. + + GUNNAR (_entering by the same door_) + I like you when you bear your head so high; + Lift but your heart as high, you could get crowned + And rule a kingdom of impossible things. + You would have moon and sun to shine together, + Snowflakes to knit for apples on bare boughs, + Yea, love to thrive upon the terms of hate. + If I had fared abroad I should have found + In many countries many marvels for you-- + Though not more comeliness in peopled Romeborg + And not more haughtiness in Mickligarth + Nor craftiness in all the isles of the world, + And only golden coifs in Athcliath: + Yet you were ardent that I should not sail, + And when I could not sail you laughed out loud + And kissed me home.... + + HALLGERD (_who has been biting her nails_) + And then ... and doubtless ... and strangely ... + And not more thriftiness in Bergthorsknoll + Where Njal saves old soft sackcloth for his wife. + Oh, I must sit with peasants and aged women, + And keep my head wrapped modestly and seemly. + + (_She turns to_ RANNVEIG.) + + I must be humble--as one who lives on others. + + (_She snatches off her wimple, slipping her gold circlet as she + does so, and loosens her hair._) + + Unless I may be hooded delicately + And use the adornment noble women use + I'll mock you with my flown young widowhood, + Letting my hair go loose past either cheek + In two bright clouds and drop beyond my bosom, + Turning the waving ends under my girdle + As young glad widows do, and as I did + Ere ever you saw me--ay, and when you found me + And met me as a king meets a queen + In the undying light of a summer night + With burning robes and glances--stirring the heart with scarlet. + + (_She tucks the long ends of her hair under her girdle._) + + RANNVEIG + You have cast the head-ring of the nobly nurtured, + Being eager for a bold uncovered head. + You are conversant with a widow's fancies.... + Ay, you are ready with your widowhood: + Two men have had you, chilled their bosoms with you, + And trusted that they held a precious thing-- + Yet your mean passionate wastefulness poured out + Their lives for joy of seeing something done with. + Cannot you wait this time? 'Twill not be long. + + HALLGERD + I am a hazardous desirable thing, + A warm unsounded peril, a flashing mischief, + A divine malice, a disquieting voice: + Thus I was shapen, and it is my pride + To nourish all the fires that mingled me. + I am not long moved, I do not mar my face, + Though men have sunk in me as in a quicksand. + Well, death is terrible. Was I not worth it? + Does not the light change on me as I breathe? + Could I not take the hearts of generations, + Walking among their dreams? Oh, I have might, + Although it drives me too and is not my own deed.... + And Gunnar is great, or he had died long since. + It is my joy that Gunnar stays with me: + Indeed the offence is theirs who hunted him, + His banishment is not just; his wrongs increase, + His honour and his following shall increase + If he is steadfast for his blamelessness. + + RANNVEIG + Law is not justice, but the sacrifice + Of singular virtues to the dull world's ease of mind; + It measures men by the most vicious men; + It is a bargaining with vanities, + Lest too much right should make men hate each other + And hasten the last battle of all the nations. + Gunnar should have kept the atonement set, + For then those men would turn to other quarrels. + + GUNNAR + I know not why it is I must be fighting, + For ever fighting, when the slaying of men + Is a more weary and aimless thing to me + Than most men think it ... and most women too. + There is a woman here who grieves she loves me, + And she too must be fighting me for ever + With her dim ravenous unsated mind.... + Ay, Hallgerd, there's that in her which desires + Men to fight on for ever because she lives: + When she took form she did it like a hunger + To nibble earth's lip away until the sea + Poured down the darkness. Why then should I sail + Upon a voyage that can end but here? + She means that I shall fight until I die: + Why must she be put off by whittled years, + When none can die until his time has come? + + (_He turns to the hound by the fire._) + + Samm, drowsy friend, dost scent a prey in dreams? + Shake off thy shag of sleep and get to thy watch: + 'Tis time to be our eyes till the next light. + Out, out to the yard, good Samm. + + (_He goes to the left, followed by the hound. In the meantime_ + HALLGERD _has seated herself in the high-seat near the sewing + women, turning herself away and tugging at a strand of her hair, + the end of which she bites._) + + RANNVEIG (_intercepting him_) + Nay, let me take him. + It is not safe--there may be men who hide.... + Hallgerd, look up; call Gunnar to you there: + + (HALLGERD _is motionless._) + Lad, she beckons. I say you shall not come. + + GUNNAR (_laughing_) + Fierce woman, teach me to be brave in age, + And let us see if it is safe for you. + + (_Leads_ RANNVEIG _out, his hand on her shoulder; the hound goes + with them._) + + STEINVOR + Mistress, my heart is big with mutinies + For your proud sake: does not your heart mount up? + He is an outlaw now and could not hold you + If you should choose to leave him. Is it not law? + Is it not law that you could loose this marriage-- + Nay, that he loosed it shamefully years ago + By a hard blow that bruised your innocent cheek, + Dishonouring you to lesser women and chiefs? + See, it burns up again at the stroke of thought. + Come, leave him, mistress; we will go with you. + There is no woman in the country now + Whose name can kindle men as yours can do-- + Ay, many would pile for you the silks he grudges; + And if you did withdraw your potent presence + Fire would not spare this house so reverently. + + HALLGERD + Am I a wandering flame that sears and passes? + We must bide here, good Steinvor, and be quiet. + Without a man a woman cannot rule, + Nor kill without a knife; and where's the man + That I shall put before this goodly Gunnar? + I will not be made less by a less man. + There is no man so great as my man Gunnar: + I have set men at him to show forth his might; + I have planned thefts and breakings of his word + When my pent heart grew sore with fermentation + Of malice too long undone, yet could not stir him. + Oh, I will make a battle of the Thing, + Where men vow holy peace, to magnify him. + Is it not rare to sit and wait o' nights, + Knowing that murderousness may even now + Be coming down outside like second darkness + Because my man is greater? + + STEINVOR (_shuddering_) + Is it not rare. + + HALLGERD + That blow upon the face + So long ago is best not spoken of. + I drave a thrall to steal and burn at Otkell's + Who would not sell to us in famine time + But denied Gunnar as if he were suppliant: + Then at our feast when men rode from the Thing + I spread the stolen food and Gunnar knew. + He smote me upon the face--indeed he smote me. + Oh, Gunnar smote me and had shame of me + And said he'd not partake with any thief; + Although I stole to injure his despiser.... + But if he had abandoned me as well + 'Tis I who should have been unmated now; + For many men would soon have judged me thief + And shut me from this land until I died-- + And then I should have lost him. Yet he smote me-- + + ASTRID + He kept you his--yea, and maybe saved you + From a debasement that could madden or kill, + For women thieves ere now have felt a knife + Severing ear or nose. And yet the feud + You sowed with Otkell's house shall murder Gunnar. + Otkell was slain: then Gunnar's enviers, + Who could not crush him under his own horse + At the big horse-fight, stirred up Otkell's son + To avenge his father; for should he be slain + Two in one stock would prove old Njal's foretelling, + And Gunnar's place be emptied either way + For those high helpless men who cannot fill it. + O mistress, you have hurt us all in this: + You have cut off your strength, you have maimed yourself, + You are losing power and worship and men's trust. + When Gunnar dies no other man dare take you. + + HALLGERD + You gather poison in your mouth for me. + A high-born woman may handle what she fancies + Without being ear-pruned like a pilfering beggar. + Look to your ears if you touch ought of mine: + Ay, you shall join the mumping sisterhood + And tramp and learn your difference from me. + + (_She turns from_ ASTRID.) + + Steinvor, I have remembered the great veil, + The woven cloud, the tissue of gold and garlands, + That Gunnar took from some outlandish ship + And thinks was made in Greekland or in Hind: + Fetch it from the ambry in the bower. + + (STEINVOR _goes out by the dais door._) + + ASTRID + Mistress, indeed you are a cherished woman. + That veil is worth a lifetime's weight of coifs: + I have heard a queen offered her daughter for it, + But Gunnar said it should come home and wait-- + And then gave it to you. The half of Iceland + Tells fabulous legends of a fabulous thing, + Yet never saw it: I know they never saw it, + For ere it reached the ambry I came on it + Tumbled in the loft with ragged kirtles. + + HALLGERD + What, are you there again? Let Gunnar alone. + + (STEINVOR _enters with the veil folded._ HALLGERD _takes + it with one hand and shakes it into a heap._) + + This is the cloth. He brought it out at night, + In the first hour that we were left together, + And begged of me to wear it at high feasts + And more outshine all women of my time: + He shaped it to my head with my gold circlet, + Saying my hair smouldered like Rhine-fire through, + He let it fall about my neck, and fall + About my shoulders, mingle with my skirts, + And billow in the draught along the floor. + + (_She rises and holds the veil behind her head._) + + I know I dazzled as if I entered in + And walked upon a windy sunset and drank it, + Yet must I stammer with such strange uncouthness + And tear it from me, tangling my arms in it. + Why should I so befool myself and seem + A laughable bundle in each woman's eyes, + Wearing such things as no one ever wore, + Useless ... no head-cloth ... too unlike my fellows. + Yet he turns miser for a tiny coif. + It would cut into many golden coifs + And dim some women in their Irish clouts-- + But no; I'll shape and stitch it into shifts, + Smirch it like linen, patch it with rags, to watch + His silent anger when he sees my answer. + Give me thy shears, girl Oddny. + + ODDNY + You'll not part it? + + HALLGERD + I'll shorten it. + + ODDNY + I have no shears with me. + + HALLGERD + No matter; I can start it with my teeth + And tear it down the folds. So. So. So. So. + Here's a fine shift for summer: and another. + I'll find my shears and chop out waists and neck-holes. + Ay, Gunnar, Gunnar! + + (_She throws the tissue on the ground, and goes out by + the dais door._) + + ODDNY (_lifting one of the pieces_) + O me! A wonder has vanished. + + STEINVOR + What is a wonder less? She has done finely, + Setting her worth above dead marvels and shows. + + (_The deep menacing baying of the hound is heard near + at hand. A woman's cry follows it._) + + They come, they come! Let us flee by the bower! + + (_Starting up, she stumbles in the tissue and sinks upon it. The + others rise._) + + You are leaving me--will you not wait for me-- + Take, take me with you. + + (_Mingled cries of women are heard._) + + GUNNAR (_outside_) + Samm, it is well: be still. + Women, be quiet; loose me; get from my feet, + Or I will have the hound to wipe me clear. + + STEINVOR (_recovering herself_) + Women are sent to spy. + + (_The sound of a door being opened is heard. GUNNAR enters from + the left, followed by three beggar-women, BIARTEY, JOFRID, and + GUDFINN. They hobble and limp, and are swathed in shapeless, + nameless rags which trail about their feet; BIARTEY'S left sleeve + is torn completely away, leaving her arm bare and mud-smeared; + the others' skirts are torn, and JOFRID'S gown at the neck; + GUDFINN wears a felt hood buttoned under her chin; the others' + faces are almost hid in falling tangles of grey hair. Their faces + are shriveled and weather-beaten, and BIARTEY'S mouth is + distorted by two front teeth that project like tusks._) + + GUNNAR + Get in to the light. + Yea, has he mouthed ye?... What men send ye here? + Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye seek? + I think no mother ever suckled you: + You must have dragged your roots up in waste places + One foot at once, or heaved a shoulder up-- + + BIARTEY (_interrupting him_) + Out of the bosoms of cairns and standing stones. + I am Biartey: she is Jofrid: she is Gudfinn: + We are lone women known to no man now. + We are not sent: we come. + + GUNNAR + Well, you come. + You appear by night, rising under my eyes + Like marshy breath or shadows on the wall; + Yet the hound scented you like any evil + That feels upon the night for a way out. + And do you, then, indeed wend alone? + Came you from the West or the sky-covering North + Yet saw no thin steel moving in the dark? + + BIARTEY + Not West, not North: we slept upon the East, + Arising in the East where no men dwell. + We have abided in the mountain places, + Chanted our woes among the black rocks crouching. + + (GUDFINN _joins her in a sing-song utterance._) + From the East, from the East we drove and the wind waved us, + Over the heaths, over the barren ashes. + We are old, our eyes are old, and the light hurts us, + We have skins on our eyes that part alone to the star-light. + We stumble about the night, the rocks tremble + Beneath our trembling feet; black sky thickens, + Breaks into clots, and lets the moon upon us. + + (JOFRID _joins her voice to the voices of the other two._) + Far from the men who fear us, men who stone us, + Hiding, hiding, flying whene'er they slumber, + High on the crags we pause, over the moon-gulfs; + Black clouds fall and leave us up in the moon-depths + Where wind flaps our hair and cloaks like fin-webs, + Ay, and our sleeves that toss with our arms and the cadence + Of quavering crying among the threatening echoes. + Then we spread our cloaks and leap down the rock-stairs, + Sweeping the heaths with our skirts, greying the dew-bloom, + Until we feel a pool on the wide dew stretches + Stilled by the moon or ruffling like breast-feathers, + And, with grey sleeves cheating the sleepy herons, + Squat among them, pillow us there and sleep. + But in the harder wastes we stand upright, + Like splintered rain-worn boulders set to the wind + In old confederacy, and rest and sleep. + + (HALLGERD'S _women are huddled together and clasping each other._) + + ODDNY + What can these women be who sleep like horses, + Standing up in the darkness? What will they do? + + GUNNAR + Ye wail like ravens and have no human thoughts. + What do ye seek? What will ye here with us? + + BIARTEY (_as all three cower suddenly_) + Succour upon this terrible journeying. + We have a message for a man in the West, + Sent by an old man sitting in the East. + We are spent, our feet are moving wounds, our bodies + Dream of themselves and seem to trail behind us + Because we went unfed down in the mountains. + Feed us and shelter us beneath your roof, + And put us over the Markfleet, over the channels. + We are weak old women: we are beseeching you. + + GUNNAR + You may bide here this night, but on the morrow + You shall go over, for tramping shameless women + Carry too many tales from stead to stead-- + And sometimes heavier gear than breath and lies. + These women will tell the mistress all I grant you; + Get to the fire until she shall return. + + BIARTEY + Thou art a merciful man and we shall thank thee. + + (GUNNAR _goes out again to the left. The old women approach the + young ones gradually._) + Little ones, do not doubt us. Could we hurt you? + Because we are ugly must we be bewitched? + + STEINVOR + Nay, but bewitch us. + + BIARTEY + Not in a litten house: + Not ere the hour when night turns on itself + And shakes the silence: not while ye wake together. + Sweet voice, tell us, was that verily Gunnar? + + STEINVOR + Arrh--do not touch me, unclean flyer-by-night: + Have ye birds' feet to match such bat-webbed fingers? + + BIARTEY + I am only a cowed curst woman who walks with death; + I will crouch here. Tell us, was it Gunnar? + + ODDNY + Yea, Gunnar surely. Is he not big enough + To fit the songs about him? + + BIARTEY + He is a man. + Why will his manhood urge him to be dead? + We walk about the whole old land at night, + We enter many dales and many halls: + And everywhere is talk of Gunnar's greatness, + His slayings and his fate outside the law. + The last ship has not gone: why will he tarry? + + ODDNY + He chose a ship, but men who rode with him + Say that his horse threw him upon the shore, + His face toward the Lithe and his own fields; + As he arose he trembled at what he gazed on + (_Although those men saw nothing pass or meet them_) + And said ... What said he, girls? + + ASTRID + "Fair is the Lithe: + I never thought it was so far, so fair. + Its corn is white, its meadows green after mowing. + I will ride home again and never leave it." + + ODDNY + 'Tis an unlikely tale: he never said it. + No one could mind such things in such an hour. + Plainly he saw his fetch come down the sands, + And knew he need not seek another country + And take that with him to walk upon the deck + In night and storm. + + GUDFINN + He, he, he! No man speaks thus. + + JOFRID + No man, no man: he must be doomed somewhere. + + BIARTEY + Doomed and fey, my sisters.... We are too old, + Yet I'd not marvel if we outlasted him. + Sisters, that is a fair fierce girl who spins.... + My fair fierce girl, you could fight--but can you ride? + Would you not shout to be riding in a storm? + Ah--h, girls learnt riding well when I was a girl, + And foam rides on the breakers as I was taught.... + My fair fierce girl, tell me your noble name. + + ODDNY + My name is Oddny. + + BIARTEY + Oddny, when you are old + Would you not be proud to be no man's purse-string, + But wild and wandering and friends with the earth? + Wander with us and learn to be old yet living. + We'd win fine food with you to beg for us. + + STEINVOR + Despised, cast out, unclean, and loose men's night-bird. + + ODDNY + When I am old I shall be some man's friend, + And hold him when the darkness comes.... + + BIARTEY + And mumble by the fire and blink.... + Good Oddny, let me spin for you awhile, + That Gunnar's house may profit by his guesting: + Come, trust me with your distaff.... + + ODDNY + Are there spells + Wrought on a distaff? + + STEINVOR + Only by the Norns, + And they'll not sit with human folk to-night. + + ODDNY + Then you may spin all night for what I care; + But let the yarn run clean from knots and snarls, + Or I shall have the blame when you are gone. + + BIARTEY (_taking the distaff_) + Trust well the aged knowledge of my hands; + Thin and thin do I spin, and the thread draws finer. + + (_She sings as she spins._) + + They go by three. + And the moon shivers; + The tired waves flee, + The hidden rivers + Also flee. + + I take three strands; + There is one for her, + One for my hands, + And one to stir + For another's hands. + + I twine them thinner, + The dead wool doubts; + The outer is inner, + The core slips out.... + + (HALLGERD _reënters by the dais door, holding a pair of shears._) + + HALLGERD + What are these women, Oddny? Who let them in? + + BIARTEY (_who spins through all that follows_) + Lady, the man of fame who is your man + Gave us his peace to-night, and that of his house. + We are blown beggars tramping about the land, + Denied a home for our evil and vagrant hearts; + We sought this shelter when the first dew soaked us, + And should have perished by the giant hound + But Gunnar fought it with his eyes and saved us. + That is a strange hound, with a man's mind in it. + + HALLGERD (_seating herself in the high-seat_) + It is an Irish hound, from that strange soil + Where men by day walk with unearthly eyes + And cross the veils of the air, and are not men + But fierce abstractions eating their own hearts + Impatiently and seeing too much to be joyful. + If Gunnar welcomed ye, ye may remain. + + BIARTEY + She is a fair free lady, is she not? + But that was to be looked for in a high one + Who counts among her fathers the bright Sigurd, + The bane of Fafnir the Worm, the end of the god-kings; + Among her mothers Brynhild, the lass of Odin, + The maddener of swords, the night-clouds' rider. + She has kept sweet that father's lore of bird-speech, + She wears that mother's power to cheat a god. + Sisters, she does well to be proud. + + JOFRID and GUDFINN + Ay, well. + + HALLGERD (_shaping the tissue with her shears_) + I need no witch to tell I am of rare seed, + Nor measure my pride nor praise it. Do I not know? + Old women, ye are welcomed: sit with us, + And while we stitch tell us what gossip runs-- + But if strife might be warmed by spreading it. + + BIARTEY + Lady, we are hungered; we were lost + All night among the mountains of the East; + Clouds of the cliffs come down my eyes again. + I pray you let some thrall bring us to food. + + HALLGERD + Ye get nought here. The supper is long over; + The women shall not let ye know the food-house, + Or ye'll be thieving in the night. Ye are idle, + Ye suck a man's house bare and seek another. + 'Tis bed-time; get to sleep--that stills much hunger. + + BIARTEY + Now it is easy to be seeing what spoils you. + You were not grasping or ought but over warm + When Sigmund, Gunnar's kinsman, guested here. + You followed him, you were too kind with him, + You lavished Gunnar's treasure and gear on him + To draw him on, and did not call that thieving. + Ay, Sigmund took your feuds on him and died + As Gunnar shall. Men have much harm by you. + + HALLGERD + Now have I gashed the golden cloth awry: + 'Tis ended--a ruin of clouts--the worth of the gift-- + Bridal dish-clouts--nay, a bundle of flame + I'll burn it to a breath of its old queen's ashes: + Fire, O fire, drink up. + + (_She throws the shreds of the veil on the glowing embers: they + waft to ashes with a brief high flare. She goes to_ JOFRID.) + + There's one of you + That holds her head in a bird's sideways fashion: + I know that reach o' the chin.--What's under thy hair?-- + + (_She fixes JOFRID with her knee, and lifts her hair._) + + Pfui,'tis not hair, but sopped and rotting moss-- + A thief, a thief indeed.--And twice a thief. + She has no ears. Keep thy hooked fingers still + While thou art here, for if I miss a mouthful + Thou shalt miss all thy nose. Get up, get up; + I'll lodge ye with the mares. + + JOFRID (_starting up_) + Three men, three men, + Three men have wived you, and for all you gave them + Paid with three blows upon a cheek once kissed-- + To every man a blow--and the last blow + All the land knows was won by thieving food.... + Yea, Gunnar is ended by the theft and the thief. + Is it not told that when you first grew tall, + A false rare girl, Hrut your own kinsman said, + "I know not whence thief's eyes entered our blood." + You have more ears, yet are you not my sister? + Our evil vagrant heart is deeper in you. + + HALLGERD (_snatching the distaff from_ BIARTEY) + Out and be gone, be gone. Lie with the mountains, + Smother among the thunder; stale dew mould you. + Outstrip the hound, or he shall so embrace you.... + + BIARTEY + Now is all done ... all done ... and all your deed. + She broke the thread, and it shall not join again. + Spindle, spindle, the coiling weft shall dwindle; + Leap on the fire and burn, for all is done. + + (_She casts the spindle upon the fire, and stretches her hands + toward it._) + + HALLGERD (_attacking them with the distaff_) + Into the night.... Dissolve.... + + BIARTEY (_as the three rush toward the door_) + Sisters, away: + Leave the woman to her smouldering beauty, + Leave the fire that's kinder than the woman, + Leave the roof-tree ere it falls. It falls. + + (GUDFINN _joins her. Each time_ HALLGERD _flags they turn as they + chant, and point at her._) + We shall cry no more in the high rock-places, + We are gone from the night, the winds and the clouds are empty: + Soon the man in the West shall receive our message. + + (JOFRID'S _voice joins the other voices._) + + Men reject us, yet their house is unstable. + The slayers' hands are warm--the sound of their riding + Reached us down the ages, ever approaching. + + HALLGERD (_at the same time, her voice high over theirs_) + Pack, ye rag-heaps--or I'll unravel you. + + THE THREE (_continuously_) + House that spurns us, woe shall come upon you: + Death shall hollow you. Now we curse the woman-- + May all the woes smite her till she can feel them. + Shall we not roost in her bower yet? Woe! Woe! + + (_The distaff breaks, and HALLGERD drives them out with her hands. + Their voices continue for a moment outside, dying away._) + + Call to the owl-friends.... Woe! Woe! Woe! + + ASTRID + Whence came these mounds of dread to haunt the night? + It doubles this disquiet to have them near us. + + ODDNY + They must be witches--and it was my distaff-- + Will fire eat through me.... + + STEINVOR + Or the Norns themselves. + + HALLGERD + Or bad old women used to govern by fear. + To bed, to bed--we are all up too late. + + STEINVOR (_as she turns with ASTRID and ODDNY to the dais_) + If beds are made for sleep we might sit long. + + (_They go out by the dais door._) + + GUNNAR (_as he enters hastily from the left_) + Where are those women? There's some secret in them: + I have heard such others crying down to them. + + HALLGERD + They turned foul-mouthed, they beckoned evil toward us-- + I drove them forth a breath ago. + + GUNNAR + Forth? Whence? + + HALLGERD + By the great door: they cried about the night. + + (RANNVEIG _follows_ GUNNAR _in._) + + GUNNAR + Nay, but I entered there and passed them not. + Mother, where are the women? + + RANNVEIG + I saw none come. + + GUNNAR + They have not come, they have gone. + + RANNVEIG + I crossed the yard, + Hearing a noise, but a big bird dropped past, + Beating my eyes; and then the yard was clear. + + (_The deep baying of the hound is heard again._) + + GUNNAR + They must be spies: yonder is news of them. + The wise hound knew them, and knew them again. + + (_The baying is succeeded by one mid howl._) + + Nay, nay! + Men treat thee sorely, Samm my fosterling: + Even by death thou warnest--but it is meant + That our two deaths will not be far apart. + + RANNVEIG + Think you that men are yonder? + + GUNNAR + Men are yonder. + + RANNVEIG + My son, my son, get on the rattling war-woof, + The old grey shift of Odin, the hide of steel. + Handle the snake with edges, the fang of the rings. + + GUNNAR (_going to the weapons by the high-seat_) + There are not enough moments to get under + That heavy fleece: an iron hat must serve. + + HALLGERD + O brave! O brave!--he'll dare them with no shield. + + GUNNAR (_lifting down the great bill_) + Let me but reach this haft, I shall get hold + Of steel enough to fence me all about. + + (_He shakes the bill above his head: a deep resonant humming + follows._ + + _The dais door is thrown open, and_ ODDNY, ASTRID, _and_ STEINVOR + _stream through in their night-clothes._) + + STEINVOR + The bill! + + ODDNY + The bill is singing! + + ASTRID + The bill sings! + + GUNNAR (_shaking the bill again_) + Ay, brain-biter, waken.... Awake and whisper + Out of the throat of dread thy one brief burden. + Blind art thou, and thy kiss will do no choosing: + Worn art thou to a hair's grey edge, a nothing + That slips through all it finds, seeking more nothing. + There is a time, brain-biter, a time that comes + When there shall be much quietness for thee: + Men will be still about thee. I shall know. + It is not yet: the wind shall hiss at thee first. + Ahui! Leap up, brain-biter; sing again. + Sing! Sing thy verse of anger and feel my hands. + + RANNVEIG + Stand thou, my Gunnar, in the porch to meet them, + And the great door shall keep thy back for thee. + + GUNNAR + I had a brother there. Brother, where are you.... + + HALLGERD + Nay, nay. Get thou, my Gunnar, to the loft, + Stand at the casement, watch them how they come. + Arrows maybe could drop on them from there. + + RANNVEIG + 'Tis good: the woman's cunning for once is faithful. + + GUNNAR (_turning again to the weapons_) + 'Tis good, for now I hear a foot that stumbles + Along the stable-roof against the hall. + My bow--where is my bow? Here with its arrows.... + Go in again, you women on the dais, + And listen at the casement of the bower + For men who cross the yard, and for their words. + + ASTRID + O Gunnar, we shall serve you. + + (ASTRID, ODDNY, _and_ STEINVOR _go out by the dais door._) + + RANNVEIG + Hallgerd, come; + We must shut fast the door, bar the great door, + Or they'll be in on us and murder him. + + HALLGERD + Not I: I'd rather set the door wide open + And watch my Gunnar kindling at the peril, + Keeping them back--shaming men for ever + Who could not enter at a gaping door. + + RANNVEIG + Bar the great door, I say, or I will bar it-- + Door of the house you rule.... Son, son, command it. + + GUNNAR (_as he ascends to the loft_) + O spendthrift fire, do you waft up again? + Hallgerd, what riot of ruinous chance will sate you?... + Let the door stand, my mother: it is her way. + + (_He looks out at the casement._) + Here's a red kirtle on the lower roof. + + (_He thrusts with the bill through the casement._) + + A MAN'S VOICE (_far off_) + Is Gunnar within? + + THORGRIM THE EASTERLING'S VOICE (_near the casement_) + Find that out for yourselves: + I am only sure his bill is yet within. + + (_A noise of falling is heard._) + + GUNNAR + The Easterling from Sandgil might be dying-- + He has gone down the roof, yet no feet helped him. + + (_A shouting of many men is heard: GUNNAR starts back from the + casement as several arrows fly in._) + + Now there are black flies biting before a storm. + I see men gathering beneath the cart-shed: + Gizur the White and Geir the priest are there, + And a lean whispering shape that should be Mord. + I have a sting for some one-- + + (_He looses an arrow: a distant cry follows._) + + Valgard's voice.... + A shaft of theirs is lying on the roof; + I'll send it back, for if it should take root + A hurt from their own spent and worthless weapon + Would put a scorn upon their tale for ever. + + (_He leans out for the arrow._) + + RANNVEIG + Do not, my son: rouse them not up again + When they are slackening in their attack. + + HALLGERD + Shoot, shoot it out, and I'll come up to mock them. + + GUNNAR (_loosing the arrow_) + Hoia! Swerve down upon them, little hawk. + + (_A shout follows._) + + Now they run all together round one man: + Now they murmur.... + + A VOICE + Close in, lift bows again: + He has no shafts, for this is one of ours. + + (_Arrows fly in at the casement._) + + GUNNAR + Wife, here is something in my arm at last: + The head is twisted--I must cut it clear. + + (STEINVOR _throws open the dais door and rushes through with a + high shriek._) + + STEINVOR + Woman, let us out--help us out-- + The burning comes--they are calling out for fire. + + (_She shrieks again. ODDNY and ASTRID, who have come behind her, + muffle her head in a kirtle and lift her._) + + ASTRID (_turning as they bear her out_) + Fire suffuses only her cloudy brain: + The flare she walks in is on the other side + Of her shot eyes. We heard a passionate voice, + A shrill unwomanish voice that must be Mord, + With "Let us burn him--burn him house and all." + And then a grave and trembling voice replied, + "Although my life hung on it, it shall not be." + Again the cunning fanatic voice went on + "I say the house must burn above his head." + And the unlifted voice, "Why wilt thou speak + Of what none wishes: it shall never be." + + (ASTRID _and_ ODDNY _disappear with_ STEINVOR.) + + GUNNAR + To fight with honest men is worth much friendship: + I'll strive with them again. + + (_He lifts his bow and loosens arrows at intervals while_ + HALLGERD _and_ RANNVEIG _speak._) + + HALLGERD (_in an undertone to_ RANNVEIG, _looking out meanwhile + to the left_) + Mother, come here-- + Come here and hearken. Is there not a foot, + A stealthy step, a fumbling on the latch + Of the great door? They come, they come, old mother: + Are you not blithe and thirsty, knowing they come + And cannot be held back? Watch and be secret, + To feel things pass that cannot be undone. + + RANNVEIG + It is the latch. Cry out, cry out for Gunnar, + And bring him from the loft. + + HALLGERD + Oh, never: + For then they'd swarm upon him from the roof. + Leave him up there and he can bay both armies, + While the whole dance goes merrily before us + And we can warm our hearts at such a flare. + + RANNVEIG (_turning both ways, while HALLGERD watches her gleefully_) + Gunnar, my son, my son! What shall I do? + + (ORMILD _enters from the left, white and with her hand to her + side, and walking as one sick._) + + HALLGERD + Bah--here's a bleached assault.... + + RANNVEIG + Oh, lonesome thing, + To be forgot and left in such a night. + What is there now--are terrors surging still? + + ORMILD + I know not what has gone: when the men came + I hid in the far cowhouse. I think I swooned.... + And then I followed the shadow. Who is dead? + + RANNVEIG + Go to the bower: the women will care for you. + + (ORMILD _totters up the hall from pillar to pillar._) + + ASTRID (_entering by the dais door_) + Now they have found the weather-ropes and lashed them + Over the carven ends of the beams outside: + They bear on them, they tighten them with levers, + And soon they'll tear the high roof off the hall. + + GUNNAR + Get back and bolt the women into the bower. + + (ASTRID _takes_ ORMILD, _who has just reached her, and goes out with + her by the dais door, which closes after them._) + + Hallgerd, go in: I shall be here thereafter. + + HALLGERD + I will not stir. Your mother had best go in. + + RANNVEIG + How shall I stir? + + VOICES (_outside and gathering volume_) + Ai.... Ai.... Reach harder.... Ai.... + + GUNNAR + Stand clear, stand clear--it moves. + + THE VOICES + It moves.... Ai, ai.... + + (_The whole roof slides down rumblingly, disappearing with a crash + behind the watt of the house. All is dark above. Fine snow sifts + down now and then to the end of the play._) + + GUNNAR (_handling his bow_) + The wind has changed: 'tis coming on to snow. + The harvesters will hurry in to-morrow. + + (THORBRAND THORLEIKSSON _appears above the wall-top a little past_ + GUNNAR, _and, reaching noiselessly with a sword, cuts_ GUNNAR'S + _bowstring._) + + GUNNAR (_dropping the bow and seizing his bill_) + Ay, Thorbrand, is it thou? That's a rare blade, + To shear through hemp and gut.... Let your wife have it + For snipping needle-yarn; or try it again. + + THORBRAND (_raising his sword_) + I must be getting back ere the snow thickens: + So here's my message to the end--or farther. + Gunnar, this night it is time to start your journey + And get you out of Iceland.... + + GUNNAR (_thrusting at THORBRAND with the bill_) + I think it is: + So you shall go before me in the dark. + Wait for me when you find a quiet shelter. + + (THORBRAND _sinks backward from the wall and is heard to fall + farther. Immediately_ ASBRAND THORLEIKSSON _starts up in his + place._) + + ASBRAND (_striking repeatedly with a sword_) + Oh, down, down, down! + + GUNNAR (_parrying the blows with the bill_) + Ay, Asbrand, thou as well? + Thy brother Thorbrand was up here but now: + He has gone back the other way, maybe-- + Be hasty, or you'll not come up with him. + + (_He thrusts with the bill_: ASBRAND _lifts a shield before the + blow._) + + Here's the first shield that I have seen to-night. + + (_The bill pierces the shield_: ASBRAND _disappears and is heard to + fall._ GUNNAR _turns from the casement._) + + Hallgerd, my harp that had but one long string, + But one low song, but one brief wingy flight, + Is voiceless, for my bowstring is cut off. + Sever two locks of hair for my sake now, + Spoil those bright coils of power, give me your hair, + And with my mother twist those locks together + Into a bowstring for me. Fierce small head, + Thy stinging tresses shall scourge men forth by me. + + HALLGERD + Does ought lie on it? + + GUNNAR + Nought but my life lies on it; + For they will never dare to close on me + If I can keep my bow bended and singing. + + HALLGERD (_tossing back her hair_) + Then now I call to your mind that bygone blow + You gave my face; and never a whit do I care + If you hold out a long time or a short. + + GUNNAR + Every man who has trod a warship's deck, + And borne a weapon of pride, has a proud heart + And asks not twice for any little thing. + Hallgerd, I'll ask no more from you, no more. + + RANNVEIG (_tearing off her wimple_) + She will not mar her honour of widowhood. + Oh, widows' manes are priceless.... Off, mean wimple-- + I am a finished widow, why do you hide me? + Son, son who knew my bosom before hers, + Look down and curse for an unreverend thing + An old bald woman who is no use at last. + These bleachy-threads, these tufts of death's first combing, + And loosening heartstrings twisted up together + Would not make half a bowstring. Son, forgive me.... + + GUNNAR + A grasping woman's gold upon her head + Is made for hoarding, like all other gold: + A spendthrift woman's gold upon her head + Is made for spending on herself. Let be-- + She goes her heart's way, and I go to earth. + + (AUNUND'S _head rises above the wall near_ GUNNAR.) + + What, are you there? + + AUNUND + Yea, Gunnar, we are here. + + GUNNAR (_thrusting with the bill_) + Then bide you there. + + (AUNUND'S _head sinks_; THORGEIR'S _rises in the same place._) + + How many heads have you? + + THORGEIR + But half as many as the feet we grow on. + + GUNNAR + And I've not yet used up (_thrusting again_) all my hands. + + (_As he thrusts another man rises a little farther back, and leaps + past him into the loft. Others follow, and GUNNAR is soon + surrounded by many armed men, so that only the rising and falling + of his bill is seen._) + + The threshing-floor is full.... Up, up, brain-biter! + We work too late to-night--up, open the husks. + Oh, smite and pulse + On their anvil heads: + The smithy is full, + There are shoes to be made + For the hoofs of the steeds + Of the Valkyr girls.... + + FIRST MAN + Hack through the shaft.... + + SECOND MAN + Receive the blade + In the breast of a shield, + And wrench it round.... + + GUNNAR + For the hoofs of the steeds + Of the Valkyr girls + Who race up the night + To be first at our feast, + First in the play + With immortal spears + In deadly holes.... + + THIRD MAN + Try at his back.... + + MANY VOICES (_shouting in confusion_) + Have him down.... Heels on the bill.... Ahui, ahui.... + + (_The bill does not rise._) + + HROALD (_with the breaking voice of a young man, high over all_) + Father.... It is my blow.... It is I who kill him. + + (_The crowd parts, suddenly silent, showing_ GUNNAR _fallen._ + RANNVEIG _covers her face with her hands._) + + HALLGERD (_laughing as she leans forward and holds her breasts in + her hands_) + O clear sweet laughter of my heart, flow out! + It is so mighty and beautiful and blithe + To watch a man dying--to hover and watch. + + RANNVEIG + Cease: are you not immortal in shame already? + + HALLGERD + Heroes, what deeds ye compass, what great deeds--- + One man has held ye from an open door: + Heroes, heroes, are ye undefeated? + + GIZUR (_an old white-bearded man, to the other riders_) + We have laid low to earth a mighty chief: + We have laboured harder than on greater deeds, + And maybe won remembrance by the deeds + Of Gunnar when no deed of ours should live; + For this defence of his shall outlast kingdoms + And gather him fame till there are no more men. + + MORD + Come down and splinter those old birds his gods + That perch upon the carven high-seat pillars, + Wreck every place his shadow fell upon, + Rive out his gear, drive off his forfeit beasts. + + SECOND MAN + It shall not be. + + MANY MEN + Never. + + GIZUR + We'll never do it: + Let no man lift a blade or finger a clout-- + Is not this Gunnar, Gunnar, whom we have slain? + Home, home, before the dawn shows all our deed. + + (_The riders go down quickly over the wall-top, and disappear._) + + HALLGERD + Now I shall close his nostrils and his eyes, + And thereby take his blood-feud into my hands. + + RANNVEIG + If you do stir I'll choke you with your hair. + I will not let your murderous mind be near him + When he no more can choose and does not know. + + HALLGERD + His wife I was, and yet he never judged me: + He did not set your motherhood between us. + Let me alone--I stand here for my sons. + + RANNVEIG + The wolf, the carrion bird, and the fair woman + Hurry upon a corpse, as if they think + That all is left for them the grey gods need not. + + (_She twines her hands in_ HALLGERD'S _hair and draws her down to + the floor._) + + Oh, I will comb your hair with bones and thumbs, + Array these locks in my right widow's way, + And deck you like the bed-mate of the dead. + Lie down upon the earth as Gunnar lies, + Or I can never match him in your looks + And whiten you and make your heart as cold. + + HALLGERD + Mother, what will you do? Unloose me now--- + Your eyes would not look so at me alone. + + RANNVEIG + Be still, my daughter.... + + HALLGERD + And then? + + RANNVEIG + Ah, do not fear-- + I see a peril nigh and all its blitheness. + Order your limbs--stretch out your length of beauty, + Let down your hands and close those deepening eyes, + Or you can never stiffen as you should. + A murdered man should have a murdered wife + When all his fate is treasured in her mouth. + This wifely hairpin will be sharp enough. + + HALLGERD (_starting up as RANNVEIG half loosens her to take a + hairpin from her own head_) + She is mad, mad.... Oh, the bower is barred-- + Hallgerd, come out, let mountains cover you. + + (_She rushes out to the left._) + + RANNVEIG (_following her_) + The night take you indeed.... + + GIZUR (_as he enters from the left_) + Ay, drive her out; + For no man's house was ever better by her. + + RANNVEIG + Is an old woman's life desired as well? + + GIZUR + We ask that you will grant us earth hereby + Of Gunnar's earth, for two men dead to-night + To lie beneath a cairn that we shall raise. + + RANNVEIG + Only for two? Take it: ask more of me. + I wish the measure were for all of you. + + GIZUR + Your words must be forgiven you, old mother, + For none has had a greater loss than yours. + Why would he set himself against us all.... + + (_He goes out._) + + RANNVEIG + Gunnar, my son, we are alone again. + + (_She goes up the hall, mounts to the loft, and stoops beside + him._) + + Oh, they have hurt you--but that is forgot. + Boy, it is bedtime; though I am too changed, + And cannot lift you up and lay you in, + You shall go warm to bed--I'll put you there. + There is no comfort in my breast to-night, + But close your eyes beneath my fingers' touch, + Slip your feet down, and let me smooth your hands: + Then sleep and sleep. Ay, all the world's asleep. + + (_She rises._) + + You had a rare toy when you were awake-- + I'll wipe it with my hair.... Nay, keep it so, + The colour on it now has gladdened you. + It shall lie near you. + + (_She raises the bill: the deep hum follows._) + + No; it remembers him, + And other men shall fall by it through Gunnar: + The bill, the bill is singing.... The bill sings! + + (_She kisses the weapon, then shakes it on high._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION IN READING THE PLAYS + + +1. _The Forces in the Play._ + +What is the "passion"--that is, what exactly do these people +desire who "want their ain way"? What forces favor these desires, +and what oppose them--for instance, David Pirnie's determination +to tell wee Alexander a bit story, in _The Philosopher of +Butterbiggens_? Can you always put any one character altogether +on one side? Or does his own weakness or carelessness or +stupidity, for example, sometimes work against his getting what +he wants, so that he is, in part, _not_ on his own side, but +against it, as Brutus is in _Julius Caesar_? Are there other +forces in the play besides the people--storm or accident or fate? +With what side or what character are you in sympathy? Is this +constant throughout the play, or do you feel a change at some +point in it? Does the author sympathize with any special +character? Does he have a prejudice against any one of them? For +example, in _Campbell of Kilmhor_, where is your sympathy? Where +is the author's, apparently? + + +2. _The Beginning and the End._ + +What events important to this play occurred before the curtain +rises? Why does the author begin just here, and not earlier or +later? How does he contrive to let you know these important +things without coming before the curtain to announce them +himself, or having two servants dusting the furniture and telling +them to each other? + +What happens _after_ the curtain falls? Can you go on picturing +these events? Are any of them important to the story--for +instance, in _The Beggar and the King_? Why did the author stop +before telling us these things? + +Does the ending satisfy you? Even if you do not find it happy and +enjoyable, does it seem the natural and perhaps the inevitable +result of the forces at work--in _Riders to the Sea_ and +_Campbell of Kilmhor_, for instance? Or has the author interfered +to make characters do what they would not naturally do, or used +chance and coincidence, like the accidentally discovered will or +the long-lost relative in melodramas, to bring about a result he +prefers--a "happy ending," or a clap-trap surprise, or a supposed +proof of some theory about politics or morals? + +Does the interest mount steadily from beginning to end, or does +it droop and fail somewhere? You may find it interesting to try +drawing the diagram of interest for a play, as suggested in +chapter X of Dr. Brander Matthews's _Study of the Drama_, and +accounting for the drop in interest, if you find any. + + +3. _The Playwright's Purpose._ + +What was the author trying to do in writing the play? It may have +been:-- + +Merely to tell a good story To paint a picture of life in the +Arran Islands or in old France or in a modern industrial town To +show us character and its development, as in novels like +Thackeray's and Eliot's (Of course, brief plays like these cannot +show development of character, but only critical points in such +development--the result of forces perhaps long at work, or the +awakening of new ideas and other determinants of character.) To +portray a social situation, such as the relation between workmen +and employers, or between men and women To show the inevitable +effects of action and motive, as of the determined loyalty of +Dugald Stewart and his mother, or the battle of fisher-folk or +weavers with grinding poverty. + +Of course, no play will probably do any one of these things +exclusively, but usually each is concerned most with some one +purpose. + +What effect has the play on you? Even if its tragedy is painful +or its account of human character makes you uncomfortable, is it +good for you to realize these things, or merely uselessly +unpleasant? Is the play stupidly and falsely cheering because it +presents untrue "happy endings" or other distortions of things as +they are? Do you think the play has merely temporary, or genuine +and permanent, appeal? + + + + +NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS + + +_Harold Chapin_: THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS + +Harold Chapin, as we learn from _Soldier and Dramatist_ (Lane, +1917), was an American both by ancestry and nativity. But he +lived the greater part of his life in England, and died for +England at Loos in April, 1915. His activity was always +associated with the stage. When he was but seven years old he +played the little Marcius to his mother's Volumnia at the +Shakespeare Festival, at Stratford-on-Avon in 1893. In 1911 he +produced Mr. Harold Brighouse's _Lonesome-Like_ and several of +his own short plays at the Glasgow Repertory Theatre. For several +years before the war he was Mr. Granville Barker's stage manager, +and helped him to produce the beautiful Shakespearean plays at +the Savoy Theatre in London. + +Of Chapin's own dramas, _The New Morality_ and _Art and +Opportunity_ have been given recently in New York and in London, +and several of the one-act plays at a memorial performance in +London in 1916, in matinée at the Punch and Judy Theatre, and +before the Drama League in New York in March and April, 1921. Of +the shorter plays, mentioned in the bibliographies following +these notes, _It's the Poor that 'elps the Poor, The Dumb and +the Blind, and The Philosopher of Butterbiggens_ have been +given the highest praise by such critics as Mr. William Archer, +who wrote, "No English-speaking man of more unquestionable genius +has been lost to the world in this world-frenzy." These true and +honest dramas represent the English Repertory theatres at their +best in this brief form, and give promise of the great and +permanently interesting "human comedy" which Chapin might have +completed had his life not been sacrificed. In spite of the +simplicity and lightness of the little play here given, there is +more shrewd philosophy in old David Pirnie, and more real +humanity in his family, than is to be found portrayed in many +pretentious social dramas and difficult psychological novels. It +is admirable on the stage, as was shown by the Provincetown +Players last winter. In the memorial performance for Harold +Chapin in London, the author's little son appeared in the part of +wee Alexander. + +"Butterbiggens," Mrs. Alice Chapin, the dramatist's mother, +replied to an inquiry as to "what Butterbiggens is or are," "is, +are, and always will be a suburb of Glasgow." + +There is little difficulty with the modified Scots dialect in +this play if one remembers that _ae_ generally takes the place of +such sounds as _e_ in _tea_, _o_ in _so_, _a_ in _have_, and so +on, and that _a'_ means _all_. A _wean_ is a small _bairn_, +_yinst_ is _once_, _ava_ is _at all_, and _thrang_ is "thick" or +intimate. + +_Distempered_ means calcimined, or painted in water-dissolved +color on the plaster. + + +_Lady Gregory_: SPREADING THE NEWS + +In her notes on the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, which she was most +influential in building up, Lady Augusta Gregory says that it was +the desire of the players and writers who worked there to +establish an Irish drama which should have a "firm base in +reality and an apex of beauty." This phrase, which admirably +expresses the best in the play-making going on to-day, finds most +adequate illustration in the work of Synge, of Yeats, and of Lady +Gregory herself. The basis in reality of such jolly and robust +comedies as her _Seven Irish Plays_ and _New Irish Comedies_ is +clearly discernible. They are in the tradition of the best early +English comedy, from the miracle plays onward; of Hans Sachs's +_Shrovetide Plays_, and of Molière's dramatizations of medieaval +_fabliaux_, as in _The Physician in Spite of Himself_. Lady +Gregory describes in her notes on _Spreading the News_ how the +play grew out of an idea of picturing tragic consequences from +idle rumor and defamation of character. It is certainly not to be +regretted that she allowed "laughter to have its way with the +little play," and gave Bartley Fallon a share of glory from the +woeful day to illuminate dull, older years. + +The inhabitants of this same village of Cloon appear as old +friends in other of Lady Gregory's plays, with, as usual, nothing +to do but mind one another's business. In _The Jackdaw_ another +absurd rumor is fanned into full blaze by greed; upon _Hyacinth +Halvey_ works the potent and embarrassing influence of too good a +reputation. Still other plays attain a notable height of +beauty--notably _The Rising of the Moon_ and _The Traveling Man_. +_The Gaol Gate_ tells a story similar to that of _Campbell of +Kilmhor_, with genuinely tragic effect. She has written, besides, +two volumes of Irish folk-history, _Gods and Fighting Men_ and +_Cuchulain of Muirthemne_, which Mr. Yeats calls masterpieces of +prose which one "can weigh with Malory and feel no discontent at +the tally."[1] A writer who has produced such range and beauty of +works, from very human, characteristic comedy and farce to fine, +poignant tragedy, besides writing excellent stories and +contributing largely to an important experimental theatre, is +secure of her share of fame. + +The "Removable Magistrate" is apparently one appointed by British +officialdom; this one, having just come from the Bay of Bengal, +is going to fit upon the natives of Cloon methods which may have +worked in a rather different district. + +The song "with a skin on it," which Bartley sings, is given in +Lady Gregory's _Seven Short Plays_ (Putnam, 1909). + +[Footnote 1: Appendix to _The Poetical Works of William B. +Yeats_, volume II, (Macmillan, 1912).] + + +_Winthrop Parkhurst_: THE BEGGAR AND THE KING + +_The Beggar and the King_ looks at first like a pleasant +absurdity; it is in reality valuable as a short history of the +ostrich method of dealing with realities. The beggar, of course, +continues to cry aloud after his tongue, and even his head, have +been removed, because there are so many millions of him. Again +and again, in the course of history, he has gathered desperate +courage to defy authority that is blind and evil. Always at last, +as in the French and the Russian revolutions and in the more +recent European revolts, he succeeds in wresting the power from +those in autocratic authority. And yet, just as of old, not only +kings, but all others who attempt dictatorship and the playing of +providence, try the simple tactics of the ostrich; they close the +window, or their eyes and ears, as a sufficient answer to +rebellion. Appreciating the futility of these methods, we have no +difficulty in continuing the drama ourselves beyond the fall of +the curtain. + +Mr. Winthrop Parkhurst, by birth a New Yorker, according to a +family tradition is a descendant on his mother's side of John +Huss, the Bohemian reformer and martyr, and on his father's of +the executioner of Charles I of England. His writings include +_Maracca_, a Biblical one-act play, and several short satirical +sketches. + + +_George Middleton_: TIDES + +Mr. George Middleton generally pictures in his dramas problems +which are not easy to solve. And he does not try to give +ready-made solutions. He merely shows us how various people have +tried to work these problems; and his dramas are like real life +because the attempts at solutions fail as often as they succeed. +Certain of the problems Mr. Middleton presents are such as +high-school students meet and can well consider; several of these +plays appear in the lists following. _Tides_ is about a man who +has supported an unpopular theory. Nothing is said about whether +his ideal is right or wrong, but it is clear that he has held to +it in perfect sincerity of belief and has been quite unmoved by +the bitterest persecution. But when he is offered honor and +flattering respect, though he does not really change his belief +and adherence, he compromises and partially surrenders his ideal. +The fable is similar to that of Ibsen's _The League of Youth_, +but the telling here is straighter and clearer. William White's +self-deception is made evident to him and to us by his honest and +courageous wife, who tells him frankly of it. "Haven't you +sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to another means: a +failure within oneself?" she comments wisely. An effective +contrast is furnished by the son, who has altogether and honestly +abandoned his father's theories in the face of new realities as +he sees them. + + +_Eugene O'Neill_: ILE + +Eugene O'Neill, American seaman, laborer, newspaperman, and +dramatist, has been associated for several years with the +Provincetown Players. This group, including Mrs. Glaspell and +other playwrights of importance, gather in Provincetown, on Cape +Cod, during the summer, and in winter present significant foreign +and native plays in a converted stable on Macdougall Street in +New York, where may be seen the ring to which Pegasus was once +tethered! In 1919 Mr. O'Neill received the Pulitzer Prize for the +most important American play of the year. + +Mr. O'Neill has had experience of the sea, like the great +Englishmen, Mr. Masefield and Mr. Joseph Conrad. He knows the +interminable whaling voyages, as described in Melville's _Moby_ +_Dick_ and the first chapter of _Typee_--best of all in Bullen's +_Cruise of the Cachalot_. Out of this experience of hard life and +harder men he has written many poignant and terrible dramas--perhaps +the greatest this story of the skipper's wife who insisted on +making the voyage with her husband and is worn to the edge of +insanity by months of ice-bound solitude. The motive of Captain +Keeney is like that which caused Skipper Ireson to leave his +fellow townsmen to sink in Chaleur Bay. Against his iron +determination his wife's piteous pleading and evident suffering +are more potent than the mutinying hands; whether she can avail +to turn him home "with a measly four hundred barrel of ile" is +the problem of the play. + + +_J.A. Ferguson_: CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR + +This tragic story of the war and hatred in Scotland belongs in +the series of attempts made by Charles Edward Stuart and his +father to regain the throne lost by James II in 1688. "The Young +Pretender's" vigorous campaign in 1745, carried far into England, +might easily have succeeded but for the quarrels and disaffection +of the Highland chiefs who supported him. His failure was +completed at the bloody battle of Culloden, or Drumossie Moor, in +1746, celebrated in Scottish story and song of lamentation. +Scott's hero Waverley went into the highland country shortly +after these uprisings, and David Balfour, in _Kidnapped_, had +numerous adventures in crossing it with Allan Breck Stewart, who +was in the service of his kinsmen, the exiled Stuarts. The hatred +of Campbells and Stuarts, of Lowlander and Highlander, Loyalist +and Jacobite, is intense throughout the record of those days. + +The young Scot and his stanch and proudly tearless mother are, of +course, the heroic characters in the play. We have a hint that +Charles Edward Stuart himself is with the band whom the young man +protects so loyally. It may seem strange that the drama is named, +not for him, but for the crafty and pitiless executioner of the +king's justice. But he is after all the most interesting +character in the piece, with his Biblical references in broad +Lowland Scots (we may suppose that the Stewarts speak Gaelic +among themselves), his superstition, his remorseless cruelty. We +should like to see how he takes the discovery that, perhaps for +the first time, he has been baffled in his career of unscrupulous +and bloody deeds! + +This play represents the most successful work of the Glasgow +Repertory Theatre in 1914. The author has written no others which +have been published, though he is credited with a good story or +two. It may be hoped that he will write other dramas as excellent +as this one. He has put into very brief and effective form here +the spirit and idea of a most intense period of merciless +conflict. + +A _kebbuck_ is a cheese; _keek_ means peek; _toom_, empty; a +_besom_, a broom; and _soop_, sweep. + + +_John Galsworthy_: THE SUN + +According to Professor Lewisohn and other critics Mr. Galsworthy +is without question the foremost English dramatist to-day. +Without arguing or attempting to offer solutions, he gives the +most searching presentation of problems which we have to face and +somehow settle. In _Strife_, after a furious contest and bitter +hardships, the strike is settled by a compromise which the +leaders of both sides count as failure. Things are much as they +were at the start; the difficulty is no nearer solution. In +_Justice_, "society stamps out a human life not without its fair +possibilities--for eighty-one pounds," because obviously clear +and guilty infraction of law cannot go unavenged. Justice is not +condemned by the facts shown in this play, nor is its working +extolled. In _The Mob_, the patrioteering element destroys a man +who proclaims the injustice of a small and greedy war of +conquest. In _The Pigeon_, brilliant debate is held, but no +conclusion reached, as to what we should do with derelict and +wasted lives, with men who do not fit into the scheme of success +and society. + +In his sketches and stories Mr. Galsworthy presents these same +problems, and again without attempted conclusions. _The +Freelands_ particularly is a most dramatic novel of conditions +and results similar to those in some of the dramas mentioned +above. Many of his sketches and essays also--for example, "My +Distant Relative" in _The Inn of Tranquillity_ and "Comfort" in +_A Commentary_--are of biting and almost cynical irony in viewing +proposed and present solutions of problems; but none suggest +panaceas. They merely make us think soberly of the size of our +problems and their immense complexity, move us to go out to look +for more information and to examine carefully our most solid +institutions as well as suggested alterations in them. + +A large part of Mr. Galsworthy's time and thought, both during +the war and since, has been given to the problem of some measure +of justice to soldiers, and particularly to wounded and broken +soldiers. In _A Sheaf_ and _Another Sheaf_ appear various papers +presenting sharply the conditions of suffering and neglect that +actually exist. _The Sun_ is a brief sketch of after-war +days,--this time of a wounded man who has gained an advantage +over one who escaped injury,--and of joy in deliverance from the +hell of war--a joy so profound and luminous that the released +soldier cannot let a sharp mischance and disappointment mar his +happiness. The whole piece is in the key of Captain Bassoon's +verses after the Armistice:-- + + "Every one suddenly burst out singing." + +The other two think the happy soldier mad. We are left wondering +what the reaction will be from this height of joyful release to +the harsh and sombre conditions of workingmen's life after the +peace. + +The _silver badge_ represents a discharge for wounds. _Crumps_ +are, of course, shells. + + +_Louise Sounders_: THE KNAVE OF HEARTS + +_The Knave of Hearts_ is one of the happy tradition of +puppet-plays, which come down in unbroken line from the most +ancient history, through the illustrious Dr. Faustus and Mr. +Punch, to new and even greater favor and fame to-day. For just as +the ancient puppet-shows of Italy and England seemed to be losing +ground before the moving-picture invasion, they have been +heroically rescued by Mr. Tony Sarg,--whose performance of +Thackeray's _The Rose and the Ring_ is perfectly absurd and +captivating,--and by other excellent artists. + +Puppet-shows are delightful because they are easily made and +quite convincing. Very good ones have been improvised even by +tiny children, with a pasteboard suit-box opening to the front, a +slit at the top to let down paper-doll actors on a thread, a bit +of scenery, outdoors or in, drawn as background, and a showman to +talk for all the characters. Still better puppets are doll heads +and arms of various sorts, dressed in flowing robes and provided +with holes for two fingers and a thumb of the operator, who moves +them from below. They can be made to dance and antic as you like +on a stage above the showman's head, as Punch and Judy have +always done. The more elaborate marionettes are worked with +strings from above, so that they can open and close their mouths +and otherwise act most realistically; these are, of course, more +difficult, but quite possible to make. In such simple theatres, +Goethe and Robert Louis Stevenson and many other famous people +played themselves endless stories. If you want to pursue this +idea further, a list of references below gives you opportunity +for all the information you like about marionettes and puppets. + +_The Knave of Hearts_ is charming, either as a puppet-play or, as +a class in junior high school gave it recently, a "legitimate +drama." The remarks of the manager are all the funnier when +applied to real characters. The play explains clearly the reasons +for the strange behavior of a respectable nursery character. It +is to be published soon in a book of its own with illustrations +by Mr. Maxfield Parrish (Scribner's). The author has written +other plays and stories, some of which you may have seen in _St. +Nicholas_, and also a pleasant operetta, with music by Alice +Terhune--_The Woodland_ _Princess_, listed in the bibliography +following. She is also an actress with the New York Comedy Club, +an excellent amateur organization. + +Pompdebile's coat of arms, with a heart rampant (i.e., standing +on its hind legs, however that may be accomplished), reminds one +of the arms suggested for the old clergyman-scholar, Mr. +Casaubon, in George Eliot's _Middlemarch_--"three cuttlefish +sable and a commentator rampant." + + +_Lord Dunsany_: FAME AND THE POET + +Lord Dunsany (Edward Moreton Max Plunkett), the eighteenth baron +of his name, is the author of a number of stories and plays unique +in their type of clever imaginativeness. Besides the inimitable +Five Plays and other dramas listed in the bibliography, his best +writings are to be found in _Fifty-One Tales_, which includes "The +Hen," "Death and Odysseus," "The True Story of the Hare and the +Tortoise," and other highly entertaining matters. _Fame and the +Poet_, originally published in the _Atlantic_, has been recently +produced with good effect by the Harvard Dramatic Club. Fame's +startling revelation to her faithful worshiper of her real nature +and attributes is naturally most distressing--even more so, +perhaps, than the rendezvous which this same goddess appointed +another poet, in the _Fifty-One Tales_: "In the cemetery back of +the workhouse, after a hundred years." + +Lord Dunsany was a captain in the First Royal Iniskilling +Fusileers--a regiment mentioned in Sheridan's _Saint Patrick's +Day_--and saw service in Syria and the Near East as well as on +the western front. He was wounded on April 25, 1916, in Flanders. +Since the war he has visited the United States and seen a +performance of his _Tents of the Arabs_ at the Neighborhood +Playhouse, New York City. + + +_Beulah Marie Dix_: THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE + +Miss Dix is author of several plays--in addition to those from +_Allison's Lad_ included in the play-list, of _Across the +Border_, and, with the late Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland, of the +frequently acted _Rose of Plymouth Town_. She has also written +several favorite historical stories, including _Merrylips. The +Captain of the Gate_ is a tragedy of Cromwell's ruthless +devastation of Ireland. The determined and heroic captain +surrenders, to face an ignominious death, to keep his word and +ensure delaying the advance of the enemy upon an unprepared +countryside, and his courage inspires exhausted and failing men +to like heroism. This is an effective piece of dramatic +presentation. + + +_Percy Mackaye_: GETTYSBURG + +Mr. Percy Mackaye has been most active in the movement for a +community theatre in the United States and for the revival of +pageantry. He contends rightly that this development might be one +of the strongest possible influences for true Americanism, and +his dramatic work has all been directed toward such a theatre. +Most notable are his pageants and masques, particularly _Caliban +by the Yellow Sands_, for the Shakespeare Tercentenary; his play +_The Scarecrow_, a lively dramatization of Hawthorne's +_Feathertop_; his opera _Rip van Winkle_, for which Reginald De +Koven composed music; and _The Canterbury Pilgrims_, in which the +Wife of Bath is the heroine of further robustious adventures. Mr. +Mackaye is also translator, with Professor Tablock, of the +_Modern Reader's Chaucer_. The little sketch presented here is +taken from a volume of _Yankee Fantasies_, in which various +observations of past and present New England life are recorded. +Stephen Crane's _The Red Badge of Courage_, a powerful story of +the Civil War, is a most excellent help to realizing what the boy +Lige really endured in those days of battle. + +Mr. Mackaye has adopted here a regularly rhythmic verse without +the conventional capital letters at the beginnings of lines +--perhaps to typify the simple homeliness of the talk. + + +_Harold Brighouse_: LONESOME-LIKE + +Mr. Brighouse has been best represented in this country by an +excellent comedy, _Hobson's Choice_, which was widely played and +was printed in the Drama League series of plays (1906). His other +best-known work here is the present play, and _The Price of Coal_ +(1909), a picturing of the hard life of miners' wives and their +Spartan firmness in expectation of fatal accidents. He has +produced and published a number of other plays, among them those +listed in the bibliography. Mr. Brighouse represents in this +volume the work of the English Repertory theatres, which parallel +the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, the Glasgow Repertory Theatre, and +various European stage-societies. That at Manchester, with which +he has been associated, is directed by Miss Isabel Horniman, has +seen beautiful stage-settings designed by Mr. Robert Burne-Jones, +and counts among its dramatists such well-known men as Messrs. +Allan Monkhouse, author of _Mary Broome_, a sombre and powerful +tragedy; Stanley Houghton, and Gilbert Cannan. The Liverpool +Theatre has become even more famous through the dramatic work of +Mr. John Drinkwater. The Little Theatre movement in this country, +our Drama League, and the various dramatic societies in our +colleges and cities are our nearest parallel to these repertory +theatres. + +_Lonesome-Like_, Mr. Brighouse's most effective short play, is +written in a modified Lancashire dialect, the speech of the +village weavers and spinners. Many of the words are English of +Elizabethan days and earlier, derived mostly from Anglo-Saxon. + +_Gradely_ (graithly) means willingly, meekly or decently; _clem_ +means starve; _sithee_ is see you or look you; _clogs_ are shoes +with wooden soles and leather uppers, and _dungarees_, garments +of coarse cotton cloth rather like overalls. _A_ is used +throughout for _I_. + +As in many English stories, an extreme and painful dread of the +_workus_, or poorhouse, provides a strong motive force. + + +_John Millington Synge_: RIDERS TO THE SEA + +The work of the Irish Renaissance in the Abbey Theatre in Dublin +reached its most powerful and tragic height in this tragedy, +which Mr. Yeats compared to the Antigone and (Edipus of +Sophocles). Synge at first wandered about Europe, poetizing; it +was Yeats who brought him back to study and embody in genuine +literature the poetry of life among his own people. On the bleak +Arran Islands he lived in a fisherman's cottage, and through the +floor of his room heard the dialect which he presents in simple +and poignant beauty in this drama of hopeless struggle. The +"second sight"--called "the gift" in _Campbell of Kilmhor_, and +an incident also in _The Riding to Lithend_--was a sort of +prophetic vision altogether credited among Celtic peoples, as +among those of Scott's _Lady of the Lake_. When the mother sees +the "riders to the sea,"--her drowned son and her living son +riding together,--she feels convinced that he must soon die. The +sharp cries of her grief and, above all, the peace of her +resignation at the end, after all hope is gone, make this, as a +writer in the _Manchester Guardian_ is quoted as calling it, "the +tragic masterpiece of our language in our time; wherever it has +been in Europe, from Galway to Prague, it has made the word +tragedy mean something more profoundly stirring and cleansing to +the spirit than it did." + +The speech of the people is not difficult to understand when you +master a few of its peculiarities. One is the omission of words +we generally include, as in, "Isn't it a hard and cruel man (who) +won't hear...." Another is the common form "It was crying I was." +A few phrases, like _what way_ for how, _the way_ for so that, +_in it_ for here or near, and _itself_ for even, or with no +particular meaning, as "Where is he itself?" The meanings of +other words will be easily untangled. + + +_William Butler Yeats_: THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE + +Mr. Yeats's best poetic dramas, and particularly this one, +represent beyond question that "apex of beauty" to which Lady +Gregory spoke of the Abbey Theatre dramatists as aspiring. This +play is not founded on any particular Irish folk-tale. It is +filled with the half-dread, half-envy with which the tellers of +Irish legends seem to regard the fate of mortals bewitched by the +Leprechaun or Good People. It is rich, too, with the music of +beautiful words, without which, Mr. Yeats contends no play can be +"of a great kind." He says too, "There is no poem so great that a +fine speaker cannot make it greater, or that a bad ear cannot +make it nothing." + +Mr. Yeats has written broad comedy like Synge's _Shadow of the +Glen_ and Lady Gregory's _Irish Comedies_; his _Pot of Broth_ is +a most clever retelling of an old, comical tale. But it is by his +mystical and poetical plays that he would be judged as playwright +and poet--particularly _Deirdre_, which should be compared with +Synge's _Deirdre of the Sorrows_; _The Unicorn of the Stars_, +written in collaboration with Lady Gregory; _Cathleen Ni +Hoolihan_, a dramatization of the spirit of Ireland; _The King's +Threshold_, a high glorification of the poet's art, with a fable, +based on an ancient Celtic rite, of the hunger strike; and _The +Land of Heart's Desire_, most beautifully perfect of all. + + +_Gordon Bottomley_: THE RIDING TO LITHEND + +"_The Riding to Lithend_ is an Icelandic play taken out of the +noblest of the Sagas," wrote Mr. Lascelles Abercrombie in his +review of the published drama in 1909. "[It] is a fight, one of +the greatest fights in legend.... The subject is stirring, and +Mr. Bottomley takes it into a very high region of poetry, giving +it a purport beyond that of the original teller of the tale.... +[The play] is not a representation of life; it is a symbol of +life. In it life is entirely fermented into rhythm, by which we +mean not only rhythm of words, but rhythm of outline also; the +beauty and impressiveness of the play do not depend only on the +subject, the diction, and the metre, but on the fact that it has +distinct and most evident form, in the musician's sense of the +word. It is one of those plays that reach the artist's ideal +condition of music, in fact." + +This is high praise; but who, after studying the play, will doubt +that it is deserved? The powerfully moving events of the story +indeed lead up to the climax in a forthright and exciting manner. +The terror of the house-women and the thrall, the fearful love of +Gunnar's mother Rannveig, and the caution of Kolskegg his +brother, who "sailed long ago and far away from us" in obedience +to the doom or sentence of the Thing--all these bring out sharply +the quite reckless daring of Gunnar himself, who braves the +decree. A mysterious and epic touch is added by the three ancient +hags-evidently of these minor Norns who watch over individual +destinies and announce the irrevocable doom of the gods. It was +Hallgerd who broke their thread, representing, of course, +Gunnar's span of life. + +The centre of interest, as well as the spring of the action, is +clearly Hallgerd, descendant of Sigurd Fafnirsbane and of +Brynhild-- + + ... a hazardous desirable thing, + A warm unsounded peril, a flashing mischief, + A divine malice, a disquieting voice. + +She, and not any superstitious belief in "second-sight" and death +decreed, is the cause of Gunnar's remaining outlawed. She +wrangles about the headdress, not because she particularly wants +it, but to send her husband on a perilous mission to secure it. +She says openly that she has "set men at him to show forth his +might ... planned thefts and breakings of his word" to stir him +to battle. Mr. Abercrombie believes that "She loves her husband +Gunnar, but she refuses to give him any help in his last fight, +in order that she may see him fight better and fiercer." We +should, then, have to suppose that her amazing speech at his +death-- + + O clear sweet laughter of my heart, flow out! + It is so mighty and beautiful and blithe + To watch a man dying--to hover and watch-- + +is not for the blow Gunnar had given her when she "planned thefts +and breakings of his word," but is rather, as the lines +powerfully indicate, the exultation of a descendant of the +Valkyrie watching above the battlefields. + +Really poetical plays--plays which are both poetic and strongly +dramatic--are indeed exceedingly rare. Mr. Bottomley is one of +the few who have produced such drama in English. For many years +he printed his work privately, in beautiful editions for his +friends; but of late several of the plays have been made +available--_King Lear's Wife in Georgian Poetry_, 1913-15, and in +a volume of the same title, including _Midsummer Eve_ and _The +Riding to Lithend_, published in London last year. + +Those who want more stories of this sort will find them in +_Thorgils_ and other Icelandic stories modernized by Mr. Hewlett; +in the _Burnt Njal_, translated by Sir George Dasent, from which +this story itself springs; and in the translations by Eirikr +Magnusson and William Morris, the _Saga Library_--particularly +the stories of the Volsungs and Nibelungs, and of Grettir the +Strong. + + +_louvre_--a smoke-hole in the roof + +_thrall_--a captive or serf + +_bill_--a battle-ax + +_second sight_--prophetic vision, as in _Riders to the Sea_ and +_Campbell of Kilmhor_ + +_fetch_--one's double; seeing it is supposed to be a sign that +one is _fey_ or fated to die + +_wimpled_--"clouted up," as Hallgerd expresses it, in a headdress +rather like a nun's. A widow, apparently, might wear her hair +uncovered + +_byre_--cow-barn + +_midden_--manure + +_quean_--in Middle-English, a jade; in Scotch, a healthy lass; +the history of this word and of _queen_, which come from the same +root, is strange and interesting + +_ambry_--press + +_Romeborg_--Rome; _Mickligarth_--Constantinople (Viking names) + +_Athcliath_--evidently an Irish port + +_mumpers_--beggars + +_Markfleet_--a _fleet_ in an inlet of the sea + +_mote or gemote_--a formal assembly for making laws + +_thing_--assembly for judgment, or parliament; this is an early +Icelandic meaning of the word _thing_ + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS FOR READING IN HIGH SCHOOLS + + ++Thomas Bailey Aldrich+ + +MERCEDES: A tragic story of the inextinguishable hatreds and +reprisals of the French invasion of Spain in 1810, and of a +woman's terrible heroism. + +In _Collected Works_, Houghton Mifflin. + +PAULINE PAVLOVNA: Cleverly executed, slight plot in dialogue, +wherein the character of the hero is sharply revealed; +reminiscent of Browning's _In a Balcony_, though with a quite +different scheme. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Mary Austin+ + +THE ARROW-MAKER: The tragedy of a noble medicine-woman of a tribe +of California Indians, and of a weak and selfish chief. + +Duffield. + + ++Granville Barker+ + +Rococo: In which we discover a clergyman and his relatives in +physical altercation over a rococo vase, and follow their dispute +to a determinative conclusion. + +Sidgwick and Jackson, London. + +VOTE BY BALLOT: A drama of English elections and the forces +involved. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + +THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE: The inheritance is a dishonored name and +a dishonest business. + +In _Three Plays_, Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++Granville Barker and Dion Calthorpe+ + +HARLEQUINADE: Its development from the days of Persephone, Momus, +and Charon is displayed and explained by Alice and her uncle. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++James Barrie+ + +THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON: In the struggle for existence on a desert +island, the family butler provides the brains and safety for an +English family; the party is then rescued, and returns to the +impeccable conventions of London. + +Scribner's, New York; Hodder and Stoughton, London. + +ALICE SIT-BY-THE FIRE: A mother with keen insight and a +delightful sense of humor has to deal with a serious attack of +romantic imagination in her very young daughter, who feels +responsible for the conduct of the family. + +Scribner's; Hodder and Stoughton. + +THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS: Mrs. Dowie, a charwoman who has +resorted to desperate remedies in order to have some part in the +war, goes through an agonizing crisis of exposure, into real joy +and sharp sorrow. The rich humor of the characters makes this +quite unique among plays of its type. + +In _Echoes of the War_, Scribner's. + +THE WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE. + +_Ibid._ + +PETER PAN: A charming fairy drama of the baby from the +Never-Never Land and of his make-believe play with his friends in +the nursery. + +Scribner's. + +THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK: On the eve of achieving knighthood the +hero suffers a startling disclosure which leads him to look +suspiciously for the "twelve-pound look" in his lady's eyes. + +In _Half-Hours_, Scribner's. + +WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS: As we behold the creation of John Shand's +career by Maggie his wife, who lacks charm, and particularly as +we observe her campaign against a woman fully possessed of charm, +we want to learn "what every woman knows." The secret is +enlightening. + +Scribner's. + + ++Lewis Beach+ + +BROTHERS, A SARDONIC COMEDY: Two "poor whites" quarrel violently +over a worthless inheritance, and then combine in arson to +prevent their mother from getting it: a disquieting and searching +study of depths of shiftlessness and passionate meanness. + +In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, edited by Frank Shay and +Pierre S. Loving. Frank Shay. + +THE CLOD: A powerful drama of the flare-up of a stolid and +apparently unfeeling nature in the flame of the pity and horror +of war. + +In _Washington Square Plays_, Doubleday. + + ++Jacinto Benavente+ + +HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND: An absurd comedy of the small gossip and +rigid conventions in a Spanish provincial capital. (Translated by +John Garrett Underhill.) + +In Plays, _First Series_, Scribner's. + + ++Arnold Bennett+ + +A GOOD WOMAN: A farcical triangular plot with particularly good +comic characters. + +In _Polite Farces_, Doran. + +THE STEPMOTHER: Satirical presentment of a lady novelist, her +efficient secretary, and her stepson, not to mention the doctor +downstairs; amusing studies in character. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GREAT ADVENTURE: Good dramatization of the astounding +adventures of Priam Farll (from _Buried Alive_), who attends his +own funeral in Westminster Abbey, marries a young and suitable +widow with whom his late valet has corresponded through a +matrimonial bureau, and meets other amazing situations. + +Doran. + +THE TITLE: A delightful comedy in which several people who have +denounced the disgraceful awarding of English titles have a bad +time of it with Mrs. Culver, who does not propose to let slip the +opportunity of being called "My Lady." You can probably guess +which side wins in the end. + +Doran. + + ++Gordon Bottomley+ + +KING LEAR'S WIFE: An episode in King Lear's earlier years, which +throws much imaginative light on Goneril's and Cordelia's later +treatment of their father. Lear's wife herself, as we might have +guessed, is a pathetic figure. + +Constable, London; also in _Georgian Poetry_, 1913-15. + +MIDSUMMER EVE: Several farm maidservants meet to see their future +lovers' spirits on Midsummer Eve, but see only the "fetch" or +double of one of them, foretelling her death. + +In _King Lear's Wife and Other Plays_, Constable. + + ++Anna Hempstead Branch+ + +ROSE OF THE WIND: A fairy play of the dancing and allurement of +bewitched slippers, and of other wonders. + +Houghton Mifflin. + + ++Harold Brighouse+ + +THE DOORWAY: A sharp and cruel picture of unsheltered people on a +freezing night in London. + +Joseph Williams, London. + +THE GAME: A cocksure and triumphant girl meets more than her +match in an old peasant woman, the mother of the man she wants to +marry. + +In Three Lancashire Plays, Samuel French. + +HOBSON'S CHOICE: In which the eldest daughter at Hobson's plays a +winning game against her tyrannous father and superior-feeling +sisters, using a quite excellent but disregarded piece. + +Constable, London; Doubleday, New York. + +MAID OF FRANCE: An effective play in which Joan of Arc lays aside +her old hate for the English soldiers, whom she discovers on +French soil again. + +Gowans and Gray, Glasgow. + +THE OAK SETTLE + +Gowans and Gray. + +THE PRICE OF COAL: Picturing the stoical and terrible resignation +to peril of death of old women in the coal regions--and +presenting an unexpected ending. + +Gowans and Gray. + + ++Harold Brock+ + +THE BANK ACCOUNT: A small but poignant tragedy of the +savings-account which a clerk has counted upon to free him after +many years of drudgery, and which he has entrusted to his stupid +and vulgar and cheaply frivolous wife. + +In Harvard Dramatic Club Plays, First Series, Brentano's. + ++Alice Brown+ + +JOINT OWNERS IN SPAIN: The two most refractory inmates of an Old +Ladies' Home have to face and solve the problem of living in the +same room. + +Walter H. Baker. + + ++Witter Bynner+ + +THE LITTLE KING: A delineation of the cruel suffering and the +dauntless courage of the small Louis XVII; he refuses to be cowed +by the bullying of his keeper or to let a poor boy assume his +fate. + +Kennerley. + + ++George Calderon+ idealized him meanwhile that her realization of +the altered situation brings an astounding reaction. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++Margaret Cameron+ + +THE TEETH OF THE GIFT HORSE: A pleasant farce built about two +huge and hideous hand-painted vases and a charming little old +lady who perpetrated them. + +French. + + ++Gilbert Cannan+ + +EVERYBODY'S HUSBAND: Three generations of ladies discuss the +individual characteristics of their husbands, but find them, +after all, indistinguishable men. + +Seeker, London. + +JAMES AND JOHN: They are faced with their invalid mother's +request that they crown many years of tedious sacrifice and +atonement for their father's weak crime by taking him into their +lives again. + +In _Four Plays_, Sidgwick and Jackson. + +MARY'S WEDDING: Bill's mother tries in vain to dissuade Mary from +the certain and inescapable misery of marrying her drunkard son. +Bill himself settles the problem. + +_Ibid._ + +A SHORT WAY WITH AUTHORS: An entertaining farce showing how a +great actor-manager goes about encouraging serious dramatic +composition. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Harold Chapin+ + +AUGUSTUS IN SEARCH OF A FATHER: He returns from abroad and +discusses with a night-watchman the problem of his search for his +father. + +THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE: A mother has denied herself everything to +build a small mausoleum to her dead son, and so Gowans and Gray. + +THE AUTOCRAT OF THE COFFEE STALLS: A strange character with an +astonishing history is shown us in the night-light from a +refreshment wagon in London streets. + +Gowans and Gray. + +THE DUMB AND THE BLIND: A study of a bargeman's family in London +tenements. Mr. William Archer calls this "a veritable masterpiece +in its way--a thing Dickens would have delighted in.... We feel +that the dumb has spoken and the blind has seen." + +Gowans and Gray; forthcoming, French, New York. + +IT'S THE POOR THAT 'ELPS THE POOR: Of the simple kindliness of +London costermongers and their neighborly help and sympathy. + +French. + +MUDDLE ANNIE: Of course, it is "Muddle Annie" who helps their +friend the policeman save the more suave and self-satisfied +members of her family from a precious rogue. + +Gowans and Gray. + +THE THRESHOLD: Tells of a Welsh girl about to elope with a +specious rascal, and of the intervention of her old father, who +is killed in a mine accident. + +Gowans and Gray; forthcoming, French. + +COMEDIES. + +Chatto and Windus, London. + + ++Colin Clements and John M. Saunders, translators+ + +LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN: A comical medieaval French farce. +Jacquinot endures a miserable compound tyranny of petticoats +until matters are brought to a head by cumulative injustice and +the intervention of accident. + +In _Poet Lore_ (1917), 28:722. + + ++Padraic Colum+ + +MOGU THE WANDERER: Pageantesque and dramatic story of the rise of +a beggar to be the king's vizier, and of as sudden and entire +reversal of fortunes. + +Little, Brown. + +THOMAS MUSKERRY: The tragic story of a poorhouse-keeper who +repeats Lear's error of letting go his cherished power, and who +suffers as keenly a more humble tragedy. + +Maunsell, Dublin. + + ++Rachel Crothers+ + +HE AND SHE: A woman's designs win over those of her husband, who +has the greater reputation, a large competitive award for a piece +of sculpture; but she declines the commission in face of nearer +and higher responsibilities. + +In Quinn's _Representative American Plays_, Century. + + ++Windsor P. Daggett and Winifred Smith+ + +LELIO AND ISABELLA: A COMMEDIA DELL'ARTE: The story of Romeo and +Juliet, as the foremost players of the Italian Comedy of Masks +may have given it in seventeenth-century Paris--with an ending of +their choice. An interesting study in the type. + +In manuscript: N.L. Swartout, Summit, N.J. + + ++H.H. Davies+ + +THE MOLLUSC: Clever study of a woman who is a mollusc--not merely +lazy, since she is capable of huge exertions to avoid being +disturbed; she finds plenty of opposition to show forth her +powers upon. + +Baker. + + ++Thomas H. Dickinson+ + +IN HOSPITAL: A poignant small dialogue of a husband and wife who +meet courageously the threatened shipwreck of their happiness. + +In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, B.W. Huebsch. + + ++Beulah M. Dix+ + +ALLISON'S LAD: A Cavalier lad, about to be shot as a spy, is +seized by terror, but dies bravely, "as if strong arms were +around him." + +In _Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes_, Holt. + +THE DARK OF THE DAWN: Colonel Basil Tollocho spares a boy he has +sworn to destroy in revenge of a great wrong, and is made glad of +his clemency. + +_Ibid._ + +THE HUNDREDTH TRICK: Con of the Hundred Tricks takes fearfully +stern measures against possible betrayal of his cause. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Beulah Marie Dix and Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland+ + +ROSE O'PLYMOUTH TOWN: A pleasant play of Puritans and their +neighbors. + +Dramatic Publishing Company. + + ++Oliphant Down+ + +THE MAKER OF DREAMS: Poetical small play in which love appears +with a new make-up but in the old role. + +Gowans and Gray. + + ++Ernest Dowson+ + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE: A quite charming tale of Pierrot and +the Moon-Maiden. + +In his _Collected Poems_, Lane. + + ++John Drinkwater+ + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN: A dramatic presentation of episodes in Lincoln's +life, from his nomination to the presidency to his death. + +Sidgwick and Jackson; Houghton Mifflin. + +COPHETUA: In which King Cophetua justifies to his court and +councillors his marriage to the beggar maid. + +Sidgwick and Jackson; Houghton Mifflin. + +THE STORM: An intense but quiet tragedy of a woman who waits +while men search for her husband, lost in a great storm in the +hills. + +In _Four Poetic Plays_, Houghtou Mifflin; _Pawns_, Sidgwick and +Jackson. + +THE GOD or QUIETNESS: The zest of war draws away all the notable +worshipers of the god of quietness, and an angry war-lord slays +the god himself. + +_Ibid._ + +X-O: A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR: Trojans and Greeks, lovers of +poetry, fellowship, and justice, carry on ruthless slaughter, and +by irreparable losses strike a balance of exact advantage to +either side. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Lord Dunsany+ + +THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN: Of seven beggars who wear pieces of +green silk beneath their rags, and by brilliant devices of Agmar, +their leader, contrive to be taken for the gods of the mountain +disguised as beggars--until the real gods leave their thrones at +Manna. + +In _Five Plays_, Richards, London; Little, Brown. + +KING ARGFMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WABBIOR: A slave, born a king, +finds an old bronze sword buried in the ground he is tilling, and +henceforward has less interest in the bones of the king's dog, +who is dying. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GOLDEN DOOM: A child's scrawl on the palace pavements +furnishes the text for the soothsayers' prophecy of disaster. + +_Ibid._ + +THE LOST SILK HAT: Of the embarrassment of a rejected suitor who, +in his agitation, has left his hat in the lady's drawing-room and +dislikes the idea of returning for it. + +_Ibid._ + +THE QUEEN'S ENEMIES: They are invited to a feast of +reconciliation in the great banquet room below the level of the +river. + +In _Plays of Gods and Men._ Unwin, London; J.W. Luce, Boston. + +A NIGHT AT AN INN: A commonplace ancient plot is filled anew with +dramatic terror and a sense of mystery. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Edith M.O. Ellis (Mrs. Havelock Ellis)+ + +THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA: Joe Pengilly, a Cornish villager, is +finally convinced that strong measures toward her subjection are +alone capable of keeping his wife's love, and buys a stout cane. +We learn how he fared in carrying these measures out. + +In _Love in Danger_, Houghton Mifflin. + + ++St. John Ervine+ + +FOUR IRISH PLAYS: + +MIXED MARRIAGE: A tragedy of the violent hatreds of Ulster. + +Maunsell. + +THE ORANGEMAN: A comic study of the petty madness of the same +hatreds. + +Maunsell. + +THE CRITICS: Dramatic critics furiously condemn a play at the +Abbey Theatre in Dublin. Gradually we discover the idea of the +play through their abuse, and at last we recognize it. + +Maunsell. + +JANE CLEGG: A strong and clear-sighted, honest woman has to deal +with a feeble and braggart husband whose foolish crime threatens +to wreck her own and her children's lives. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++Rachel Lyman Field+ + +THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE: Fantastic play of a little sick boy who +gives the medicine that was to have made him strong to feeding +the starved and abused souls of various passers-by. + +In _Plays of the 47 Workshop_, First Series, Brentano's. + + ++Anatole France+ + +THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE: A mad and comic farce, in the +tradition of _Pierre Patelin_ and _The Physician in Spite of +Himself_. Judge Botal calls in a learned physician and his aides +to make his dumb wife speak. The result is so astoundingly +successful that he pleads for relief. Finally a desperate remedy +is found. + +Translated by Curtis Hidden Page, Lane, 1915. + + ++J.O. Francis+ + +CHANGE: The tragic conflict of ideals of two generations which +have grown irreparably apart in social and economic views. + +Educational Publishing Company, Cardiff; Doubleday, New York. + + ++Zona Gale+ + +THE NEIGHBORS: Kindliness called forth among village people to +aid a poor seamstress who is to undertake the care of her orphan +nephew. + +In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, B.W. Huebsch. + +MISS LULU BETT: A starved life blossoms suddenly and +unexpectedly. This play, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for 1920, +is stronger and finer work than the author has done heretofore. + +Appleton (in novel form). + + ++John Galsworthy+ + +THE ELDEST SON: Sir William Cheshire comes to quite different +solutions of similar problems when different individual and class +factors enter into them. + +Scribner's. + +JUSTICE: Mr. Ludwig Lewisohn writes: "The economic structure of +society on any basis requires the keeping of certain compacts. It +cannot endure such a breaking of these compacts as Falder is +guilty of when he changes the figures on the cheque. Yet by the +simple march of events it is overwhelmingly proven that society +here stamps out a human life not without its fair possibilities-- +for eighty-one pounds." + +Scribner's. + +THE LITTLE MAN: Brilliant caricature of various national types of +tourist, and absurd apotheosis of the Little Man, of no +particular nation and of insignificant appearance, who proves +quietly capable of doing what the rest discuss. + +Scribner's. + +THE MOB: The reply of the hysterical and "patrioteering" members +of his own class, and of the many-headed rage, to a man who stood +against an unjust war. + +Scribner's. + +THE PIGEON: A discussion of social misfits and mavericks, with, +of course, no attempted panacea or solution. + +Scribner's. + +THE SILVER Box: + +"Jones: Call this justice? What about 'im? 'E got drunk! 'E took +the purse--'E took the purse, but (_in a muffled shout_) it's 'is +money got '_im_ off! _Justice_! + +"The Magistrate: We will now adjourn for lunch." (Act II.) + +In _Plays, First Series_, Scribner's, 1916. + +STRIFE: In the strike the leaders of the men and of the employers +are stanch against compromise, but "the strong men with strong +convictions are broken. The second-rate run the world through +half-measures and concessions." (Lewisohn.) + +_Ibid._ + + ++Louise Ayers Garnett+ + +MASTER WILL OF STRATFORD: A pleasant drama of Will Shakespeare's +boyhood. Compare Landor's "Citation and Examination of Will +Shakespeare for Deer-Stealing." + +Macmillan. + + ++Alice Gerstenberg+ + +OVERTONES: While two women are conversing politely, they are +attended by their real, unconventional selves, who interrupt to +say what the women actually think and mean. Compare Ninah Wilcox +Putnam's _Orthodoxy_ (_Forum_, June, 1914, 51:801), in which +everyone in church says what he is thinking instead of what is +proper and expected. + +In _Washington Square Plays_, Doubleday. + + ++Giuseppa Giacosa+ + +THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL: Anna is sternly loyal to her husband +Paolo, but refuses to submit to his incessant prying into her +individuality and questioning of her thoughts and her feelings. + +Frank Shay. + +THE WAGER: "Sentimental comedy, poetic and graceful, by one of +the greatest contemporary Italian dramatists." + +Barrett H. Clark, translator. French. + + ++W.S. Gilbert+ + +ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN: A most absurd parody on Hamlet, +wherein a lamentable tragedy written and repented by his uncle +the king is unearthed and turned to the sad prince's undoing. + +In _Original Plays_, Scribner's. + +ENGAGED + +PRINCESS IDA + + ++William Gillette+ + +SECRET SERVICE: A most intense situation in Richmond during the +Civil War, ably handled by a quiet and brilliant Northern +secret-service man; weakened by a manufactured happy ending. + +French. + + ++Susan Glaspell+ + +TRIFLES: Two women, by noting the significant trifles which the +sheriff and the attorney overlook, discover the story of +suffering which led to a crime. Speaking of their neglect of +neighborly kindness, one says, "That's a crime too, and who's +going to punish that?" + +In _Washington Square Plays_. + + ++Lady Gregory+ + +IRISH FOLK-HISTORY PLAYS: + +I. THE TRAGEDIES: Stories of the beautiful and potent queens who +brought suffering upon themselves and upon others; compare +Synge's and Yeats's stories of Deirdre. + +Putnam. + +II. THE TRAGI-COMEDIES: THE WHITE COCKADE: In which James II +defeats the gains of his loyal subjects by his abject and +ridiculous cowardice. + +Putnam. + +CANAVANS: A covetous miller, his clever wandering brother, and +some pleasant absurdity about the popular worship of Queen +Elizabeth by her loyal subjects in Ireland. + +Putnam. + +THE DELIVERER: Apparently an Irish peasant's idea of the story of +Moses. + +Putnam. + +WORKHOUSE WARD; HYACINTH HALVEY; THE JACKDAW: + +Comedies full of Irish wit, conscious and unconscious comedy, and +endless complication of events and hearsay in Cloon. + +All in _Seven Short Plays_, Putnam. + +THE BOGIE MAN; THE FULL MOON; COATS: + +More about Cloon people, including the rescue of Hyacinth Halvey +from his troublesome reputation and from the place by the magic +and lunacy of moonlight. + +In _New Irish Comedies_, Putnam. + +DAMER'S GOLD: A fortunate rescue from the torments of miserliness +and pestilent heirs; the author's notes on the origin of the play +are interesting. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GAOL GATE: A brief and effective tragic story of two women +who fear that their man has betrayed his mates, but who find that +he has been hanged without informing; the mother improvises a +psalm of praise of his steadfastness. + +In _Seven Short Plays_. + +THE TRAVELING MAN: A peasant woman who has been befriended by +a mysterious wanderer expects his return so that she may thank +him. She drives away a tramp from her kitchen, and then discovers +who he was. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GOLDEN APPLE: Many scenes, some excellent fun; of a search +for miraculous fruit, of a giant who is high and bloodthirsty +only in carefully fostered reputation, and the like matters. + +Putnam. + + ++St. John Hankin+ + +THE PERFECT LOVER: Delightful dramatic version of Suckling's +"Constant Lover." + +In _Dramatic Works_, Seeker. + +RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL: The same young man, or his close image, +having managed to be received by his family as a returned +prodigal, calmly puts upon them the question of his future. + +_Ibid._ + +THE CASSILIS ENGAGEMENT + +_Ibid._ + + ++Gerhardt Hauptmann+ + +THE WEAVERS: Painful presentation of the suffering of the German +weavers in the first adjustments of the Industrial Revolution. + +In Dickinson's _Chief Contemporary Dramatists_; also in +Lewisohn's translations, Huebsch. + + ++Winifred N. Hawkridge+ + +THE FLORIST SHOP: Rather sentimentalist play of good influences +wafted by a young woman as a florist's clerk; excellent business +combines with the influences. + +In _Harvard Dramatic Club Plays, First Series_, Brentano's. + + ++Hazelton and Benrimo+ + +THE YELLOW JACKET: The conventions of the Chinese theatre, more +or less faithfully presented, make a quite comical presentment of +an ancient Chinese legend. + +Bobbs, Merrill. + + ++Theresa Helburn+ + +ENTER THE HERO: A madly fanciful girl fabricates a romance out of +whole cloth, casts a friend as hero, and tells her small world +about it. Even the rough measures the hero has to use to escape +do not succeed in curing her of the habit. + +In _Flying Stage Plays, No. 4_, Ahrens; _Fifty Contemporary +One-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Perez Hirschbein+ + +IN THE DARK: Grim and awful picture of the depths of misery and +starvation in a Ghetto basement. Translated by Goldberg. + +In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre, First Series_: Luce. + + ++Hugo von Hofmannsthal+ + +MADONNA DIANORA: Fearsome tragedy of the Ring-and-Book sort, +beautifully and poignantly presented. + +Translated by Harriett Boas, Badger. + + ++Stanley Houghton+ + +THE DEAR DEPARTED: Somewhat precipitate haste for advantage in +dividing grandfather's effects is fittingly rebuked. + +In _Dramatic Works_, vol. i. French, New York; Constable, London. + +THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT: A mother finds being an "imaginary +invalid" excellent for checkmating her daughter's plans, but +inconveniently in the way of her own. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Laurence Housman+ + +RETURN OF ALCESTIS: A modern poetic view of the spirit of +Alcestis returning to Admetus after her sacrifice and rescue. +Edwin Arlington Robinson has also handled this theme lately. + +French. + +BIRD IN HAND: A pedantic old scholar is mysteriously plagued by +an illusion of faery, but in time conquers the obsession. + +French. + +BETHLEHEM: A nativity play. + +Macmillan. + +THE CHINESE LANTERN: Pleasantly effective scenes in a Chinese +studio. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++William Dean Howells+ + +THE SLEEPING CAR; THE REGISTER; THE MOUSE TRAP; THE ALBANY DEPOT; +THE GARROTERS: + +Amusing but somewhat worn farces, several of them introducing the +voluble Mrs. Roberts and her family. + + ++Henrik Ibsen+ + +AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE: A scientist who insists on making known, +and setting to work to remedy, the evils and wrongs of his +community has to reckon with the people; compare The Mob, by John +Galsworthy. + +Boni and Liveright. + +THE DOLL'S HOUSE: Nora Hjalmar, who has always been petted and +shielded, at last has to face and solve certain difficult +problems for herself. She thus discovers just how much her +husband's love and indulgence are worth. Her solution of the +difficulty is presented, not as necessarily the right thing to +have done, but as what such a woman would do under the +circumstances. + +Boni and Liveright. + +THE LADY FROM THE SEA: Ellida Wrangel, wife of the village +pastor, feels the call of the sea; she feels she must go with the +rough sailor to whom she was once betrothed. When Wrangel +sincerely offers her liberty to choose, she "seeks the security +of a familiar home, and the wild lure of the great sea spaces can +trouble her no more." (Lewisohn.) + +Boni and Liveright. + + ++W.W. Jacobs and Others+ + +ADMIRAL PETERS; THE GRAY PABKOT; THE CHANGELING; BOATSWAIN'S +MATE: Jolly farces of sailors and watchmen and their families, +based on Jacobs's stories in _Captains All, Many Cargoes_, and +the rest. + +French. + +THE MONKEY'S PAW: A most fearful and gruesome play, based on +Jacobs's story, in the vein of the _Three Wishes_, and the _Foot +of Pharaoh_, by Gautier. + +French. + + ++Jerome K. Jerome+ + +FANNY AND THE SERVANT PBOBLEM: The new Lady Bantock is surprised +to discover both her real rank and her strange relationship with +her twenty-three servants. An interesting character study. + +French. + + ++William Ellery Leonard+ + +GLORY OF THE MORNING: The pathos of two civilizations contending +for the children of the Indian woman, Glory of the Morning; they +must go with their father to France or stay with their mother. +Dr. Leonard has newly completed another powerful tragedy, _Red +Bird_, as yet unpublished. + +In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, 1914, B.W. Huebsch. + + ++Justin McCarthy+ + +IF I WERE KING: A romantic play, in the vein of De Banville's +_Gringoire_, in which Villon becomes Marshal of France, for a +brief time and with a fearful condition stipulated by the +spider-king, Louis XI. + +Heinemann. + + ++Edward Knoblauch and Arnold Bennett+ + +MILESTONES: Three different generations, with their different +ideas and ideals, confront similar problems with different views, +and arrive at various conclusions. + +Doran. + + ++Percy Mackaye+ + +THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS: Mr. Mackaye, translator with Professor +Tatlock of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, has written here a clever +play of the travelers' adventures. The Wife of Bath is of course +the ringleader in mischief. + +Macmillan. + +CALIBAN BY THE YELLOW SANDS: A masque for the Shakespeare +Tercentenary Celebration, New York City. + +Doubleday. + +JEANNE D'ARC: A tragedy made up of incidents in the life of the +Maid. + +Macmillan. + +SAM AVERAGE: A Silhouette. A soldier of 1812 is kept true to the +cause by a vision of Sam Average, the spirit of his nation. + +In Yankee Fantasies, Duffield. + +THE SCARECROW: A lively dramatization of Hawthorne's Feathertop, +from Mosses from an Old Manse. + +Macmillan. + + ++Mary MacMillan+ + +THE SHADOWED STAR: Portraying the cruel suffering of two Irish +peasant women who wait in a city tenement for Christmas as they +remember it. + +In Short Plays, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Maurice Maeterlinck+ + +ARDIANE AND BLUEBEARD: A resolute wife finally defies Bluebeard +and rescues his wives; but they refuse to forsake their +unfortunate and beloved husband. + +Dodd, Mead. + +A MIRACLE OF SAINT ANTHONY + +THE INTRUDER; THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES; INTERIOR (OR HOME): + +Poignant and mystical tragedies expressing the unseen and +inescapable forces surrounding and closing in upon men's lives. + +Boni and Liveright; Dodd, Mead. + +THE BLUE BIRD: Two peasant children, accompanied by their friends +Dog, Cat, Bread, Sugar, and others, search everywhere for the +blue bird of happiness. They visit among other places the realms +of the dead, where their grandparents are, and of the unborn. +Finally they look in the last and likeliest place. + +Dodd, Mead. + +THE BETROTHAL: Further adventures of Tytyl. + +Dodd, Mead. + + ++John Masefield+ + +PHILIP THE KING; TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT: + +High tragedies. The great Pompey, defeated by the upstart Ceesar, +is kingly to the end. + +Sidgwick and Jackson, London; Macmillan, New York. + +THE SWEEPS OF NINETY-EIGHT: A fugitive from an unsuccessful +rebellion achieves a sweeping revenge upon the leaders of the +enemy; amusing comedy. + +Macmillan. + +THE TRAGEDY OF NAN: One of the most poignantly tragic of modern +plays; the mercilessness of weak and selfish people crushes out a +beautiful life. + +Richards, London. + + ++Rutherford Mayne (J. Waddell)+ + +THE DRONE: An old man by playing craftily at being on the eve of +a great invention lives most comfortably on his brother's means; +but forces accumulate against him and he is threatened with +eviction from the hive. + +Luce. + + ++George Middleton+ + +THE BLACK TIE: A play of sharp and quiet suffering, presenting at +a new angle the Southern cleavage of races. The negro classes are +not allowed to appear in the Sunday-school procession, and the +small disappointment is typical of greater deprivations. + +In Possession and other One-Act Plays, Holt. + +MASKS: An author who has spoiled a good play so that it will "go" +on the stage is called upon by the angry characters, whom he +created and then forced to do as they would not really have done. + +In Masks and other One-Act Plays, Holt. + +MOTHERS: A mother tries in vain to prevent a young woman whom she +loves from marrying her son and repeating the misery of her own +marriage with a weakling. + +In Tradition and other One-Act Plays, Holt. + +ON BAIL: A gambler's wife who has shared his illegal gains must +help him pay his debt to the law; their son, too, is involved. + +_Ibid._ + +THE TWO HOUSES: An old professor and his wife talk quietly +together of the plans and the realities they have lived among. + +In Masks, etc. + +WAITING: False conventional ideas have long thwarted, and now +threaten to wreck, the happiness of people who care greatly for +each other. + +In Tradition, etc. + + ++Edna St. Vincent Millay+ + +ABIA DA CAPO: A fantasy in which Pierrot, Columbine, and the +Grecian shepherds of Theocritus display their varied views of +life. + +In Reedy's Mirror: reprinted in Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, +Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. + + ++Allan Milne+ + +THE BOY COMES HOME: A war profiteer has a bad half-hour of +difficulties in getting his soldier nephew to work and live +according to his views; he then faces the problem in reality. + +In First Plays, Knopf. + +THE LUCKY ONE: The Lucky One fails to win a trick he had counted +on, but his chorus of relatives--surely related to Sir Willoughby +Patterne's--do not even notice the misfortune. + +_Ibid._ + +WURZEL-FLUMMERY: Of two men offered a good-sized fortune by a +will provided they will adopt Wurzel-Flummery in place of their +own more satisfactory surnames, and of their decision. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Allan Monkhouse+ + +NIGHT WATCHES: A quiet and vivid picturing of the potential +cruelty and frightfulness of ordinary well-meaning ignorance and +terror; the fable reminds one of Galsworthy's "The Black +Godmother," in The Inn of Tranquillity. + +In War Plays, Constable, London. + + ++William Vaughn Moody+ + +THE FAITH HEALER: A serious drama presenting in moving and human +fashion the effects of faith and disillusion. + +Macmillan. + + ++Dhan Gopal Mukerji+ + +THE JUDGMENT or INDRA: A Hindu play, in which a priest of Indra, +after making a supreme sacrifice of himself and others in order +to root out human affection from his heart, thinks that his god +speaks in the lightning of the storm that ensues. + +In Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, edited by Shay and Loving. +Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Tracy Mygatt+ + +GOOD FRIDAY: A Passion Play. A powerful tragedy of the +conscientious objector. + +Published by the author, 23 Bank Street, New York, N.Y. + + + ++Alfred Noyes+ + +SHERWOOD: A poetical play of Robin Hood and his band. + +Stokes. + + ++Eugene O'Neill+ + +BEYOND THE HORIZON: The Pulitzer Prize Play, 1920. A tragic story +of a young man who longed to seek romance "beyond the horizon," +and could find neither that nor any happiness, but only defeat +and misery, in his everyday surroundings. + +Boni and Liveright. + +BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF: The injury and death of a forecastle +hand, illuminating the varying natures of his shipmates. + +In Moon of the Caribbees, Boni and Liveright. + +IN THE ZONE: Suspicion of treachery in the submarine zone, +directed against a sailor who is different from the rest in the +forecastle. + +_Ibid._ + +WHERE THE CROSS IS MADE: An old sailor goes mad waiting futilely +for the return of a treasure expedition he has sent out, and the +madness of his idea spreads like panic. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Hubert Osborne+ + +THE GOOD MEN DO: AN INDECOROUS EPILOGUE: Shakespeare's family +carefully burn his surviving plays in the effort to cast oblivion +upon his low occupation. + +In Plays of the 47 Workshop, First Series, 1918. + + ++Monica Barrie O'Shea+ + +THE RUSHLIGHT: A mother, whose son may be saved if he will betray +his comrades, has only to send him a paper containing the +information the authorities want. Her attitude should be compared +with that of the women in Campbell of Kilmhor and Lady Gregory's +The Gaol Gate. + +Drama, November, 1917, 28:602. + + ++Louis N. Parker+ + +DISRAELI: Play of intrigue centring about the character of Lord +Beaconsfield and his manoeuvres to obtain control of the Suez +Canal. + +Lane. + +MINUET: A brief play of courage and loyalty in face of Madame +Guillotine. + +In Century Magazine, January, 1915. + + ++Josephine Preston Peabody+ + +MARLOWE: A tragedy introducing several of the Elizabethan +playwrights in tavern scenes, and making a fine and romantic +character of Kit Marlowe. + +Houghton Mifflin. + +THE PIPER: A pleasant dramatization of the legend of Hamelin +Town. + +Houghton Mifflin. + +THE WOLF OF GUBBIO: A play about Saint Francis and some of his +brothers, both animals and villagers. + +Houghton Mifflin. + + ++Louise Saunders (Perkins)+ + +THE WOODLAND PRINCESS: Very attractive children's operetta with +music by Alice Terhune. + +Schirmer; French. + + ++Stephen Phillips+ + +ULYSSES: A drama or masque of Ulysses' adventures, from his +farewell to Calypso through a vigorous combat with the wooers. + +Macmillan. + + ++Eden Phillpotts+ + +THE SHADOW: A most affecting and tragic play of the influence of +a crime upon two people who love most sincerely, and upon their +very loyal friend. + +In _Three Plays_, Duckworth, London. + +THE MOTHER: A moving presentation of the force of a mother's +sense and love; she refuses to shield her son when he has done +wrong, but works in every way to set him straight and to continue +her influence after her death. + +_Ibid._ + +THE POINT OF VIEW: A domestic altercation is arbitrated by a +friend of the family, and then the arbiter is given new light on +the situation. + +_Curtain Raisers_, Duckworth, London. + + ++Arthur Wing Pinero+ + +THE PLAYGOERS: A farce in which a lady attempts to provide +cultural amusement for her servants, and succeeds in breaking up +the smooth-running establishment. + +London. + + ++David Pinski+ + +ABIGAIL: A dramatization of a Biblical story from the wars of +David. Translated from the Yiddish by Dr. Goldberg. + +In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre_, Luce. + +FORGOTTEN SOULS: Fanny Segal's self-sacrifice for her sister and +lover is carried to a strange and morbid extreme. + +In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre_, Luce. + + ++Graham Pryce+ + +THE COMING OF FAIR ANNIE: A simple but effective dramatization of +the old ballad. + +Gowans and Gray. + + ++Richard Pryce and Arthur Morrison+ + +THE DUMB CAKE: A St. Agnes' Eve story in a London slum. + +French. + + ++Serafin and Joaquim Quintero+ + +A SUNNY MOHNING: Two very old people recall the tremendously +romantic happenings of their early youth. + +In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Edwin Arlington Robinson+ + +VAN ZORN: A play of New York studio life in which Van Zorn puts +his own desires out of court and plays providence in the lives of +his friends. + +Macmillan. + + ++Santiago Rosinol+ + +THE PRODIGAL DOLL: A comical marionette sows his wild oats most +violently and repents in deep sorrow. + +In _Drama_, February, 1917, 5:15. + + ++Edmond Rostand+ + +CYRANO DE BERGERAC: A great play of a swashbuckling hero of the +Paris of Molière's time. + +Doubleday; also in Dickinson's Contemporary Dramatists, I, +Houghton Mifflin. + +L'AIGLON: The tragic story of Napoleon's son, the little King of +Rome, captive among enemies determined to tame his spirit. + +Harper. + +THE PRINCESS FAR-AWAY: The story of the Troubadour Rudel and the +Princess of Tripoli, celebrated in one of Browning's poems, +represents all worship of what is beyond attainment. + +Stokes. + +THE ROMANCERS: The foolish and romantic notions of two lovers are +ably caricatured by their fathers' plots and stratagems. + +Baker, 1906. + + ++Arthur Schnitzler+ + +LAST MASKS: A dying man in the Vienna Hospital contrives an +opportunity for the cruel stroke he has intended at a man who has +succeeded where he himself has failed; at the moment of possible +triumph a different mood controls him. There are three excellent +studies of character in the play. + +In _Anatol and Other Plays_, Boni and Liveright. + + ++George Bernard Shaw+ + +ANDROCLES AND THE LION: The old story of a saint whom the lion +remembered as his friend--with much shrewd light upon certain +types of early Christians. + +Constable. + +CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA: New views of the chief characters, +introduced by two interesting scenes--of a garrison in Syria by +night and of Cleopatra in the arms of the Sphinx. + +In _Three Plays for Puritans_, Constable. + +THE MAN OF DESTINY: Napoleon after Lodi, attacking all courses of +his dinner simultaneously, drawing maps with his fork dipped in +the gravy, and discoursing shrewdly on courage and success. + +Constable. + +O'FLAHERTY, V.C.: On a recruiting mission in his own country, +O'Flaherty must account to his mother for his hitherto concealed +crime of fighting not against, but for England. + +In _Heartbreak House_, Constable. + +AUGUSTUS DOES HIS BIT: A high-born muddler in Britain's conduct +of the war. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Arthur Shirley+ + +GRINGOIRE THE BALLAD-MAKER: A translation and adaptation of de +Banville's comedy about another poet than Villon in the hands of +Louis XI. + +Dramatic Publishing Company. + + ++Thomas Wood Stevens+ + +THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN: "Vernon Lee's" eighteenth-century +legend of Sister Benvenuta and the Christ-Child, in a simple and +effectively dramatic form. + +In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Alfred Sutro+ + +THE MAN ON THE KERB: A workman who has failed in every attempt to +get work or help faces starvation with his wife and baby in a +London tenement basement. No solution of the problem is offered. + +In _Five Little Plays_, Duckworth, London. + +A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED: Comedy of a rejected proposal for a +society "marriage of convenience," followed by an adjustment of +understanding upon another basis. + +_Ibid._ + + ++John Millington Synge+ + +DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS: A beautiful and poetic dramatization of +the tragic Celtic legend of Deirdre and the Sons of Usna. This +may well be compared with Yeats's dramatization of the same +story. + +Luce. + +THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD: Rather fearful comedy of the +popular idolatry offered by Irish peasants to a man who boasts he +has killed his father. + +Luce. + +IN THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN: An awesome husband makes a test of his +wife's love. + +Luce. + +THE TINKER'S WEDDING: Rather boisterous comedy of a tinker-woman +who upsets ancient custom by insisting on a church wedding. + +Luce. + +THE WELL OF THE SAINTS: A gruesome tragedy of a blind beggar and +his wife. All these dramas are as strangely filled with beauty +and poetry of expression as is the Riders to the Sea. + +Luce. + + ++Rabindranath Tagore+ + +THE POST OFFICE: "A poetic and symbolic play." + +Macmillan. + + ++Anton Tchekhov+ + +THE BOOR; THE MARRIAGE PROPOSAL; THE WEDDING FEAST; THE TRAGEDIAN +IN SPITE OF HIMSELF: + +Comical farces of extravagant conversation and action, and +apparently real studies of Russian character. + +In _Plays, Second Series_ Scribner's. + + ++William Makepiece Thackeray+ + +THE ROSE AND THE RING: One of the most delightful of puppet-plays +is based on the favorite story. + +Smith, Elder and Company, London; Macmillan, New York. + + ++Augustus Thomas+ + +OLIVER GOLDSMITH: A very engaging play, introducing Burke, +Goldsmith, Garrick in several amusing roles, Dr. Johnson, and +others in his circle, and presenting (in Act II) a dress +rehearsal of _She Stoops to Conquer_. + +French. + + ++Frank G. Tompkins+ + +SHAM: A SOCIAL SATIRE: Of a most superior burglar, who takes only +genuine objects of art, disdains the imitation stuff that litters +Charles and Clara's home, and reads them a severe lecture on +reality and sham in this and other departments of life. + +Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Ridgley Torrence+ + +GRANNY MAUMEE: Highly tragic play of the blood-hatred of negroes +for those who have tortured and killed, and of voodoo rites and +miracles; power is given the play by a most human reversal of +feeling at the last. + +In _Plays for a Negro Theatre_, Macmillan. + +THE RIDER OF DREAMS: A masterful mulatto who keeps his people +obedient to a benevolent despotism. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Stuart Walker+ + +THE MEDICINE SHOW: Some amusing characters, shiftless but fertile +of invention, and their device for getting rich. + +In _Portmanteau Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + +NEVERTHELESS: A play which has interested high-school pupils and +their friends in Better Speech programmes. + +_Ibid._ + +SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL: A quaint and pleasant comedy +of a boy set to watch the lentils cooking, of a queen who is +fugitive from execution for a violation of etiquette, and of +other matters. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Percival Wilde+ + +THE TRAITOR: A traitor in the British camp is discovered by a +ruse that is effective and perhaps plausible. + +In _Dawn and Other One-Act Plays_, Holt. + + ++Oscar M. Wolff+ + +WHERE BUT IN AMERICA? Amusing small comedy in which a Swedish +cook and her fiancé have potent influence in an American +household. + +In Mayorga, _Representative One-Act Plays_, Little, Brown. + + ++William Butler Yeats+ + +DEIRDRE: The last scene in the tragedy of Deirdre of the Sorrows. + +Macmillan. + +THE GREEN HELMET: Dramatization of a most interesting Gaelic +variant of the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; it +contains good character study. + +Macmillan. + +THE KINO'S THRESHOLD: A poet and singer, deprived of his rightful +honor at the Irish King's court, makes effective use of the +ancient traditional weapon of the hunger strike in order to +secure to his art and its worthy practisers their due recognition. + +Macmillan. + +THE HOUR GLASS: A mystical play of wisdom and folly and the +approach of death. + +Macmillan. + +CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN: A moving dramatization of the compelling +spirit of Love of Country. + +Macmillan. + +THE POT OF BROTH: An ancient story, pleasantly dramatized, of a +witty wanderer who plays to his advantage on the credulity, +greed, and love of flattery of a sharp-tongued peasant woman. + +Macmillan. + + ++William Butler Yeats and Lady Gregory+ + +THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS: A mystical play of a dreamer's rough +contacts with reality. + +Stratford, 1904. + + ++Israel Zangwill+ + +THE WAR GOD: Those who sacrifice others to the War God are +themselves immolated on his altar. + +Macmillan. + +THE MELTING POT: A serious play in which the tragic consequences +of race prejudice are realizably and poignantly set forth. + +Macmillan. + + + + +BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE, MARIONETTES AND CHILDREN'S PLAYS + + ++William Archer+ + +PLAY MAKING: Small, Maynard and Co. + + ++Richard Burton+ + +HOW TO SEE A PLAY: Macmillan. + + ++Percival Chubb and Others+ + +FESTIVALS AND PLAYS IN SCHOOLS AND ELSEWHERE: Harper. + + ++Barrett Clark+ + +HOW TO PRODUCE AMATEUR PLAYS: Little, Brown. + + ++Payne Collier (attributed)+ + +PUNCH AND JUDY: London, 1828. + +A history of the marionettes in England, illustrated by +Cruikshank. + + ++Clayton Hamilton+ + +STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT: Holt. + +THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE: Holt. + + ++Helen Joseph+ + +A BOOK OF MARIONETTES: Huebsch. + +Beautifully illustrated history of the puppet-plays. + + ++Gertrude Johnson+ + +CHOOSING A PLAY: Century Co. + + ++Ludwig Lewisohn+ + +THE MODERN DRAMA: Huebsch. + +The best criticism of naturalistic and neo-romantic drama today. + + ++Karl Mantzius+ + +HISTORY OF THEATRICAL ART IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES: Five +volumes: Louise von Sossell, translator. Illustrated. Lippincott. + + ++Roy Mitchell+ + +SHAKESPEARE FOR COMMUNITY PLATERS: Dutton. + +Illustrated with cuts of costume, properties, etc. + + ++Constance D'Arcy MacKaye+ + +COSTUMES AND SCENERY FOR AMATEURS; HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'S +PLAYS: Holt. Illustrations and directions. + + ++Constance MacKay+ + +THE LITTLE THEATRE IN THE UNITED STATES: Holt. + + ++Percy Mackaye+ + +THE COMMUNITY DRAMA: Houghton Mifflin. THE CIVIC THEATRE: +Mitchell Kennerley. + + ++George Jean Nathan+ + +ANOTHER BOOK ON THE THEATRE: Huebsch. + + ++Brander Matthews+ + +THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE DRAMA: Scribner's. A STUDY OF THE DRAMA: +Houghton Mifflin. A most helpful account. + + ++Charlotte Porter+ + +THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE: Badger. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM AS A +FOLK-PAGEANT. Drama, VII, Nos 26, 27. Valuable articles for +reconstructing the Elizabethan plays. + + ++Maurice Sand+ + +HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE: Lippincott. + + ++Clarence Stratton+ + +PRODUCING IN LITTLE THEATRES: Holt, 1921. The magazines _Drama, +Poet Lore,_ the _Theater Arts Magazine_, the _Little Theater +Magazine_, and articles in the _English Journal_ are of value. + + + + +AS TO PLAYS AND DRAMATIZATION IN SCHOOL + + ++H. Caldwell Cook+ + +THE PLAY WAY: Heinemann. Valuable account of work at the Pearse +School in Cambridge, England. + + ++Emma Sheridan Fry+ + +EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS: Lloyd Adams Noble. + + ++Alice Minnie Herts+ + +THE CHILDREN'S EDUCATIONAL THEATRE: Harper. + + ++Alice Minnie Herts Heniger+ + +THE KINGDOM OF THE CHILD: Dutton. + + ++Margaret Skinner+ + +SOCIALIZING DRAMATICS: _English Journal_, October, 1920, 9:445. +An excellent account of really educational dramatics. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC BOOK OF MODERN PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 16435-8.txt or 16435-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/3/16435/ + +Produced by William Boerst, Andre Lapierre and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/16435-8.zip b/16435-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c2c8499 --- /dev/null +++ b/16435-8.zip diff --git a/16435.txt b/16435.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b974845 --- /dev/null +++ b/16435.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14759 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays + +Author: Various + +Editor: Sterling Andrus Leonard + +Release Date: August 4, 2005 [EBook #16435] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC BOOK OF MODERN PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by William Boerst, Andre Lapierre and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + +THE ATLANTIC BOOK + +OF MODERN PLAYS + + + +Edited with Introduction, Comment +and Annotated Bibliography + +by +Sterling Andrus Leonard + +_Department of English +The University of Wisconsin and +The Wisconsin High School_ + + + +The Atlantic Monthly Press +Boston + + +_The rights of production of these plays are in every case +reserved by the authors or their representatives. No play can be +given publicly without an individual arrangement. The law does +not, of course, prevent their reading in classrooms or their +production before an audience of a school or invited guests where +no fee is charged; but it is, naturally, more courteous to ask +permission._ + + + +1921 + +The Atlantic Monthly Press + +First impression, December, 1921 +Second impression, April, 1922 +Third impression, October, 1922 + +_Printed in the United States of America_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + +FOREWORD + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + +INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS + + +THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS _Harold Chapin_ + +SPREADING THE NEWS _Lady Gregory_ + +THE BEGGAR AND THE KING _Winthrop Parkhurst_ + +TIDES _George Middleton_ + +ILE _Eugene O'Neill_ + +CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _J.A. Ferguson_ + +THE SUN _John Galsworthy_ + +THE KNAVE OF HEARTS _Louise Saunders_ + +FAME AND THE POET _Lord Dunsany_ + +THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE _Beulah Marie Dix_ + +GETTYSBURG _Percy Mackaye_ + +LONESOME-LIKE _Harold Brighouse_ + +RIDERS TO THE SEA _John Millington Synge_ + +THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE _William Butler Yeats_ + +RIDING TO LITHEND _Gordon Bottomley_ + + +QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION IN READING THE PLAYS + +NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS + +ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS AND RELATED BOOKS + + + + +FOREWORD + + +We are at present in the midst of a bewildering quantity of +play-publication and production. The one-act play in particular, +chiefly represented in this volume, appears to be taking the +place of that rather squeezed sponge, the short story, in the +favor of the reading public. Of course, this tendency has its +reaction in schoolrooms. One even hears of high-school classes +which attempt to keep up with the entire output of such dramas in +English readings. If this is not merely an apologue, it is +certainly a horrible example. The bulk of current drama, as of +published matter generally, is not worthy the time of the English +class. Only what is measurably of rank, in truth and fineness, +with the literature which has endured from past times can be +defended for use there. And we have too much that is both well +fitted to young people's keen interest and enjoyment, and +beautifully worthy as well, for time to be wasted upon the third- +and fourth-rate. + +Obviously, much of the best in modern play-writing has not been +included in this volume. Because of copyright complications the +works of Mr. Masefield, Mr. Shaw, Mr. Drinkwater, and Sir James +Barrie are not here represented. The plays by these writers that +seem best fitted to use by teachers and pupils in high schools, +together with a large number of other dramas for this purpose, +are listed and annotated at the back of the book. Suggestions as +to desirable inclusions and omissions will be welcomed by the +editor and the publishers. + +Following in their own way the lead of the Theatre Libre in Paris +and the Freie Buehne in Germany, and of the Independent and the +Repertory theatres in Great Britain, numerous "little theatres" +and drama associations in this country are giving impulsion and +direction to the movement for finer drama and more excellent +presentation. The Harvard dramatic societies, the Morningside +Players at Columbia, Mr. Alex Drummond's Community Theatre at the +State Fair in Ithaca, the Little Country Theatre at Fargo, South +Dakota, and similar groups at the University of California and +elsewhere, illustrate the leadership of the colleges. In many +high schools, as at South Bend, Indiana, more or less complete +Little Theatres are active. The Chicago Little Theatre, the +Wisconsin Dramatic Society, the Provincetown Players, the +Neighborhood Playhouse, in New York, and others of that ilk, are +well known and influential. They are extending the tradition of +the best European theatres in their attempts to cultivate +excellent and individual expression in drama. They realize that +plays must be tested by actual performance,--though not +necessarily by the unnatural demands of success in competition +with Broadway revues and farce-melodramas,--and thus developed +toward a genuine artistic embodiment of the vast and varied life, +the manifold and deep idealism of this country. + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + + +For their courteous and generous cooperation the editor is +greatly indebted to the authors and publishers of all the plays +included. He is equally grateful to other dramatists who were +personally as cordial in intention but quite impotent to grant +copyright privileges. In addition, he has received most friendly +and cordial criticism from friends and friendly strangers to whom +he appealed--among others, from Mr. Harold Brighouse; Mr. +Theodore Hinckley, editor of "Drama"; Mr. Clarence Stratton, now +Director of English at Cleveland, and author of a forthcoming +book on the Little Theatre in this country; Mr. Allan Monkhouse, +author of "Mary Broome" and "War Plays"; Professor Allan Abbot, +of Teachers College, Columbia University; Mr. Frank G. Thompkins, +of Central High School, Detroit; Mrs. Mary Austin; Professor Earl +B. Pence, of De Pauw University; Professor Brander Matthews; and +Mrs. Alice Chapin. Indebtedness to many lists is obvious, +particularly to that of the Drama League and the National Council +of Teachers of English, and that of Professor Pence in the +"Illinois Bulletin." + +"Ile" is reprinted by special arrangement with the author and +with Boni and Liveright, publishers, New York. "Ile" is reprinted +from the volume "The Moon of The Caribbees" and six other plays +of the sea, which volume is one of the series of plays by Mr. +O'Neill, the series including "Beyond the Horizon," a drama in +four acts, "The Straw," a play in three acts and five scenes, +"Gold," a play in four acts and "Chris" a play in four acts. + + + + +INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS + + +The elder Dumas, who wrote many successful plays, as well as the +famous romances, said that all he needed for constructing a drama +was "four boards, two actors, and a passion." What he meant by +passion has been defined by a later French writer, Ferdinand +Brunetiere, as a conflict of wills. The Philosopher of Butterbiggens, +whom you will meet early in this book, points out that "what you +are all the time wanting" is "your own way." When two strong +desires conflict and we wonder which is coming out ahead, we say +that the situation is dramatic. This clash is clearly defined in +any effective play, from the crude melodrama in which the forces +are hero and villain with pistols, to such subtle conflicts, +based on a man's misunderstanding of even his own motives and +purposes, as in Mr. Middleton's "Tides." + +In comedy, and even in farce, struggle is clearly present. Here +our sympathy is with people who engage in a not impossible +combat--against rather obvious villains who can be unmasked, or +against such public opinion or popular conventions as can be +overset. The hold of an absurd bit of gossip upon stupid people +is firm enough in "Spreading the News"; but fortunately it must +yield to facts at last. The Queen and the Knave of Hearts are +sufficiently clever, with the aid of the superb cookery of the +Knave's wife, to do away with an ancient and solemnly reverenced +law of Pompdebile's court. So, too, the force of ancient loyalty +and enthusiasm almost works a miracle in the invalid veteran of +"Gettysburg." And we feel sure that the uncanny powers of the +Beggar will be no less successful in overturning the power of the +King in Mr. Parkhurst's play. + +Again, in comedies as in mathematics, the problem is often solved +by substitution. The soldier in Mr. Galsworthy's "The Sun" is +able to find a satisfactory and apparently happy ending without +achieving what he originally set out to gain. And the same is +true of Jock in Mr. Brighouse's "Lonesome-Like." Or the play +which does not end as the chief character wishes may still prove +not too serious because, as in "Fame and the Poet," the situation +is merely inconvenient and absurd rather than tragic. Now and +then it is next to impossible to tell whether the ending is +tragic or not; in the "Land of Heart's Desire" we must first +decide whether our sympathies are more with Shawn Bruin and with +Maire's love for him, or with her keen desire to go + + To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams + Are holding a continual festival. + +It is natural for us to desire a happy ending in stories, as we +desire satisfying solutions of the problems in our own lives. And +whenever the forces at work are such as make it true and possible, +naturally this is the best ending for a story or a play. But where +powerful and terrible influences have to be combated, only a poor +dramatist will make use of mere chance, or compel his characters +to do what such people really would not do, to bring about a +factitious "happy ending." With the relentless, mighty arms of +England engaged in hunting the defeated Highlanders after the +Battle of Culloden, a play like "Campbell of Kilmhor," in which we +sympathize with the ill-fated Stewarts, cannot end happily. If +they had yielded under pressure and betrayed their comrades, we +might have pitied them, but we could not admire their action, and +there would have been no strong conclusion. In "Riders to the +Sea," where the characters are compelled by bitter poverty to face +the relentless forces of storm and sea, and in "The Biding to +Lithend," we expect a tragic end almost from the first lines of +the play. We recognize this same dramatic tensity of hopeless +conflict in many stories as well as plays; it is most powerful in +three or four novels by George Eliot, George Meredith, and Thomas +Hardy. + +One of the best ways to understand these as real stage plays is +through some sort of dramatization. This does not mean, however, +that they need be produced with elaborate scenery and costumes, +memorizing, and rehearsal; often the best understanding may be +secured by quite informal reading in the class, with perhaps a hat +and cloak and a lath sword or two for properties. With simply a +clear space in the classroom for a stage, you and your +imaginations can give all the performance necessary for realizing +these plays very well indeed. But, of course, you must clearly +understand the lines and the play as a whole before you try to +take a part, so that you can read simply and naturally, as you +think the people in the story probably spoke. Some questions for +discussion in the appendix may help you in talking the plays over +in class or in reading them for yourself before you try to take a +part. You will find it sometimes helps, also, to make a diagram or +a colored sketch of the scene as the author describes it, or even +a small model of the stage for a "dramatic museum" for your +school. If you have not tried this, you do not know how much it +helps in seeing plays of other times, like Shakespeare's or +Moliere's; and it is useful also for modern dramas. Such small +stages can be used for puppet theatres as well. "The Knave of +Hearts" is intended as a marionette play, and other +dramas--Maeterlinck's and even Shakespeare's--have been given in +this way with very interesting effects. + +If you bring these plays to a performance for others outside your +own class, you will find that the simplest and least pretentious +settings are generally most effective. The Irish players, as Mr. +Yeats tells us, "have made scenery, indeed, but scenery that is +little more than a suggestion--a pattern with recurring boughs and +leaves of gold for a wood, a great green curtain, with a red +stencil upon it to carry the eye upward, for a palace." Mr. John +Merrill of the Francis Parker School describes the quite excellent +results secured with a dark curtain in a semicircle--a +cyclorama--for background, and with colored lights.[1] Such a +staging leaves the attention free to follow the lines, and the +imagination to picture whatever the play suggests as the place of +the action. + +[Footnote 1: John Merrill: "Drama and the School," in _Drama_, +November, 1919.] + + + + +THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS[1] + +Harold Chapin + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Mrs. Alice Chapin. +Permission to present this play must be secured from Samuel +French, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, who controls all +acting rights, etc., in this country.] + +CHARACTERS + +DAVID PIRNIE LIZZIE, his daughter +JOHN BELL, his son-in-law +ALEXANDER, John's little son + +SCENE: JOHN BELL'S _tenement at Butterbiggens. It consists of the +very usual "two rooms, kitchen, and bath," a concealed bed in the +parlor and another in the kitchen enabling him to house his +family--consisting of himself, his wife, his little son, and his +aged father-in-law--therein. The kitchen-and-living-room is a +good-sized square room. The right wall (our right as we look at +it) is occupied by a huge built-in dresser, sink, and coal bunker, +the left wall by a high-manteled, ovened, and boilered fireplace, +the recess on either side of which contains a low painted +cupboard. Over the far cupboard hangs a picture of a ship, but +over the near one is a small square window. The far wall has two +large doors in it, that on the right leading to the lobby, and +that on the left appertaining to the old father-in-law's concealed +bed. The walls are distempered a brickish red. The ceiling once +was white. The floor is covered with bright linoleum and a couple +of rag rugs--one before the fire--a large one--and a smaller one +before the door of the concealed bed._ + +_A deal table is just to right of centre. A long flexible +gas-bracket depends from the ceiling above it. Another +many-jointed gas-bracket projects from the middle of the high +mantelpiece, its flame turned down towards the stove. There are +wooden chairs at the table, above, below, and to left of it. A +high-backed easy chair is above the fire, a kitchen elbow-chair +below it._ + +_The kitchen is very tidy. A newspaper newly fallen to the rug +before the fire and another--an evening one--spread flat on the +table are (besides a child's mug and plate, also on the table) +the only things not stowed in their prescribed places. It is +evening--the light beyond the little square window being the gray +dimness of a long Northern twilight which slowly deepens during +the play. When the curtain rises it is still light enough in the +room for a man to read if the print be not too faint and his eyes +be good. The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers through +the gray, showing up with exceptional clearness the deep-lined +face of old DAVID PIRNIE, who is discovered half-risen from his +armchair above the fire, standing on the hearth-rug, his body +bent and his hand on the chair arm. He is a little, feeble old +man with a well-shaped head and weather-beaten face, set off by a +grizzled beard and whiskers, wiry and vigorous, in curious +contrast to the wreath of snowy hair that encircles his head. His +upper lip is shaven. He wears an old suit--the unbuttoned +waistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt. His slippers are +low at the heel and his socks loose at the ankles._ + +_The old man's eyes are fixed appealingly on those of his +daughter, who stands in the half-open door, her grasp on the +handle, meeting his look squarely--a straight-browed, +black-haired, determined young woman of six or seven and twenty. +Her husband_, JOHN, _seated at the table in his shirt-sleeves with +his head in his hands, reads hard at the paper and tries to look +unconcerned._ + + +DAVID. Aw--but, Lizzie-- + +LIZZIE (_with splendid firmness_). It's nae use, feyther. I'm no' +gaein' to gie in to the wean. Ye've been tellin' yer stories to +him nicht after nicht for dear knows how long, and he's gettin' +to expect them. + +DAVID. Why should he no' expect them? + +LIZZIE. It disna do for weans to count on things so. He's layin' +up a sad disappointment for himself yin o' these days. + +DAVID. He's gettin' a sad disappointment the noo. Och, come on, +Lizzie. I'm no' gaein' to dee just yet, an' ye can break him off +gradually when I begin to look like to. + +LIZZIE. Who's talkin' o' yer deein', feyther? + +DAVID. Ye were speakin' o' the disappointment he was layin' up +for himself if he got to count on me-- + +LIZZIE. I wasna thinkin' o' yer deein', feyther--only--it's no +guid for a bairn-- + +DAVID. Where's the harm in my giein' him a bit story before he +gangs tae his bed? + +LIZZIE. I'm no sayin' there's ony harm in it this yinst, feyther; +but it's no richt to gae on nicht after nicht wi' never a break-- + +DAVID. Whit wey is it no richt if there's nae harm in it? + +LIZZIE. It's giein' in to the wean. + +DAVID. Whit wey should ye no' gie in to him if there's nae harm +in it? + +LIZZIE (_keeping her patience with difficulty_). Because it gets +him into the habit. + +DAVID. But why should he no' get into the habit if there's nae +harm in it? + +(_John at the table chuckles. Lizzie gives him a look, but he +meets it not._) + +LIZZIE. Really, feyther, ye micht be a wean yerself, ye're that +persistent. + +DAVID. No, Lizzie, I'm no' persistent, I'm reasoning wi' ye. Ye +said there was nae harm in my tellin' him a bit story, an' now ye +say I'm not to because it'll get him into the habit; an' what I'm +askin' ye is, where's the harm o' his gettin' into the habit if +there's nae harm in it? + +LIZZIE. Oh, aye; ye can be gey clever, twistin' the words in my +mouth, feyther; but richt is richt, an' wrang's wrang, for all +yer cleverness. + +DAVID (_earnestly_). I'm no bein' clever ava, Lizzie,--no' the +noo,--I'm just tryin' to make ye see that, if ye admit there's +nae harm in a thing, ye canna say there's ony harm in it, an' +(_pathetically_) I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story +before he gangs to his bed. + +JOHN (_aside to her_). Och, wumman-- + +LIZZIE. T'ts, John; ye'd gie in tae onybody if they were just +persistent enough. + +JOHN. He's an auld man. + +LIZZIE (_really exasperated_). I ken fine he's an auld man, John, +and ye're a young yin, an' Alexander's gaein' to be anither, an' +I'm a lone wumman among the lot o' ye, but I'm no' gaein' to gie +in to-- + +JOHN (_bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument_). Efter a', +Lizzie, there's nae harm-- + +LIZZIE (_almost with a scream of anger_). Och, now you've stairted, +have you? Harm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin' about harm, and I'm +talking about richt an' wrang. You'd see your son grow up a +drunken keelie, an' mebbe a thief an' a murderer, so long as you +could say there was nae harm in it. + +DAVID (_expostulating with some cause_). But I cudna say there was +nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's nae +harm-- + +LIZZIE. Och. (_Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble._) +Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander? + +(_Shuts door with a click._) + +DAVID (_standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrow +than in anger_). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disna +argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a wee +thing hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chatty +an' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' me +that fond o' women's society. + +(_He lowers himself into his chair._) + +JOHN. They're all like it. + +DAVID (_judiciously_). I wudna go sae far as to say that, John. Ye +see, I've only kent they twa to study carefully--an' it's no fair +to judge the whole sex by just the twa examples, an' it +were--(_Running on_) But it's gey hard, an' I was wantin' to tell +wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht. (_Removes glasses +and blinks his eyes._) Aweel. + +JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn-- + +DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn's +nicht. + +JOHN. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last nicht. + +DAVID (_bitterly_). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun' it out. + +JOHN. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic. + +DAVID (_between anger and tears, weakly_). I canna help it. I'm +black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special +fine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richt +an' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women. + +JOHN. We has to gie in to them though. + +DAVID. Aye. That's why. + +(_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again and +settles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spill +from the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends to +throw the light to the old man's advantage._) + +DAVID. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him? + +JOHN (_erect on hearth-rug_). Who? + +DAVID. Wee Alexander. + +JOHN. No. + +DAVID. Greetin' his heart out. + +JOHN. Och, he's no greetin'. Lizzie's wi' him. + +DAVID. I ken fine Lizzie's wi' him, but he's greetin' for a' her. +He was wantin' to hear yon story o' the kelpies up to Cross Hill +wi' the tram--(_Breaking his mood impatiently_) Och. + +JOHN (_crossing to table and lighting up there_). It's gettin' dark +gey early. We'll shin be haein' tea by the gas. + +DAVID (_rustling his paper_). Aye--(_Suddenly_) There never was a +female philosopher, ye ken, John. + +JOHN. Was there no'? + +DAVID. No. (_Angrily, in a gust_) An'there never will be! (_Then +more calmly_) An' yet there's an' awful lot o' philosophy about +women, John. + +JOHN. Aye? + +DAVID. Och, aye. They're that unreasonable, an' yet ye canna +reason them down; an' they're that weak, an' yet ye canna make +them gie in tae ye. Of course, ye'll say ye canna reason doon a +stane, or make a clod o' earth gie in tae ye. + +JOHN. Will I? + +DAVID. Aye. An' ye'll be richt. But then I'll tell ye a stane +will na answer ye back, an' a clod of earth will na try to +withstand ye, so how can ye argue them down? + +JOHN (_convinced_). Ye canna. + +DAVID. Richt! Ye canna! But a wumman _will_ answer ye back, an' +she _will_ stand against ye, an' _yet_ ye canna argue her down +though ye have strength an' reason on your side an' she's talkin' +naething but blether about richt's richt an' wrang's wrang, an' +sendin' a poor bairn off t' his bed i' the yin room an' leavin' +her auld feyther all alone by the fire in anither an'--ye +ken--Philosophy-- + +(_He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again. JOHN, intensely +troubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a foot. The wails +of ALEXANDER can be heard muffled by a farther door. JOHN calls +off._) + +JOHN. Lizzie. + +(_Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a +"Shsh."_) + +JOHN. Yer feyther's greetin'. + +LIZZIE (_with a touch of exasperation_). Och, I'm no heedin'! +There's another wean in there greetin' too, an' I'm no heedin' +him neither, an' he's greetin' twicet as loud as the auld yin. + +JOHN (_shocked_). Ye're heartless, wumman. + +LIZZIE (_with patience_). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but there's +too much heart in this family, an' someone's got to use their +heid. + +(DAVID _cranes round the side of his chair to catch what they +are saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanly +firmness._) + +LIZZIE. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see, +don't ye-- + +(_A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up. LIZZIE rushes +to silence him._) + +LIZZIE. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're murderin' him. + +(_The door closes behind her._) + +DAVID (_nodding for a space as he revolves the woman's attitude_). +Ye hear that, John? + +JOHN. Whit? + +DAVID (_with quiet irony_). She's vexed I should be disappointed. +The wumman thinks she's richt! Women always think they're +richt--mebbe it's that that makes them that obstinate. (_With the +ghost of a twinkle_) She's feart o' the neighbors, though. + +JOHN (_stolidly_). A' women are feart o' the neighbors. + +DAVID (_reverting_). Puir wee man. I telt ye he was greetin', John. +He's disappointed fine. (_Pondering_) D' ye ken whit I'm thinkin', +John? + +JOHN. Whit? + +DAVID. I'm thinkin' he's too young to get his ain way, an' I'm +too auld, an' it's a fine thocht! + +JOHN. Aye? + +DAVID. Aye. I never thocht of it before, but that's what it is. +He's no' come to it yet, an' I'm past it. (_Suddenly_) What's the +most important thing in life, John? + +(JOHN _opens his mouth--and shuts it again unused._) + +DAVID. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye're wantin' a' the +time? + +JOHN. Different things. + +DAVID (_satisfied_). Aye--different things! But ye want them a', do +ye no'? + +JOHN. Aye. + +DAVID. If ye had yer ain way ye'd hae them a', eh? + +JOHN. I wud that. + +DAVID (_triumphant_). Then is that no' what ye want: yer ain way? + +JOHN (_enlightened_). Losh! + +DAVID (_warming to it_). That's what life is, John--gettin' yer ain +way. First ye're born, an' ye canna dae anything but cry; but +God's given yer mither ears an' ye get yer way by just cryin' for +it. (_Hastily, anticipating criticism_) I ken that's no exactly in +keeping with what I've been saying aboot Alexander--but a +new-born bairnie's an awfu' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets it +past its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettling +to oor poor human understandings. Ye'll notice the weans cease +gettin' their wey by juist greetin' for it as shin as they're old +enough to seek it otherwise. + +JOHN. The habit hangs on to them whiles. + +DAVID. It does that. (_With a twinkle_) An' mebbe, if God's gi'en +yer neighbors ears an' ye live close, ye'll get yer wey by a +dispensation o' Providence a while longer. But there's things +ye'll hae to do for yerself gin ye want to--an' ye will. Ye'll +want to hold oot yer hand, an' ye will hold oot yer hand; an' ye +'ll want to stand up and walk, and ye _will_ stand up and +walk; an' ye'll want to dae as ye please, and ye _will_ dae +as ye please; and then ye are practised an' lernt in the art of +gettin' yer ain way--and ye're a man! + +JOHN. Man, feyther--ye're wonderful! + +DAVID (_complacently_). I'm a philosopher, John. But it goes on +mebbe. + +JOHN. Aye? + +David. Aye: mebbe ye think ye'd like to make ither folk mind ye +an' yer way, an' ye try, an' if it comes off ye're a big man an' +mebbe the master o' a vessel wi' three men an' a boy under ye, as +I was, John. (_Dropping into the minor_) An then ye come doon the +hill. + +JOHN (_apprehensively_). Doon the hill? + +DAVID. Aye--doon to mebbe wantin' to tell a wean a bit story +before he gangs tae his bed, an' ye canna dae even that. An' then +a while more an' ye want to get to yer feet an' walk, and ye +canna; an' a while more an' ye want to lift up yer hand, an' ye +canna--an' in a while more ye're just forgotten an' done wi'. + +JOHN. Aw, feyther! + +DAVID. Dinna look sae troubled, John. I'm no' afraid to dee when +my time comes. It's these hints that I'm done wi' before I'm dead +that I dinna like. + +JOHN. What'n hints? + +DAVID. Well--Lizzie an' her richt's richt and wrang's wrang when +I think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs tae +his bed. + +JOHN (_gently_). Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther. + +DAVID. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I've gied in. I'm a +philosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's done wi'. + +JOHN. Aw, feyther! + +DAVID (_getting lower and lower_). It's gey interesting, +philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about is +the philosophy of growing old--because that's what we're a' doing, +a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he's +juist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stane +still--unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not a +stane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didna +break up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an' +then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' him +a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.--It's yon losing yer +grip bit by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes a +philosopher, John. + +JOHN. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I'd be +better able to follow ye. + +(LIZZIE _enters quietly and closes door after her._) + +JOHN. Is he asleep? + +LIZZIE. No, he's no' asleep, but I've shut both doors, and the +neighbors canna hear him. + +JOHN. Aw, Lizzie-- + +LIZZIE (_sharply_). John-- + +DAVID. Whit was I tellin' ye, John, about weans gettin' their ain +way if the neighbors had ears an' they lived close? Was I no' +richt? + +LIZZIE (_answering for JOHN with some acerbity_). Aye, ye were +richt, feyther, nae doot; but we dinna live that close here, an' +the neighbors canna hear him at the back o' the hoose. + +DAVID. Mebbe that's why ye changed Alexander into the parlor an' +gied me the bed in here when it began to get cold--- + +LIZZIE (_hurt_). Aw, no, feyther; I brought ye in here to be +warmer-- + +DAVID (_placably_). I believe ye, wumman--(_with a faint +twinkle_)--but it's turned oot luckily, has it no'? + +(_DAVID waits for a reply but gets none. LIZZIE fetches needlework +from the dresser drawer and sits above table. DAVID'S face and +voice take on a more thoughtful tone._) + +DAVID (_musing_). Puir wee man! If he was in here you'd no' be +letting him greet his heart oot where onybody could hear him. Wud +ye? + +LIZZIE (_calmly_). Mebbe I'd no'. + +JOHN. Ye ken fine ye'd no', wumman. + +LIZZIE. John, thread my needle an' dinna take feyther's part +against me. + +JOHN (_surprised_). I'm no'. + +LIZZIE. No, I ken ye're no meanin' to, but you men are that +thrang-- + +(_She is interrupted by a loud squall from_ DAVID, _which he +maintains, eyes shut, chair-arms gripped, and mouth open, for +nearly half a minute, before he cuts it off abruptly and looks at +the startled couple at the table._) + +LIZZIE. Mercy, feyther, whit's wrang wi' ye? + +DAVID (_collectedly_). There's naethin' wrang wi' me, Lizzie, +except that I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story-- + +LIZZIE (_firmly but very kindly_). But ye're no' goin' to-- + +(_She breaks off in alarm as her father opens his mouth +preparatory to another yell, which however he postpones to speak +to_ JOHN.) + +DAVID. Ye mind whit I was saying aboot the dispensation o' +Providence to help weans till they could try for theirselves, +John? + +JOHN. Aye. + +DAVID. Did it no' occur to ye then that there ought to be some +sort of dispensation to look after the auld yins who were past +it? + +JOHN. No. + +DAVID. Aweel--it didna occur to me at the time--(_and he lets off +another prolonged wail_). + +LIZZIE (_going to him_). Shsh! Feyther! The neighbors will hear +ye!!! + +DAVID (_desisting as before_). I ken fine; _I'm_ no' at the +back of the hoose. (_Shorter wail._) + +LIZZIE (_almost in tears_). They'll be coming to ask. + +DAVID. Let them. They'll no'ask _me_. (_Squall._) + +LIZZIE. Feyther--ye're no'behaving well. John-- + +JOHN. Aye? + +LIZZIE (_helplessly_). Naething--feyther, stop it. They'll think +ye're clean daft. + +DAVID (_ceasing to howl and speaking with gravity_). I ken it fine, +Lizzie; an' it's no easy for a man who has been respeckit an' +lookit up to a' his life to be thought daft at eighty-three; but +the most important thing in life is to get yer ain way. (_Resumes +wailing._) + +LIZZIE (_puzzled, to_ JOHN). Whit's that? + +JOHN. It's his philosophy that he was talking aboot. + +DAVID (_firmly_). An' I'm gaein' to tell wee Alexander yon bit +story, tho' they think me daft for it. + +LIZZIE. But it's no' for his ain guid, feyther. I've telt ye so, +but ye wudna listen. + +DAVID. I wudna listen, wumman! It was you wudna listen to me when +I axed ye whit harm--(_Chuckles.--Checking himself_) No! I'm no +gaein' to hae that ower again. I've gied up arguing wi' women. +I'm juist gaein' tae greet loud an' sair till wee Alexander's +brought in here to hae his bit story; an' if the neighbors--(_Loud +squall._) + +LIZZIE (_aside to_ JOHN). He's fair daft! + +JOHN (_aghast_). Ye'd no send him to-- + +LIZZIE (_reproachfully_). John! + +(_A louder squall from the old man._) + +LIZZIE (_beating her hands together distractedly_). He'll be +--We'll--He'll--Och!!! (_Resigned and beaten_) John, go and bring +wee Alexander in here. + +(JOHN _is off like a shot. The opening of the door of the other +room can be told by the burst of_ ALEXANDER'S _voice. The old man's +wails have stopped the second his daughter capitulated. JOHN +returns with_ ALEXANDER _and bears him to his grandfather's waiting +knee. The boy's tears and howls have ceased and he is smiling +triumphantly. He is of course in his night-shirt and a blanket, +which Grandpa wraps round him, turning toward the fire._) + +LIZZIE (_looking on with many nods of the head and smacks of the +lips_). There you are! That's the kind o' boy he is. Greet his +heart oot for a thing an' stop the moment he gets it. + +DAVID. Dae ye expect him to gae on after he's got it? Ah, but, +Alexander, ye didna get it yer lane this time; it took the twa o' +us. An' hard work it was for the Auld Yin! Man! (_Playing +hoarse_) + +I doot I've enough voice left for a--(_Bursting out very loud +and making the boy laugh._) Aweel! Whit's it gaein' to be--eh? + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +SPREADING THE NEWS[1] + +Lady Gregory + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Lady Gregory and +of Messrs. G.P. Putnam's Sons, the publishers of _Seven Short +Plays_ (1909), and other volumes of Lady Gregory's works. +Application for acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28 +West 38th Street, New York City.] + +CHARACTERS + +BARTLEY FALLON +MRS. FALLON +JACK SMIT +SHAWN EARLY +TIM CASEY +JAMES RYAN +MRS. TARPEY +MRS. TULLY +JOE MULDOON, a policeman +A REMOVABLE MAGISTRATE + +SCENE: _The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall._ MRS. TARPEY +_sitting at it._ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _enter._ + + +MAGISTRATE. So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and sheep and mud. +No system. What a repulsive sight! + +POLICEMAN. That is so, indeed. + +MAGISTRATE. I suppose there is a good deal of disorder in this +place? + +POLICEMAN. There is. + +MAGISTRATE. Common assault? + +POLICEMAN. It's common enough. + +MAGISTRATE. Agrarian crime, no doubt? + +POLICEMAN. That is so. + +MAGISTRATE. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing into houses? + +POLICEMAN. There was one time, and there might be again. + +MAGISTRATE. That is bad. Does it go any farther than that? + +POLICEMAN. Far enough, indeed. + +MAGISTRATE. Homicide, then! This district has been shamefully +neglected! I will change all that. When I was in the Andaman +Islands, my system never failed. Yes, yes, I will change all +that. What has that woman on her stall? + +POLICEMAN. Apples mostly--and sweets. + +MAGISTRATE. Just see if there are any unlicensed goods +underneath--spirits or the like. We had evasions of the salt tax +in the Andaman Islands. + +POLICEMAN (_sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of apples_). I +see no spirits here--or salt. + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ MRS. TARPEY). Do you know this town well, my good +woman? + +MRS. TARPEY (_holding out some apples_). A penny the half-dozen, +your honor. + +POLICEMAN (_shouting_). The gentleman is asking do you know the +town! He's the new magistrate! + +MRS. TARPEY (_rising and ducking_). Do I know the town? I do, to be +sure. + +MAGISTRATE (_shouting_). What is its chief business? + +MRS, TARPEY. Business, is it? What business would the people here +have but to be minding one another's business? + +MAGISTRATE. I mean what trade have they? + +MRS. TARPEY. Not a trade. No trade at all but to be talking. + +MAGISTRATE. I shall learn nothing here. + +(JAMES RYAN _comes in, pipe in mouth. Seeing MAGISTRATE, he +retreats quickly, taking pipe from mouth._) + +MAGISTRATE. The smoke from that man's pipe had a greenish look; +he may be growing unlicensed tobacco at home. I wish I had +brought my telescope to this district. Come to the post-office; I +will telegraph for it. I found it very useful in the Andaman +Islands. + +(MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _go out left._) + +MRS. TARPEY. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my apples this way +and that way. (_Begins arranging them._) Showing off he was to the +new magistrate. + +(_Enter_ BARTLEY FALLON _and_ MRS. FALLON.) + +BARTLEY. Indeed it's a poor country and a scarce country to be +living in. But I'm thinking if I went to America it's long ago +the day I'd be dead! + +MRS. FALLON. So you might, indeed. + +(_She puts her basket on a barrel and begins putting parcels in +it, taking them from under her cloak._) + +BARTLEY. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be buried in +America. + +MRS. FALLON. Never fear, Bartley Fallon, but I'll give you a good +burying the day you'll die. + +BARTLEY. Maybe it's yourself will be buried in the graveyard of +Cloonmara before me, Mary Fallon, and I myself that will be dying +unbeknownst some night, and no one a-near me. And the cat itself +may be gone straying through the country, and the mice squealing +over the quilt. + +MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of dying. It might be twenty years +you'll be living yet. + +BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh_). I'm thinking if I'll be living at the +end of twenty years, it's a very old man I'll be then! + +MRS. TARPEY (_turns and sees them_). Good-morrow, Bartley Fallon; +good-morrow, Mrs. Fallon. Well, Bartley, you'll find no cause for +complaining to-day; they are all saying it was a good fair. + +BARTLEY (_raising his voice_). It was not a good fair, Mrs. Tarpey. +It was a scattered sort of a fair. If we didn't expect more, we +got less. That's the way with me always: whatever I have to sell +goes down and whatever I have to buy goes up. If there's ever any +misfortune coming to this world, it's on myself it pitches, like +a flock of crows on seed potatoes. + +MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of misfortunes, and listen to Jack +Smith that is coming the way, and he singing. + +(_Voice of JACK SMITH heard singing_) + + I thought, my first love, + There'd be but one house between you and me. + And I thought I would find + Yourself coaxing my child on your knee. + Over the tide + I would leap with the leap of a swan. + Till I came to the side + Of the wife of the red-haired man! + +(JACK SMITH _comes in; he is a red-haired man, and is carrying a +hayfork._) + +MRS. TARPEY. That should be a good song if I had my hearing. + +MRS. FALLON (_shouting_). It's "The Red-haired Man's Wife." + +MRS. TARPEY. I know it well. That's the song that has a skin on +it! + +(_She turns her back to them and goes on arranging her apples._) + +MRS. FALLON. Where's herself, Jack Smith? + +JACK SMITH. She was delayed with her washing; bleaching the +clothes on the hedge she is, and she daren't leave them, with all +the tinkers that do be passing to the fair. It isn't to the fair +I came myself, but up to the Five-Acre Meadow I'm going, where I +have a contract for the hay. We'll get a share of it into tramps +to-day. + +(_He lays down hayfork and lights his pipe._) + +BARTLEY. You will not get it into tramps to-day. The rain will be +down on it by evening, and on myself too. It's seldom I ever +started on a journey but the rain would come down on me before +I'd find any place of shelter. + +JACK SMITH. If it didn't itself, Bartley, it is my belief you +would carry a leaky pail on your head in place of a hat, the way +you'd not be without some cause of complaining. + +(_A voice heard: "Go on, now, go on out o' that. Go on, I say."_) + +JACK SMITH. Look at that young mare of Pat Ryan's that is backing +into Shaughnessy's bullocks with the dint of the crowd! Don't be +daunted, Pat, I'll give you a hand with her. (_He goes out, +leaving his hayfork._) + +MRS. FALLON. It's time for ourselves to be going home. I have all +I bought put in the basket. Look at there, Jack Smith's hayfork +he left after him! He'll be wanting it. (_Calls_) Jack Smith! Jack +Smith!--He's gone through the crowd; hurry after him, Bartley, +he'll be wanting it. + +BARTLEY. I'll do that. This is no safe place to be leaving it. +(_He takes up fork awkwardly and upsets the basket._) Look at that +now! If there is any basket in the fair upset, it must be our own +basket! (_He goes out to right._) + +MRS. FALLON. Get out of that! It is your own fault, it is. Talk +of misfortunes and misfortunes will come. Glory be! Look at my +new egg-cups rolling in every part--and my two pound of sugar +with the paper broke-- + +MRS. TARPEY (_turning from stall_). God help us, Mrs. Fallon, what +happened your basket? + +MRS. FALLON. It's himself that knocked it down, bad manners to +him. (_Putting things up_) My grand sugar that's destroyed, and +he'll not drink his tea without it. I had best go back to the +shop for more, much good may it do him! + +(_Enter_ TIM CASEY.) + +TIM CASEY. Where is Bartley Fallon, Mrs. Fallon? I want a word +with him before he'll leave the fair. I was afraid he might have +gone home by this, for he's a temperate man. + +MRS. FALLON. I wish he did go home! It'd be best for me if he +went home straight from the fair green, or if he never came with +me at all! Where is he, is it? He's gone up the road (_jerks +elbow_) following Jack Smith with a hayfork. + +(_She goes out to left._) + +TIM CASEY. Following Jack Smith with a hayfork! Did ever anyone +hear the like of that. (_Shouts_) Did you hear that news, Mrs. +Tarpey? + +MRS. TARPEY. I heard no news at all. + +TIM CASEY. Some dispute I suppose it was that rose between Jack +Smith and Bartley Fallon, and it seems Jack made off, and Bartley +is following him with a hayfork! + +MRS. TARPEY. Is he now? Well, that was quick work! It's not ten +minutes since the two of them were here, Bartley going home and +Jack going to the Five-Acre Meadow; and I had my apples to settle +up, that Jo Muldoon of the police had scattered, and when I +looked round again Jack Smith was gone, and Bartley Fallon was +gone, and Mrs. Fallon's basket upset, and all in it strewed upon +the ground--the tea here--the two pound of sugar there--the +egg-cups there. Look, now, what a great hardship the deafness +puts upon me, that I didn't hear the commincement of the fight! +Wait till I tell James Ryan that I see below; he is a neighbor of +Bartley's; it would be a pity if he wouldn't hear the news! + +(_She goes out. Enter_ SHAWN EARLY _and_ MRS. TULLY.) + +TIM CASEY. Listen, Shawn Early! Listen, Mrs. Tully, to the news! +Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon had a falling out, and Jack knocked +Mrs. Fallon's basket into the road, and Bartley made an attack on +him with a hayfork, and away with Jack, and Bartley after him. +Look at the sugar here yet on the road! + +SHAWN EARLY. Do you tell me so? Well, that's a queer thing, and +Bartley Fallen so quiet a man! + +MRS. TULLY. I wouldn't wonder at all. I would never think well of +a man that would have that sort of a moldering look. It's likely +he has overtaken Jack by this. + +(_Enter_ JAMES RYAN _and_ MRS. TARPEY.) + +JAMES RYAN. That is great news Mrs. Tarpey was telling me! I +suppose that's what brought the police and the magistrate up this +way. I was wondering to see them in it a while ago. + +SHAWN EARLY. The police after them? Bartley Fallen must have +injured Jack so. They wouldn't meddle in a fight that was only +for show! + +MRS. TULLY. Why wouldn't he injure him? There was many a man +killed with no more of a weapon than a hayfork. + +JAMES RYAN. Wait till I run north as far as Kelly's bar to spread +the news! + +(_He goes out._) + +TIM CASEY. I'll go tell Jack Smith's first cousin that is +standing there south of the church after selling his lambs. + +(_Goes out._) + +MRS. TULLY. I'll go telling a few of the neighbors I see beyond +to the west. + +(_Goes out._) + +SHAWN EARLY. I'll give word of it beyond at the east of the +green. + +(_Is going out when MRS. TARPEY seizes hold of him._) + +MRS. TARPEY. Stop a minute, Shawn Early, and tell me did you see +red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary, in any place? + +SHAWN EARLY. I did. At her own house she was, drying clothes on +the hedge as I passed. + +MRS. TARPEY. What did you say she was doing? + +SHAWN EARLY (_breaking away_). Laying out a sheet on the hedge. + +(_He goes._) + +MRS. TARPEY. Laying out a sheet for the dead! The Lord have mercy +on us! Jack Smith dead, and his wife laying out a sheet for his +burying! (_Calls out_) Why didn't you tell me that before, Shawn +Early? Isn't the deafness the great hardship? Half the world +might be dead without me knowing of it or getting word of it at +all! (_She sits down and rocks herself._) O my poor Jack Smith! To +be going to his work so nice and so hearty, and to be left +stretched on the ground in the full light of the day! + +(_Enter_ TIM CASEY.) + +TIM CASEY. What is it, Mrs. Tarpey? What happened since? + +MRS. TARPEY. O my poor Jack Smith! + +TIM CASEY. Did Bartley overtake him? + +MRS. TARPEY. O the poor man! + +TIM CASEY. Is it killed he is? + +MRS. TARPEY. Stretched in the Five-Acre Meadow! + +TIM CASEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Is that a fact? + +MRS. TARPEY. Without the rites of the Church or a ha'porth! + +TIM CASEY. Who was telling you? + +MRS. TARPEY. And the wife laying out a sheet for his corpse. +(_Sits up and wipes her eyes._) I suppose they'll wake him the same +as another? + +(_Enter_ MRS. TULLY, SHAWN EARLY, _and_ JAMES RYAN.) + +MRS. TULLY. There is great talk about this work in every quarter +of the fair. + +MRS. TARPEY. Ochone! cold and dead. And myself maybe the last he +was speaking to! + +JAMES RYAN. The Lord save us! Is it dead he is? + +TIM CASEY. Dead surely, and the wife getting provision for the +wake. + +SHAWN EARLY. Well, now, hadn't Bartley Fallon great venom in him? + +MRS. TULLY. You may be sure he had some cause. Why would he have +made an end of him if he had not? (_To MRS. TARPEY, raising her +voice_) What was it rose the dispute at all, Mrs. Tarpey? + +MRS. TARPEY. Not a one of me knows. The last I saw of them, Jack +Smith was standing there, and Bartley Fallon was standing there, +quiet and easy, and he listening to "The Red-haired Man's Wife." + +MRS. TULLY. Do you hear that, Tim Casey? Do you hear that, Shawn +Early and James Ryan? Bartley Fallon was here this morning +listening to red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary that was! +Listening to her and whispering with her! It was she started the +fight so! + +SHAWN EARLY. She must have followed him from her own house. It is +likely some person roused him. + +TIM CASEY. I never knew, before, Bartley Fallon was great with +Jack Smith's wife. + +MRS. TULLY. How would you know it? Sure it's not in the streets +they would be calling it. If Mrs. Fallon didn't know of it, and +if I that have the next house to them didn't know of it, and if +Jack Smith himself didn't know of it, it is not likely you would +know of it, Tim Casey. + +SHAWN EARLY. Let Bartley Fallon take charge of her from this out +so, and let him provide for her. It is little pity she will get +from any person in this parish. + +TIM CASEY. How can he take charge of her? Sure he has a wife of +his own. Sure you don't think he'd turn souper and marry her in a +Protestant church? + +JAMES RYAN. It would be easy for him to marry her if he brought +her to America. + +SHAWN EARLY. With or without Kitty Keary, believe me, it is for +America he's making at this minute. I saw the new magistrate and +Jo Muldoon of the police going into the post-office as I came +up--there was hurry on them--you may be sure it was to telegraph +they went, the way he'll be stopped in the docks at Queenstown! + +MRS. TULLY. It's likely Kitty Keary is gone with him, and not +minding a sheet or a wake at all. The poor man, to be deserted by +his own wife, and the breath hardly gone out yet from his body +that is lying bloody in the field! + +(_Enter_ MRS. FALLON.) + +MRS. FALLON. What is it the whole of the town is talking about? +And what is it you yourselves are talking about? Is it about my +man Bartley Fallon you are talking? Is it lies about him you are +telling, saying that he went killing Jack Smith? My grief that +ever he came into this place at all! + +JAMES RYAN. Be easy now, Mrs. Fallon. Sure there is no one at all +in the whole fair but is sorry for you! + +MRS. FALLON. Sorry for me, is it? Why would anyone be sorry for +me? Let you be sorry for yourselves, and that there may be shame +on you forever and at the day of judgment, for the words you are +saying and the lies you are telling to take away the character of +my poor man, and to take the good name off of him, and to drive +him to destruction! That is what you are doing! + +SHAWN EARLY. Take comfort now, Mrs. Fallon. The police are not so +smart as they think. Sure he might give them the slip yet, the +same as Lynchehaun. + +MRS. TULLY. If they do get him, and if they do put a rope around +his neck, there is no one can say he does not deserve it! + +MRS. FALLON. Is that what you are saying, Bridget Tully, and is +that what you think? I tell you it's too much talk you have, +making yourself out to be such a great one, and to be running +down every respectable person! A rope, is it? It isn't much of a +rope was needed to tie up your own furniture the day you came +into Martin Tully's house, and you never bringing as much as a +blanket, or a penny, or a suit of clothes with you, and I myself +bringing seventy pounds and two feather beds. And now you are +stiffer than a woman would have a hundred pounds! It is too much +talk the whole of you have. A rope is it? I tell you the whole of +this town is full of liars and schemers that would hang you up +for half a glass of whiskey (_turning to go_). People they are you +wouldn't believe as much as daylight from, without you'd get up +to have a look at it yourself. Killing Jack Smith indeed! Where +are you at all, Bartley, till I bring you out of this? My nice +quiet little man! My decent comrade! He that is as kind and as +harmless as an innocent beast of the field! He'll be doing no +harm at all if he'll shed the blood of some of you after this +day's work! That much would be no harm at all. (_Calls out_) +Bartley! Bartley Fallen! Where are you? (_Going out_) Did anyone +see Bartley Fallon? + +(_All turn to look after her._) + +JAMES RYAN. It is hard for her to believe any such a thing, God +help her! + +(_Enter BARTLEY FALLON from right, carrying hayfork._) + +BARTLEY. It is what I often said to myself, if there is ever any +misfortune coming to this world it is on myself it is sure to +come! + +(_All turn round and face him._) + +BARTLEY. To be going about with this fork and to find no one to +take it, and no place to leave it down, and I wanting to be gone +out of this--Is that you, Shawn Early? + +(_Holds out fork._) It's well I met you. You have no call to be +leaving the fair for a while the way I have, and how can I go +till I'm rid of this fork? Will you take it and keep it until +such time as Jack Smith-- + +SHAWN EARLY (_backing_). I will not take it, Bartley Fallon, I'm +very thankful to you! + +BARTLEY (_turning to apple stall_). Look at it now, Mrs. Tarpey, it +was here I got it; let me thrust it in under the stall. It will +lie there safe enough, and no one will take notice of it until +such time as Jack Smith-- + +MRS. TARPEY. Take your fork out of that! Is it to put trouble on +me and to destroy me you want? putting it there for the police to +be rooting it out maybe. + +(_Thrusts him back._) + +BARTLEY. That is a very unneighborly thing for you to do, Mrs. +Tarpey. Hadn't I enough care on me with that fork before this, +running up and down with it like the swinging of a clock, and +afeard to lay it down in any place! I wish I'd never touched it +or meddled with it at all! + +JAMES RYAN. It is a pity, indeed, you ever did. + +BARTLEY. Will you yourself take it, James Ryan? You were always a +neighborly man. + +JAMES RYAN (_backing_). There is many a thing I would do for you, +Bartley Fallon, but I won't do that! + +SHAWN EARLY. I tell you there is no man will give you any help or +any encouragement for this day's work. If it was something +agrarian now-- + +BARTLEY. If no one at all will take it, maybe it's best to give +it up to the police. + +TIM CASEY. There'd be a welcome for it with them surely! + +(_Laughter._) + +MRS. TULLY. And it is to the police Kitty Keary herself will be +brought. + +MRS. TARPEY (_rocking to and fro_). I wonder now who will take the +expense of the wake for poor Jack Smith? + +BARTLEY. The wake for Jack Smith! + +TIM CASEY. Why wouldn't he get a wake as well as another? Would +you begrudge him that much? + +BARTLEY. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you? + +SHAWN EARLY. The whole town knows of it by this. + +BARTLEY. Do they say what way did he die? + +JAMES RYAN. You don't know that yourself, I suppose, Bartley +Fallon? You don't know he was followed and that he was laid dead +with the stab of a hayfork? + +BARTLEY. The stab of a hayfork! + +SHAWN EARLY. You don't know, I suppose, that the body was found +in the Five-Acre Meadow? + +BARTLEY. The Five-Acre Meadow! + +TIM CASEY. It is likely you don't know that the police are after +the man that did it? + +BARTLEY. The man that did it! + +MRS. TULLY. You don't know, maybe, that he was made away with for +the sake of Kitty Keary, his wife? + +BARTLEY. Kitty Keary, his wife! (_Sits down bewildered._) + +MRS. TULLY. And what have you to say now, Bartley Fallon? + +BARTLEY (_crossing himself_). I to bring that fork here, and to +find that news before me! It is much if I can ever stir from this +place at all, or reach as far as the road! + +TIM CASEY. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and Jo Muldoon +along with him! It's best for us to quit this. + +SHAWN EARLY. That is so. It is best not to be mixed in this +business at all. + +JAMES RYAN. Bad as he is, I wouldn't like to be an informer +against any man. + +(_All hurry away except_ MRS. TARPEY, _who remains behind her stall. +Enter_ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN.) + +MAGISTRATE. I knew the district was in a bad state, but I did not +expect to be confronted with a murder at the first fair I came +to. + +POLICEMAN. I am sure you did not, indeed. + +MAGISTRATE. It was well I had not gone home. I caught a few words +here and there that roused my suspicions. + +POLICEMAN. So they would, too. + +MAGISTRATE. You heard the same story from everyone you asked? + +POLICEMAN. The same story--or if it was not altogether the same, +anyway it was no less than the first story. + +MAGISTRATE. What is that man doing? He is sitting alone with a +hayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder was done with a +hayfork! + +POLICEMAN (_in a whisper_). That's the very man they say did the +act, Bartley Fallon himself! + +MAGISTRATE. He must have found escape difficult--he is trying to +brazen it out. A convict in the Andaman Islands tried the same +game, but he could not escape my system! Stand aside--Don't go +far--Have the handcuffs ready. (_He walks up to BARTLEY, folds his +arms, and stands before him._) Here, my man, do you know anything +of John Smith? + +BARTLEY. Of John Smith! Who is he, now? + +POLICEMAN. Jack Smith, sir--Red Jack Smith! + +MAGISTRATE (_coming a step nearer and tapping him on the +shoulder_). Where is Jack Smith? + +BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly_). Where is +he, indeed? + +MAGISTRATE. What have you to tell? + +BARTLEY. It is where he was this morning, standing in this spot, +singing his share of songs--no, but lighting his pipe--scraping a +match on the sole of his shoe-- + +MAGISTRATE. I ask you, for the third time, where is he? + +BARTLEY. I wouldn't like to say that. It is a great mystery, and +it is hard to say of any man, did he earn hatred or love. + +MAGISTRATE. Tell me all you know. + +BARTLEY. All that I know--Well, there are the three estates; +there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there is-- + +MAGISTRATE. Nonsense! This is trifling! Get to the point. + +BARTLEY. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so? That is the +teaching of the clergy. Maybe you hold with the old people. It is +what they do be saying, that the shadow goes wandering, and the +soul is tired, and the body is taking a rest--The shadow! (_Starts +up._) I was nearly sure I saw Jack Smith not ten minutes ago at +the corner of the forge, and I lost him again--Was it his ghost I +saw, do you think? + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Conscience-struck! He will confess all +now! + +BARTLEY. His ghost to come before me! It is likely it was on +account of the fork! I to have it and he to have no way to defend +himself the time he met with his death! + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). I must note down his words. (_Takes out +notebook. To_ BARTLEY) I warn you that your words are being noted. + +BARTLEY. If I had ha' run faster in the beginning, this terror +would not be on me at the latter end! Maybe he will cast it up +against me at the day of judgment--I wouldn't wonder at all at +that. + +MAGISTRATE (_writing_). At the day of judgment-- + +BARTLEY. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me--is it coming +after me always by day it will be, and stripping the clothes off +in the nighttime?--I wouldn't wonder at all at that, being as I +am an unfortunate man! + +MAGISTRATE (_sternly_). Tell me this truly. What was the motive of +this crime? + +BARTLEY. The motive, is it? + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, the motive; the cause. + +BARTLEY. I'd sooner not say that. + +MAGISTRATE. You'd better tell me truly. Was it money? + +BARTLEY. Not at all! What did poor Jack Smith ever have in his +pockets unless it might be his hands that would be in them? + +MAGISTRATE. Any dispute about land? + +BARTLEY (_indignantly_). Not at all! He never was a grabber or +grabbed from anyone! + +MAGISTRATE. You will find it better for you if you tell me at +once. + +BARTLEY. I tell you I wouldn't for the whole world wish to say +what it was--it is a thing I would not like to be talking about. + +MAGISTRATE. There is no use in hiding it. It will be discovered +in the end. + +BARTLEY. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly everybody +knows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell no lie; where +would be the use? (_Puts his hand to his mouth and MAGISTRATE +stoops._) Don't be putting the blame on the parish, for such a +thing was never done in the parish before--it was done for the +sake of Kitty Keary, Jack Smith's wife. + +MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Put on the handcuffs. We have been +saved some trouble. I knew he would confess if taken in the right +way. + +(POLICEMAN _puts on handcuffs._) + +BARTLEY. Handcuffs now! Glory be! I always said, if there was +ever any misfortune coming to this place it was on myself it +would fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's no wonder at all in +that. + +(_Enter MRS. FALLON, followed by the rest. She is looking back at +them as she speaks._) + +MRS. FALLON. Telling lies the whole of the people of this town +are; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot! +Speaking against my poor respectable man! Saying he made an end +of Jack Smith! My decent comrade! There is no better man and no +kinder man in the whole of the five parishes! It's little +annoyance he ever gave to anyone! (_Turns and sees him._) What in +the earthly world do I see before me? Bartley Fallon in charge of +the police! Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, Bartley, what did you do +at all at all? + +BAHTLEY. O Mary, there has a great misfortune come upon me! It is +what I always said, that if there is ever any misfortune-- + +MRS. FALLON. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched I am? + +MAGISTRATE. This man has been arrested on a charge of murder. + +MRS. FALLON. Whose charge is that? Don't believe them! They are +all liars in this place! Give me back my man! + +MAGISTRATE. It is natural you should take his part, but you have +no cause of complaint against your neighbors. He has been +arrested for the murder of John Smith, on his own confession. + +MRS. FALLON. The saints of heaven protect us! And what did he +want killing Jack Smith? + +MAGISTRATE. It is best you should know all. He did it on account +of a love-affair with the murdered man's wife. + +MRS. FALLON (_sitting down_). With Jack Smith's wife! With Kitty +Keary!--Ochone, the traitor! + +THE CROWD. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, indeed. + +MRS. TULLY. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. Fallon. + +BAETLEY. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you-- + +MRS. FALLON. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any word you'll +say! (_Stops her ears._) Oh, isn't he the treacherous villain? +Ohone go deo! + +BARTLEY. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say! + +MRS. FALLON. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to the town, +so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like that in his +heart! + +BARTLEY. Is it your wits you have lost, or is it I myself that +have lost my wits? + +MRS. FALLON. And it's hard I earned you, slaving, slaving--and +you grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and discontented, and +the priest wore out anointing you, with all the times you +threatened to die! + +BARTLEY. Let you be quiet till I tell you! + +MRS. FALLON. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish. A +thing that was never heard of before! + +BARTLEY. Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking? + +MRS. FALLON. And if it was for any sort of a fine handsome woman, +but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, that's not +four feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her head unless she +got new ones! May God reward you, Bartley Fallon, for the black +treachery in your heart and the wickedness in your mind, and the +red blood of poor Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand! + +(_Voice of JACK SMITH heard singing_) + + The sea shall be dry, + The earth under mourning and ban! + Then loud shall he cry + For the wife of the red-haired man! + +BARTLEY. It's Jack Smith's voice--I never knew a ghost to sing +before. It is after myself and the fork he is coming! (_Goes back. +Enter_ JACK SMITH.) Let one of you give him the fork and I will be +clear of him now and for eternity! + +MRS. TARPEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Red Jack Smith! The man +that was going to be waked! + +JAMES RYAN. Is it back from the grave you are come? + +SHAWN EARLY. Is it alive you are, or is it dead you are? + +TIM CASEY. Is it yourself at all that's in it? + +MRS. TULLY. Is it letting on you were to be dead? + +MRS. FALLON. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary, your wife, +from bringing my man away with her to America! + +JACK SMITH. It is what I think, the wits are gone astray on the +whole of you. What would my wife want bringing Bartley Fallon to +America? + +MRS. FALLON. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you she wants, +Jack Smith, and to bring him away from myself. That's what the +two of them had settled together. + +JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that says that! Who is +it says it? (_To_ TIM CASEY) Was it you said it? (_To_ SHAWN EARLY) +Was it you? + +ALL TOGETHER (_backing and shaking their heads_). It wasn't I said +it! + +JACK SMITH. Tell me the name of any man that said it! + +ALL TOGETHEB (_pointing to_ BARTLEY). It was _him_ that said +it! + +JACK SMITH. Let me at him till I break his head! + +(BARTLEY _backs in terror. Neighbors hold_ JACK SMITH _back._) + +JACK SMITH (_trying to free himself_). Let me at him! Isn't he the +pleasant sort of a scarecrow for any woman to be crossing the +ocean with! It's back from the docks of New York he'd be turned +(_trying to rush at him again_), with a lie in his mouth and +treachery in his heart, and another man's wife by his side, and +he passing her off as his own! Let me at him, can't you? + +(_Makes another rush, but is held back._) + +MAGISTRATE (_pointing to_ JACK SMITH). Policeman, put the handcuffs +on this man. I see it all now. A case of false impersonation, a +conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. There was a case in the +Andaman Islands, a murderer of the Mopsa tribe, a religious +enthusiast-- + +POLICEMAN. So he might be, too. + +MAGISTRATE. We must take both these men to the scene of the +murder. We must confront them with the body of the real Jack +Smith. + +JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that will find my dead +body! + +MAGISTRATE. I'll call more help from the barracks. + +(_Blows POLICEMAN'S whistle._) + +BARTLEY. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack Smith are +put together in the one cell for the night, the handcuffs will be +taken off him, and his hands will be free, and murder will be +done that time surely! + +MAGISTRATE. Come on! + +(_They turn to the right._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE BEGGAR AND THE KING[1] + +Winthrop Parkhurst + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted from Drama, No. 33, February, 1919, by +permission of Mr. Parkhurst and the editors of Drama. +Copyrighted, 1918, as a dramatic composition, by Winthrop +Parkhurst. All rights of production reserved by author.] + +CHARACTERS + +THE KING OF A GREAT COUNTRY +HIS SERVANT +A BEGGAR + +_A chamber in the palace overlooks a courtyard. The season is +midsummer. The windows of the palace are open, and from a +distance there comes the sound of a man's voice crying for bread._ +THE KING _sits in a golden chair. A golden crown is on his head, +and he holds in his hand a sceptre which is also of gold. A_ +SERVANT _stands by his side, fanning him with an enormous fan of +peacock feathers._ + + +THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE KING (_languidly_). Who is that crying in the street for bread? + +THE SERVANT (_fanning_). O king, it is a beggar. + +THE KING. Why does he cry for bread? + +THE SERVANT. O king, he cries for bread in order that he may fill +his belly. + +THE KING. I do not like the sound of his voice. It annoys me very +much. Send him away. + +THE SERVANT (_bowing_). O king, he _has_ been sent away. + +THE KING. If that is so, then why do I hear his voice? + +THE SERVANT. O king, he has been sent away many times, yet each +time that he is sent away he returns again, crying louder than he +did before. + +THE KING. He is very unwise to annoy me on such a warm day. He +must be punished for his impudence. Use the lash on him. + +THE SERVANT. O king, it has been done. + +THE KING. Then bring out the spears. + +THE SEBVANT. O king, the guards have already bloodied their +swords many times driving him away from the palace gates. But it +is of no avail. + +THE KING. Then bind him and gag him if necessary. If need be cut +out his tongue. I do not like the sound of the fellow's voice. It +annoys me very much. + +THE SERVANT. O king, thy orders were obeyed even yesterday. + +THE KING (_frowning_). No. That cannot be. A beggar cannot cry for +bread who has no tongue. + +THE SERVANT. Behold he can--if he has grown another. + +THE KING. What! Why, men are not given more than one tongue in a +lifetime. To have more than one tongue is treason. + +THE SERVANT. If it is treason to have more than one tongue, O +king, then is this beggar surely guilty of treason. + +THE KING (_pompously_). The punishment for treason is death. See to +it that the fellow is slain. And do not fan me so languidly. I am +very warm. + +THE SERVANT (_fanning more rapidly_). Behold, O great and +illustrious king, all thy commands were obeyed even yesterday. + +THE KING. How! Do not jest with thy king. + +THE SERVANT. If I jest, then there is truth in a jest. Even +yesterday, O king, as I have told thee, the beggar which thou now +hearest crying aloud in the street was slain by thy soldiers with +a sword. + +THE KING. Do ghosts eat bread? Forsooth, men who have been slain +with a sword do not go about in the streets crying for a piece of +bread. + +THE SERVANT. Forsooth, they do if they are fashioned as this +beggar. + +THE KING. Why, he is but a man. Surely he cannot have more than +one life in a lifetime. + +THE SERVANT. Listen to a tale, O king, which happened yesterday. + +THE KING. I am listening. + +THE SERVANT. Thy soldiers smote this beggar for crying aloud in +the streets for bread, but his wounds are already healed. They +cut out his tongue, but he immediately grew another. They slew +him, yet he is now alive. + +THE KING. Ah! that is a tale which I cannot understand at all. + +THE SERVANT. O king, it may be well. + +THE KING. I cannot understand what thou sayest, either. + +THE SERVANT. O king, that may be well also. + +THE KING. Thou art speaking now in riddles. I do not like +riddles. They confuse my brain. + +THE SERVANT. Behold, O king, if I speak in riddles it is because +a riddle has come to pass. + +(THE BEGGAR'S _voice suddenly cries out loudly._) + +THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE KING. Ah! He is crying out again. His voice seems to me +louder than it was before. + +THE SERVANT. Hunger is as food to the lungs, O king. + +THE KING. His lungs I will wager are well fed. Ha, ha! + +THE SERVANT. But alas! his stomach is quite empty. + +THE KING. That is not my business. + +THE SERVANT. Should I not perhaps fling him a crust from the +window? + +THE KING. No! To feed a beggar is always foolish. Every crumb +that is given to a beggar is an evil seed from which springs +another fellow like him. + +THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE SERVANT. He seems very hungry, O king. + +THE KING. Yes. So I should judge. + +THE SERVANT. If thou wilt not let me fling, him a piece of bread +thine ears must pay the debts of thy hand. + +THE KING. A king can have no debts. + +THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Even so, the noise of this +fellow's begging must annoy thee greatly. + +THE KING. It does. + +THE SERVANT. Doubtless he craves only a small crust from thy +table and he would be content. + +THE KING. Yea, doubtless he craves only to be a king and he would +be very happy indeed. + +THE SERVANT. Do not be hard, O king. Thou art ever wise and just. +This fellow is exceedingly hungry. Dost thou not command me to +fling him just one small crust from the window? + +THE KING. My commands I have already given thee. See that the +beggar is driven away. + +THE SERVANT. But alas! O king, if he is driven away he will +return again even as he did before. + +THE KING. Then see to it that he is slain. I cannot be annoyed +with the sound of his voice. + +THE SERVANT. But alas! O great and illustrious king, if he is +slain he will come to life again even as he did before. + +THE KING. Ah! that is true. But his voice troubles me. I do not +like to hear it. + +THE SERVANT. His lungs are fattened with hunger. Of a truth they +are quite strong. + +THE KING. Well, propose a remedy to weaken them. + +THE SERVANT. A remedy, O king? + +(_He stops fanning._) + +THE KING. That is what I said. A remedy--and do not stop fanning +me. I am exceedingly warm. + +THE SERVANT (_fanning vigorously_). A crust of bread, O king, +dropped from yonder window--forsooth that might prove a remedy. + +THE KING (_angrily_). I have said I will not give him a crust of +bread. If I gave him a crust to-day he would be just as hungry +again to-morrow, and my troubles would be as great as before. + +THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Thy mind is surely filled with +great learning. + +THE KING. Therefore, some other remedy must be found. + +THE SERVANT. O king, the words of thy illustrious mouth are as +very meat-balls of wisdom. + +THE KING (_musing_). Now let me consider. Thou sayest he does not +suffer pain-- + +THE SERVANT. Therefore he cannot be tortured. + +THE KING. And he will not die-- + +THE SERVANT. Therefore it is useless to kill him. + +THE KING. Now let me consider. I must think of some other way. + +THE SERVANT. Perhaps a small crust of bread, O king-- + +THE KING. Ha! I have it. I have it. I myself will order him to +stop. + +THE SERVANT (_horrified_). O king! + +THE KING. Send the beggar here. + +THE SERVANT. O king! + +THE KING. Ha! I rather fancy the fellow will stop his noise when +the king commands him to. Ha, ha, ha! + +THE SERVANT. O king, thou wilt not have a beggar brought into thy +royal chamber! + +THE KING (_pleased with his idea_). Yea. Go outside and tell this +fellow that the king desires his presence. + +THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not +do this thing. Thou wilt surely not soil thy royal eyes by +looking on such a filthy creature. Thou wilt surely not +contaminate thy lips by speaking to a common beggar who cries +aloud in the streets for bread. + +THE KING. My ears have been soiled too much already. Therefore go +now and do as I have commanded thee. + +THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not-- + +THE KING (_roaring at him_). I said, Go! (THE SERVANT, _abashed, +goes out._) Forsooth, I fancy the fellow will stop his bawling +when I order him to. Forsooth, I fancy he will be pretty well +frightened when he hears that the king desires his presence. Ha, +ha, ha, ha! + +THE SERVANT (_returning_). O king, here is the beggar. + +(_A shambling creature hung in filthy rags follows_ THE SERVANT +_slowly into the royal chamber._) + +THE KING. Ha! A magnificent sight, to be sure. Art thou the +beggar who has been crying aloud in the streets for bread? + +THE BEGGAR (_in a faint voice, after a slight pause_). Art thou the +king? + +THE KING. I am the king. + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). It is not proper for a beggar +to ask a question of a king. Speak only as thou art spoken to. + +THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Do thou likewise. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) I +have ordered thee here to speak to thee concerning a very grave +matter. Thou art the beggar, I understand, who often cries aloud +in the streets for bread. Now, the complaint of thy voice annoys +me greatly. Therefore, do not beg any more. + +THE BEGGAR (_faintly_). I--I do not understand. + +THE KING. I said, do not beg any more. + +THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). The king has commanded thee +not to beg for bread any more. The noise of thy voice is as +garbage in his ears. + +THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Ha! An excellent flower of speech. Pin +it in thy buttonhole. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) Thine ears, I see, are in +need of a bath even more than thy body. I said, _Do not beg any +more._ + +THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. + +THE KING (_making a trumpet of his hands and shouting_). _DO NOT +BEG ANY MORE._ + +THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. + +THE KING. Heavens! He is deafer than a stone wall. + +THE SERVANT. O king, he cannot be deaf, for he understood me +quite easily when I spoke to him in the street. + +THE KING (_to_ THE BEGGAR). Art thou deaf? Canst thou hear what I +am saying to thee now? + +THE BEGGAR. Alas! I can hear every word perfectly. + +THE KING. Fft! The impudence. Thy tongue shall be cut out for +this. + +THE SERVANT. O king, to cut out his tongue is useless, for he +will grow another. + +THE KING. No matter. It shall be cut out anyway. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) +I have ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets. What +meanest thou by saying thou dost not understand? + +THE BEGGAR. The words of thy mouth I can hear perfectly. But +their noise is only a foolish tinkling in my ears. + +THE KING. Fft! Only a--! A lash will tinkle thy hide for thee if +thou dost not cure thy tongue of impudence. I, thy king, have +ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets for bread. +Signify, therefore, that thou wilt obey the orders of thy king by +quickly touching thy forehead thrice to the floor. + +THE BEGGAR. That is impossible. + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). Come. It is not safe to tempt +the patience of the king too long. His patience is truly great, +but he loses it most wondrous quickly. + +THE KING. Come, now: I have ordered thee to touch thy forehead to +the floor. + +THE SERVANT (_nudging him_). And quickly. + +THE BEGGAR. Wherefore should I touch my forehead to the floor? + +THE KING. In order to seal thy promise to thy king. + +THE BEGGAR. But I have made no promise. Neither have I any king. + +THE KING. Ho! He has made no promise. Neither has he any king. +Ha, ha, ha. I have commanded thee not to beg any more, for the +sound of thy voice is grievous unto my ears. Touch thy forehead +now to the floor, as I have commanded thee, and thou shall go +from this palace a free man. Refuse, and thou wilt be sorry +before an hour that thy father ever came within twenty paces of +thy mother. + +THE BEGGAR. I have ever lamented that he did. For to be born into +this world a beggar is a more unhappy thing than any that I +know--unless it is to be born a king. + +THE KING. Fft! Thy tongue of a truth is too lively for thy +health. Come, now, touch thy forehead thrice to the floor and +promise solemnly that thou wilt never beg in the streets again. +And hurry! + +THE SERVANT (_aside_). It is wise to do as thy king commands thee. +His patience is near an end. + +THE KING. Do not be afraid to soil the floor with thy forehead. I +will graciously forgive thee for that. + +(THE BEGGAR _stands motionless._) + +THE SERVANT. I said, it is not wise to keep the king waiting. + +(THE BEGGAR _does not move._) + +THE KING. Well? (_A pause._) _Well?_ (_In a rage_) _WELL?_ + +THE BEGGAR. O king, thou hast commanded me not to beg in the +streets for bread, for the noise of my voice offends thee. Now +therefore do I likewise command thee to remove thy crown from thy +forehead and throw it from yonder window into the street. For +when thou hast thrown thy crown into the street, then will I no +longer be obliged to beg. + +THE KING. Fft! _Thou_ commandest _me!_ _Thou_, a +beggar from the streets, commandest _me_, a king, to remove +my crown from my forehead and throw it from yonder window into +the street! + +THE BEGGAR. That is what I said. + +THE KING. Why, dost thou not know I can have thee slain for such +words? + +THE BEGGAR. No. Thou canst not have me slain. The spears of thy +soldiers are as straws against my body. + +THE KING. Ha! We shall see if they are. We shall see! + +THE SERVANT. O king, it is indeed true. It is even as he has told +thee. + +THE BEGGAR. I have required thee to remove thy crown from thy +forehead. If so be thou wilt throw it from yonder window into the +street, my voice will cease to annoy thee any more. But if thou +refuse, then thou wilt wish thou hadst never had any crown at +all. For thy days will be filled with a terrible boding and thy +nights will be full of horrors, even as a ship is full of rats. + +THE KING. Why, this is insolence. This is treason! + +THE BEGGAR. Wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder window? + +THE KING. Why, this is high treason! + +THE BEGGAR. I ask thee, wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder +window? + +THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE KING). Perhaps it were wise to humor +him, O king. After thou hast thrown thy crown away I can go +outside and bring it to thee again. + +THE BEGGAR. Well? Well? (_He points to the window._) Well? + +THE KING. No! I will not throw my crown from that window--no, nor +from any other window. What! Shall I obey the orders of a beggar? +Never! + +THE BEGGAR (_preparing to leave_). Truly, that is spoken like a +king. Thou art a king, so thou wouldst prefer to lose thy head +than that silly circle of gold that so foolishly sits upon it. +But it is well. Thou art a king. Thou couldst not prefer +otherwise. (_He walks calmly toward the door._) + +THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Stop him! Seize him! Does he think to +get off so easily with his impudence! + +THE BEGGAR (_coolly_). One of thy servants cannot stop me. Neither +can ten thousand of them do me any harm. I am stronger than a +mountain. I am stronger than the sea! + +THE KING. Ha! We will see about that, we will see about that. (_To_ +THE SERVANT) Hold him, I say. Call the guards. He shall be put in +chains. + +THE BEGGAR. My strength is greater than a mountain and my words +are more fearful than a hurricane. This servant of thine cannot +even touch me. With one breath of my mouth I can blow over this +whole palace. + +THE KING. Dost thou hear the impudence he is offering me? Why +dost thou not seize him? What is the matter with thee? Why dost +thou not call the guards? + +THE BEGGAR. I will not harm thee now. I will only cry aloud in +the streets for bread wherewith to fill my belly. But one day I +will not be so kind to thee. On that day my mouth will be filled +with a rushing wind and my arms will become as strong as steel +rods, and I will blow over this palace, and all the bones in thy +foolish body I will snap between my fingers. I will beat upon a +large drum and thy head will be my drumstick. I will not do these +things now. But one day I will do them. Therefore, when my voice +sounds again in thine ears, begging for bread, remember what I +have told thee. Remember, O king, and be afraid! + +(_He walks out. THE SERVANT, struck dumb, stares after him. THE +KING sits in his chair, dazed._) + +THE KING (_suddenly collecting his wits_). After him! After him! He +must not be allowed to escape! After him! + +THE SERVANT (_faltering_). O king--I cannot seem to move. + +THE KING. Quick, then. Call the guards. He must be caught and put +in chains. Quick, I say. Call the guards! + +THE SERVANT. O king--I cannot seem to call them. + +THE KING. How! Art thou dumb? Ah! + +(THE BEGGAR'S _voice is heard outside._) + +THE BEGGAR. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. + +THE KING. Ah. (_He turns toward the window, half-frightened, and +then, almost instinctively, raises his hands toward his crown, +and seems on the point of tossing it out the window. But with an +oath he replaces it and presses it firmly on his head._) How! Am I +afraid of a beggar! + +THE BEGGAR (_continuing outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some +bread. + +THE KING (_with terrible anger_). Close that window! + +(THE SERVANT _stands stupent, and the voice of THE BEGGAR grows +louder as the curtain falls._) + + + + +TIDES[1] + +George Middleton + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted by permission of the author and of Messrs. +Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume, _Masks +and Other One-Act Plays_ (1920).] + +CHARACTERS + +WILLIAM WHITE, a famous Internationalist +HILDA, his wife +WALLACE, their son + +SCENE: _At the Whites'; spring, 1917. A simply furnished study. +The walls are lined with bookshelves, indicating, by their +improvised quality, that they have been increased as occasion +demanded. On these are stacked, in addition to the books +themselves, many files of papers, magazines, and "reports." The +large work-table, upon which rests a double student lamp and a +telephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows is +opposite, pointing toward a doorway which leads into the +living-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparently +opens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of +its general disorder: it is essentially the workshop of a busy +man of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comes +in through the window, flooding the table._ + +WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is +about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of +the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority and +strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is +commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained +orator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in private +conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience. +Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his +humble origin._ + +_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand,_ HILDA WHITE, _his +wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in +appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle +of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband's: her +inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft +voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--the +sort which will endure all for a fixed intention._ + +_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy +comrades in their life together, and that a deep fundamental bond +has united them in spite of the different social spheres from +which each has sprung._ + + +WHITE (_seeing she has paused_). Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all +of it. + +HILDA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how differently he +feels about the war. + +WHITE (_with quiet sarcasm_). But it's been so many years since +your respectable brother has honored me even with the slightest +allusion-- + +HILDA. If you care for what he says--(_continuing to read the +letter_)--"Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don't suppose +your husband considers that an honor; but I do." + +WHITE (_interrupting_). And what kind of an American has he been in +times of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his +factory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah, +these smug hypocrites! + +HILDA (_reading_). "His violent opposition to America going in has +been disgrace enough--" + +WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes. + +HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) "--been +disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the faint +hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will +persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate +no difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on +board the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." (_She stops +reading._) He's right, dear. There will be nothing more +intolerant than a so-called democracy at war. + +WHITE. By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now he +writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will be further +disgraced by her radical husband. + +HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness. + +WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine +of forgiving my enemies. + +HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all +differently. + +WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty +years--ever since you married me--"out of your class," as he +called it. + +HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear him +no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude seem natural? You +mustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his class +more than you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_ +relative. + +WHITE. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you +something you may not know. (_Bitterly_) Whenever I've spoken +against privilege and wealth it's been his pudgy, comfortable +face I've shaken my fist at. He's been so damned comfortable all +his life. + +HILDA. (_She looks at him in surprise._) Why, Will, you surely +don't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make you out. What's +come over you these last weeks? You've always been above such +personal bitterness; even when you were most condemned and +ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I'd think you had done +something you were ashamed of. + +WHITE. What do you mean? + +HILDA. Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to +another means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chair +and sits without answering._) I can think of you beaten by outside +things--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can never +think of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and +self-reliant: you've fought so hard for the truth. + +WHITE (_tapping letter_). But he thinks he knows the truth, too. + +HILDA. He's also an intense nature. + +WHITE (_thoughtfully after a pause_). Yet there is _some_ +truth in what he says. + +HILDA (_smiling_). But you didn't like it--coming from him? + +WHITE. It will be different with you and me now that America's +gone in. + +HILDA. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always +farthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who +would compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource +of the non-combatant. + +(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch._) + +WHITE. That's for me. + +HILDA. Let me. (_She goes._) It may be Wallace. (_At phone_) Yes: +this is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says to +him_) It must be our boy. (_At phone_) Who? Oh--Mr. William White? +Yes: he'll be here. (_She hangs up receiver._) She'll ring when she +gets the connection through. + +WHITE (_turning away_). It takes so long these days. + +HILDA. Funny he didn't ask for me. + +WHITE. What made you think it was Wallace? + +HILDA. I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at +college with all the boys full of war fever. + +WHITE. And a father with my record. + +HILDA. He should be proud of the example. He has more than other +boys to cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as +the band plays and the flag is waved. He won't be carried away by +it. He'll remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we +now have conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank God every +night our boy is too young for the draft. + +WHITE. But when his time comes what will he do? + +HILDA (_calmly_). He will do it with courage. + +WHITE (_referring to her brother's letter_). Either prison or +acceptance! + +HILDA. I would rather have my son in prison than have him do what +he felt was wrong. Wouldn't you? + +WHITE (_evasively_). We won't have to face that problem for two +years. + +HILDA. And when it comes--if he falters--I'll give him these +notes of that wonderful speech you made at the International +Conference in 1910. (_Picking it up_) I was looking through it only +this morning. + +WHITE (_troubled_). Oh, that speech. + +HILDA (_glancing through it with enthusiasm_). "All wars are +imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas investments, trade +routes, private control of ammunition factories, secret +diplomacy--" + +WHITE. Don't you see that's all dead wood? + +HILDA (_not heeding him_). This part gave me new strength when I +thought of Wallace. (_Reading with eloquence_) "War will stop when +young men put Internationalism above Nationality, the law of God +above the dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law of +hate, the law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There +must be no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men of the +world once throw down their arms, let them once refuse to point +their guns at human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world +will melt away and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts +of men!" + +WHITE (_taking it from her_). And I made you believe it! What silly +prophets we radicals were. (_He tears it up._) Mere scraps of +paper, dear; scraps of paper, now. + +HILDA. But it was the truth; it still is the truth. + +WHITE. Hilda, there's something I want to talk over very, very +seriously with you. I've been putting it off. + +HILDA. Yes, dear? (_The outer door is heard to bang._) Listen: +wasn't that the front door? + +WHITE. Perhaps it's the maid? + +HILDA (_a bit nervously_). No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Please +see. + +WHITE (_smiling_). Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the Secret +Service. + +HILDA. One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimes +feel I am in a foreign country. + +(WHITE _goes slowly to the door in back and opens it._ WALLACE, +_their son, with valise in hand, is standing there, as if he had +hesitated to enter._ + +_He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father's physical +endowment and his mother's spiritual intensity. The essential +note he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent he is under +the pressure of a momentous decision which has brought him +unexpectedly home from college._) + +WHITE. Wallace! + +WALLACE (_shaking hands_). Hello, Dad! + +HILDA. Wallace! My boy! + +(WALLACE _drops valise and goes to his mother's arms._) + +WALLACE (_with deep feeling_). Mother! + +WHITE (_after a pause_). Well, boy; this is unexpected. We were +just talking of you. + +WALLACE. Were you? + +HILDA. I'm so glad to see you, so glad. + +WALLACE. Yes--yes--but-- + +WHITE. There's nothing the matter? + +HILDA. You've had trouble at college? + +WALLACE. Not exactly. But I couldn't stand it there. I've +left--for good. + +WHITE. I was sure that would happen. + +HILDA. Tell us. You know we'll understand. + +WALLACE. Dad, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk it over with +mother first. + +WHITE. Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand by you +just as she's always stood by me--all these years. (_He kisses +her._) I--I-- + +(_He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she smiles +up at him._) + +We mustn't let this war hurt all we've had together--you and I-- + +HILDA (_smiling and turning towards her son_). And Wallace. + +WHITE. And Wallace. Yes. (WALLACE _looks away guiltily._) Let me +know when the phone comes. + +(_He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and then +comes to WALLACE, who has sat down, indicating he is troubled._) + +HILDA. They made it hard for you at college? + +WALLACE. I don't know how to tell you. + +HILDA. I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic speeches, the +billboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventure +offered to youth, the pressure of your friends--all made it hard +for you to be called a slacker. + +WALLACE, No, mother. I wasn't afraid of what they could call me. +That was easy. + +HILDA (_proudly_). You are your father's son! + +WALLACE. Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing, you know +that. And I couldn't forget all you've told me. That's why I've +had to think this out all these months alone; why I've hesitated +longer than most fellows. The only thing I was really afraid of +was being wrong. But now I know I'm right and I'm going clean +through to the limit. + +HILDA. As your father said, I 'll stand by you--whatever it +is--if only you feel it's right. + +WALLACE. Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what happens? (_She +nods._) I knew you would. (_Taking her hand_) Then, mother, listen. +I've volunteered. + +HILDA (_shocked_). Volunteered! + +WALLACE. Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night. + +HILDA. To-night? + +WALLACE. Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind, I couldn't wait to +be drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I didn't want to be made to +go. + +HILDA (_hardly grasping it_). But you are too young. + +WALLACE. I lied about my age. You and father can stop me if you +tell the truth. That's why I've come back. I want you to promise +you won't tell. + +HILDA. _You_ ask me to aid you in what I don't believe? +WALLACE. But you said you'd stick by me if _I_ thought it +was right. + +HILDA. But-- + +WALLACE (_with fervor_). And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was +right for America to go in. I see now we ought to have declared +war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in when +the Lusitania was sunk. But we've been patient. The President +tried to keep us out of it until we _had_ to go in to save +our self-respect. We had to go in to show we were men of honor, +not pussy-cats. We had to go in to show the world the Stars and +Stripes wasn't a dish-rag on which the Germans could dry their +bloody hands! + +HILDA (_gazing at him incredulously_). You hate them as much as +that? + +WALLACE. Hate? No, mother, no. (_As if questioning himself_) I +really haven't any hate for the German _people_. People are +just people everywhere, I suppose, and they're tricked and fooled +by their rotten government, as the President says. + +HILDA. Then why fight them? + +WALLACE. Because they're standing back of their government, doing +what it says. And they've got to be licked to show them what kind +of a government they have. + +HILDA. At least you have no hate in your heart--that's something. + +WALLACE. Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor +devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home fellow here +in America who sits in a comfortable armchair, who applauds +patriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does nothing for his +country but hate and hate--while we fight for him. That's the +fellow I'll hate all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's +why I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day +longer; why I've got to go in; why I'm going to die if I must, +because _everybody_ ought to be willing to die for what he +believes. + +HILDA. You are my son, _too_! For I would willingly have +died if it could have kept us out of this war. + +WALLACE. Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you wouldn't +respect me if I didn't go through. + +HILDA. No. I wouldn't have respected you. But--but--(_She breaks +a bit, then controls herself._) You are quite sure you're doing +what's right? + +WALLACE (_tenderly_). Would I have been willing to hurt you like +this? + +HILDA (_holding him close to her_). My boy; my boy! + +WALLACE. It'll be all right, mother. + +HILDA. Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time: +it's only the moments that hurt. + +WALLACE (_after a pause_). Then you won't tell my real age, or +interfere? + +HILDA. I respect your right to decide your own life. + +WALLACE (_joyed_). Mother! + +HILDA. I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrifice +for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me to +stand in your way--even with my mother's love. (_He kisses her._) +Do it all as cleanly as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'll +come back to me. (_Half breaking down and taking him in her arms_). +Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. You'll never know how hard +it is for a mother. + +WALLACE (_gently_). But other mothers send their boys. + +HILDA. Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for. +Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how could they stand +the thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forth +in their own blood? (_There is a pause till she controls herself._) +I'll help you get your things together. + +WALLACE. And father? + +HILDA. He will be angry. + +WALLACE. But you will make him understand? + +HILDA. I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn't +understand. Don't ever forget his long fight against all kinds of +Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always +hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism, +are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them +after the war. He's been persecuted so by them--even back in the +days when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished +citizens were dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget all +this, my boy. These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhaps +than for you who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no +flags for us, no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer +in silence for what we believe. And it is only the strongest who +can survive.--Now call your father. + +WALLACE (_goes to door_). Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns to +his mother._) I'll be getting my things together. (_There is a +pause._ WHITE _enters._) Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_He +looks from father to mother._) Thanks, little mother. + +(_He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father and +mother stand facing each other._) + +HILDA. Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly._) He has +lied about his age. He wants us to let him go. + +WHITE. Volunteered? + +HILDA. Yes; he leaves to-night. + +WHITE (_after a pause_). And what have you told him? + +HILDA. That he must go. + +WHITE. You can say that? + +HILDA. It is the way he sees it. + +WHITE (_going to her sympathetically_). Hilda. + +HILDA (_looking up at him tenderly_). O Will, do you remember when +he was born? (_He soothes her._) And all we nursed him through +afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him about +war. (_With a shrug of her shoulders_) None of it has mattered. + +WHITE. War is stronger than all that. + +HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him? + +WHITE. He fears I will? + +HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves you +deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't? + +WHITE (_wearily_). Is there any use opposing anybody or anything +these days? + +HILDA. We must wait till the storm passes. + +WHITE. That's never been my way. + +HILDA. No. You've fought all your life. But now we must sit +silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will, +think of it; we are going to have a boy "over there," too. + +WHITE. Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been all +wrong? (_She looks at him, as she holds his hand._) What could +these frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt +this tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, after +all, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation +upon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility of +war? May it not become so terrible that men--the workers, I +mean--will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord? +Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than +talk--talk--talk? + +HILDA (_touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling_). Here +is your answer to your own question. + +WHITE. Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say yourself we +can't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to direct the current +to our own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it? + +HILDA. Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who _could_ +compromise. + +WHITE. But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of compromise? + +HILDA. That has been _your_ strength. And it is your +strength I'm relying on now that Wallace--Shall I call him? + +WHITE (_significantly_). No; wait. + +HILDA (_apprehensive at his turn_). Oh, yes. Before he came you +said there was something--(_The phone rings. They both look at +it._) That's for you. + +WHITE (_not moving_). Yes. + +HILDA _hardly believing his attititde_). Is--is it private? + +WHITE. No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (_He hesitates, +then goes to phone as she stands expectant._) Yes. Yes. Long +Distance? Washington? (_Her lips repeat the word._) Yes. This is +William White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I +appreciate the honor of having you confirm it personally. Senator +Bough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; war makes strange +bedfellows. Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I'll be ready. +Yes. Good-bye. + +(_He hangs up the receiver and looks at her._) + +HILDA. You, too! + +WHITE. I've been trying to tell you these last weeks; but I +couldn't somehow. + +HILDA. You were ashamed? + +WHITE. No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you. + +HILDA. I'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are going to be +part of this war? + +WHITE. I'm going to do what I can to help finish it. + +HILDA. By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime? + +WHITE. No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appointment on this +commission because I'm going to accept facts. + +HILDA. Have the facts of war changed, or is it you? + +WHITE. Neither has changed; but I'm going to act differently. I'm +going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to help direct the +current. + +HILDA. I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, William +White, speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood against +all war! + +WHITE. Yes. + +HILDA. And now, when the test comes, you are going to lend +yourself to it! You of all men! + +WHITE. Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; but +I think I can make you see if you will let me. + +HILDA (_poignantly_). If I will let you! Why, Will, I must +understand; I must. + +WHITE. Perhaps it will be difficult at first--with your +standards. + +HILDA. But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me. +You taught me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showed +her the truth, and she followed you and has followed you gladly +through hard years of struggle and poverty because of those +ideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, don't you see, I +must understand? + +WHITE. Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with +circumstance. + +HILDA. Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suit +the weather? + +WHITE. It's the end we must keep in mind. I haven't changed or +compromised one bit in that. I'm working in changed conditions, +that's all; working with all my heart to do away with all war. + +HILDA. By fighting one? + +WHITE (_with eloquence_). Yes. Because it is necessary. I've come +to see we can't argue war out of the world with words. We've got +to beat it out of the world. It can't be done with our hands +lifted up in prayer; it can only be done with iron hands crushing +it down. War is the mood of the world. Well, I'm going to fight +in my fashion. And when it is over, I'm going to keep on +fighting; for the next war will be greater than this. It will be +economic revolution. It will be the war of capital and labor. And +I mean to be ready. + +HILDA (_listening incredulously_). And to get ready you are willing +to link arms now with Senator Bough--a man you once called the +lackey of Wall Street--a man who has always opposed every +democratic principle. + +WHITE. Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning to realize +it can't do without us? Don't you see my appointment is an +acknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world? +Don't you see, with the prestige that will come to me from this +appointment, I will have greater power after the war; power to +bring about the realization of all our dreams; power to +demand--even at the Peace table itself, perhaps--that all wars +must end? + +HILDA. Do you actually believe you will have any power with your +_own_ people when you have compromised them for a temporary +expediency? + +WHITE (_with a gesture_). The leader must be wiser than the people +who follow. + +HILDA. So, contempt for your people is the first thing your new +power has brought you! (_He makes a gesture of denial._) You feel +you are above them--not of them. Do you believe for a moment that +Senator Bough has anything but contempt for you, too? + +WHITE (_confidently_). He needs me. + +HILDA. Needs you? Don't you understand why he had you appointed +on that committee? He wanted to get you out of the way. + +WHITE. Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power? + +HILDA. Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a "reformed" +radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the capitals of Europe to +advertise his liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits a +reformed drunkard. + +WHITE. And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be stronger +than he is, stronger than any of them. + +HILDA. No man is strong unless he does what he feels is right. +No, no, Will; you've convicted yourself with your own eloquence. +You've wanted to do this for some reason. But it isn't the one +you've told me. No; no. + +WHITE (_angrily_). You doubt my sincerity? + +HILDA. No; only the way you have read yourself. + +WHITE. Well, if you think I've tried to make it easy for myself +you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit of +years? Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I've sold out? +Easy to have you misunderstand? (_Goes to her._) Hilda, I'm doing +this for their good. I'm doing it--just as Wallace is--because I +feel it's right. + +HILDA. No; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this for the +same reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted +it all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his +eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was +no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe +differently! You can't hush the mind that for twenty years has +thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can't give +yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You +see power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests._) That's +your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--not +what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives with those of +our son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he +wishes to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals +for the ideals of others! (_She turns away._) Oh, Will, that's what +hurts. If you were only like him, I--I could stand it. + +WHITE (_quietly, after a pause_). I can't be angry at you--even +when you say such things. You've been too much a part of my life, +and work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't you, dear? +(_He sits beside her and takes her hand._) I knew it would be +difficult to make you understand. Only once have I lacked +courage, and that was when I felt myself being drawn into this +and they offered me the appointment. For then I saw I must tell +you. You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. But when you +asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would understand my +going, too.--Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young; +war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to +accomplish my ideals. + +HILDA. Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter +enemies praying to the same God as they kill each other. + +WHITE. Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can't. +It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I'll grant all +that. Only, America has gone in. The whole tide was against us, +dear. It is sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki +sweeping everything before it. All my life I've fought against +the current. (_Wearily_) And now that I've gone in, too, my arms +seem less tired. Yes; and except for the pain I've caused you, +I've never in all my life felt so--so happy. + +(_Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with tenderness +in her eyes._) + +HILDA. Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason +for what you've done. + +WHITE (_defensively_). I've given the real reason. + +HILDA (_her heart going out to him_). You poor tired man. My dear +one. Forgive me if I made it difficult for you, if I said cruel +words. I ought to have guessed; ought to have seen what life has +done to you. (_He looks up, not understanding her words_). Those +hands of yours first dug a living out of the ground. Then they +built houses and grew strong because you were a workman--a man of +the people. You saw injustice, and all your life you fought +against those who had the power to inflict it: the press; the +comfortable respectables, like my brother; and even those of your +own group who opposed you--you fought them all. And they look at +you as an outsider, an alien in your own country. O Will, I know +how hard it has been for you to be always on the defensive, +against the majority. It is hard to live alone, away from the +herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the +comfort and security they find by being together. + +WHITE. Yes--but-- + +HILDA. Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to be +part of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those who +have fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, to +have the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reason +you're going in. You're tired and worn out with the fight. I +know. I understand now. + +WHITE (_earnestly_). If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself. + +HILDA. There's been enough killing already. I have to understand +it somehow to accept it at all. + +(_He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles. He goes to +a chair and sits down, gazing before him. The music of Over There +is now heard outside in the street, approaching nearer and +nearer. It is a military band. WALLACE excitedly rushes in +dressed in khaki._) + +WALLACE. Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street. +(_Sees father._) Dad! Mother has told you? + +HILDA (_calmly_). Yes; I've told him. + +WALLACE. And you're going to let me go, Dad? + +HILDA. Yes. + +WALLACE. Oh, thanks, Dad (_grasping his hand_). + +I knew mother would make you see. (_Music nearer._) Listen! Isn't +that a great tune? Lifts you up on your feet and carries you over +there. Gee, it just gets into a fellow and makes him want to run +for his gun and charge over the top. (_He goes to balcony._) Look! +They're nearing here; all ready to sail with the morning tide. +They've got their helmets on. You can't see the end of them +coming down the avenue. Oh, thank God, I'm going to be one of +them soon. Thank God! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and the +Stars and Stripes. (_Calls off_) Hurrah! (_To them_) Oh, I wish I had +a flag. Why haven't we got a flag here?--Hurrah!! + +(_As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder. HILDA has +gone to WHITE during this, and stands behind him, with her arms +down his arms, as he sits there, gazing before him._) + +HILDA (_fervently_). Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does!! + +(_The music begins to trail off as WHITE tenderly takes hold of +her hands._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +ILE + +Eugene O'Neill + + +SCENE: CAPTAIN KEENEY'S cabin on board the steam whaling ship +Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment, about eight feet +high, with a skylight in the centre looking out on the poop deck. +On the left (_the stern of the ship_) a long bench with rough +cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, a +table. Over the bench, several curtained portholes. + +In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain's +sleeping-quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, +looking as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall. + +On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped, sideboard. On the +sideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther forward, a doorway +leading to the companion way, and past the officers' quarters to +the main deck. + +In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of the +ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are +painted white. + +There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes +through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of those +gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence +is unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking up +and down on the poop deck overhead. + +It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day +in the year 1895. + +At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. +Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of the +few dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN'S dinner. +He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, +and a woolen cap with ear-flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. +He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward +at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and +listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes +his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise +from the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table. + +BEN enters. He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinched +face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are +chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he +stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping +them against his sides, on the verge of crying. + +THE STEWARD (_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_). Oh, 'tis you, +is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye +belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'. + +BEN. It's c-c-old. (_Trying to control his chattering +teeth--derisively_) Who d' ye think it were--the Old Man? + +THE STEWARD. (_He makes a threatening move--BEN shrinks away._) +None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (_More kindly_) Where +was it ye've been all o' the time--the fo'c's'le? + +BEN. Yes. + +THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkey-shinin' +with the handstand ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a +hurry. + +BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (_A trace of awe in his tones--he +glances upward._) He just walks up and down like he didn't notice +nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard. + +THE STEWARD (_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_). He's +always starin' at the ice. (_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at +the skylight_) Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' +us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it +like a fly in molasses! + +BEN (_apprehensively_). Ssshh! He'll hear ye. + +THE STEWARD (_raging_). Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas, +and damn this stinkin' whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a +fool to ever ship on it! (_Subsiding, as if realizing the +uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep +conviction_) He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the +seas. + +BEN (_solemnly_). Aye. + +THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this +day. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in +the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin' +low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for +home! (_Bitterly_) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on +land again. (_Excitedly_) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do? +Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last +man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly +to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men +goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le? + +BEN (_going over to him--in a half-whisper_). They said if he don't +put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny. + +THE STEWARD (_with grim satisfaction_). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only +thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's +treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs. + +BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water's +far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back +for home, the men says. + +THE STEWARD (_bitterly_). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd where +they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. +All he thinks on is gittin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he +ain't had good luck with the whales. (_Shaking his head_) I think +the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses. + +BEN (_awed_). D' you really think he's crazy? + +THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye hear +ever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (_Pointing +to the door in rear_) Who but a man that's mad would take his +woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a stinkin' whalin' +ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for +nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure +she'll never be the same again. + +BEN (_sadly_). She useter be awful nice to me before--(_his eyes +grow wide and frightened_) she got--like she is. + +THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have been +hell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard +man--a driver if there ever was one. (_With a grim laugh_) I hope +he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. +And who could blame her? 'T is a God's wonder we're not a ship +full of crazed people--with the damned ice all the time, and the +quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice. + +BEN (_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_). She +don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me's if she didn't +know me. + +THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to +him--when she does talk--right enough. + +BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then +she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her. + +THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back. + +BEN (_tiptoes over to the door and listens_). She's cryin' now. + +THE STEWARD (_furiously--shaking his fist_). God send his soul to +hell for the devil he is! + +(_There is the noise of someone coming slowly down the +companionway stairs._ THE STEWARD _hurries to his stacked-up +dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top +one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, +trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ with +a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket_, CAPTAIN +KEENEY _appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, +removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, +around five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account of +the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is +massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak +hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick +hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and +blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots._ + +_He is followed into the cabin by the_ SECOND MATE, _a rangy +six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face._ The MATE _is dressed +about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so._) + +KEENEY. (_Comes toward the_ STEWARD--_with a stern look on his +face. The_ STEWARD _is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes +rattles in his trembling hands._ KEENEY _draws back his fist and +the_ STEWARD _shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and_ +KEENEY _speaks slowly._) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Is +nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet. + +THE STEWARD (_stammering_). Y-y-yes, sir. + +KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here +gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (_To_ BEN _fiercely_) Get +out o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN _darts past the_ +MATE _to the open doorway._) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward! + +THE STEWARD (_doing so with difficulty_). Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in +the Bering Sea at the end of a rope. + +THE STEWARD (_tremblingly_). Yes, sir. + +(_He hurries out. The_ SECOND MATE _walks slowly over to the_ +CAPTAIN.) + +MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should +catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to +come below. + +KEENEY (_impatiently_). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum. + +MATE (_unconsciously lowering his voice_). I'm afeard there'll be +trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn +ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two +years they signed up for is up to-day. + +KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr. +Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think +I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked? + +(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in the +doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed +in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and +pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands +as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and +unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at +her._) + +KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She is +silent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway._) + +KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait! + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to be +endeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go up +on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air. + +(_She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the_ MATE +_exchange a significant glance._) + +KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day. +There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice. + +MRS. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's +nothing to see down here but these walls. + +(_She makes a gesture of loathing._) + +KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of +home. + +KEENEY (_a touch of resentment in his voice_). I got it jest for +you. + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I know. (_She turns away from them and walks +slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and +looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._) Ah, +water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after +all these months of ice! (_She turns round to them, her face +transfigured with joy._) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at +it, David. + +KEENEY (_frowning_). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day +when the sun shines. + +MRS. KEENEY (_desperately_). But the sun never shines in this +terrible place. + +KEENEY (_a tone of command in his voice_). Best not to-day, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY (_crumbling before this command--abjectly_). Very well, +David. + +(_She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze. +The two men look at her uneasily._) + +KEENEY (_sharply_). Annie! + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). Yes, David. + +KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's +business. + +MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David. + +(_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters +shut behind her._) + +KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any +trouble. + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones. + +(_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._) + +Got yourn? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed +of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (_Grimly_) I ain't never +been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by +sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I +reckon. + +MATE (_hesitatingly_). Then you ain't goin'--to turn back? + +KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' +s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in +the hold? + +MATE (_hastily_). No, sir--but the grub's gittin' low. + +KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful +with it; and they's plenty o' water. + +MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two +years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble +for you in the courts when we git home. + +KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they +kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the +ile! (_Glancing sharply at the_ MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned +sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum? + +MATE (_flushing_). Not by a hell of a sight, sir. + +KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' +the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco. + +MATE (_slowly_). They wants to git back to their folks an' things, +I s'pose. + +KEENEY (_looking at him searchingly_). 'N' you want to turn back, +too. (THE MATE _looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._) +Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (_With +grim sarcasm_) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the +men agin me. + +MATE (_indignantly_). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things. + +KEENEY (_with satisfaction_). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. +You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No +man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one. + +MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I +mean. (_Desperately_) But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't +jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad +luck an' the ice an' all. + +KEENEY (_his face clouding--rebukingly but not severely_). That's +my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' +that. (_A pause._) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could +see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun, +Annie'll perk up. (_Another pause--then he bursts forth_) It ain't +the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. +But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel +of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days +without a full ship. Ain't that truth? + +MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'-- + +KEENEY (_scornfully_). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believe +that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't +you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms +and the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney +what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin' +back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (_The thought of +this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on +the marble top of the sideboard._) Hell! I got to git the ile, I +tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad +before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it's +breakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they's +whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone +wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all +hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do git it! + +(_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The +two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then_ KEENEY _goes +over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he +were going to enter--then closes the door softly._ JOE, _the +harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, +enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice +him._) + +KEENEY (_turning and seeing him_). Don't be standin' there like a +gawk, Harpooner. Speak up! + +JOE (_confusedly_). We want--the men, sir--they want send a +depitation aft to have a word with you. + +KEENEY (_furiously_). Tell 'em to go to--(_checks himself and +continues grimly_) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em. + +JOE. Aye, aye, sir. + +(_He goes out._) + +KEENEY (_with a grim smile_). Here it comes, the trouble you spoke +of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to +crush such things at the start than let them make headway. + +MATE (_worriedly_). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We +might need their help. + +KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, +Mr. Slocum. + +(_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the +crew crowd into the cabin, led by_ JOE. _All are dressed +alike--sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the_ +CAPTAIN, _twirling their fur caps in their hands._) + +KEENEY (_after a pause_). Well? Who's to speak fur ye? + +JOE (_stepping forward with an air of bravado_). I be. + +KEENEY (_eyeing him up and down coldly_). So you be. Then speak +your say and be quick about it. + +JOE (_trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoiding +his eyes_). The time we signed up for is done to-day. + +KEENEY (_icily_). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know. + +JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far's we kin see. + +KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile. + +JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye. + +KEENEY. The ice is breaking up. + +JOB (_after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily +to one another_). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten. + +KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have +eaten worse. + +(_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._) + +JOE (_encouraged by this support_). We ain'ta-goin' to work no more +'less you puts back fur home. + +KEENEY (_fiercely_). You ain't, ain't you? + +JOE. No; and the law courts 'll say we was right. + +KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm +the law on this ship. (_Edging up toward the harpooner._) And every +mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons. + +(_There are more angry exclamations from the crew._ MRS. KEENEY +_appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. +None of the men notices her._) + +JOE (_with bravado_). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and take the +old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys? + +(_As he turns his head to look at the others_, KEENEY'S _fist +shoots out to the side of his jaw._ JOE _goes down in a heap and +lies there._ MRS. KEENEY _gives a shriek and hides her face in +her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, +but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers +of_ KEENEY _and the_ MATE.) + +KEENEY (_his eyes and voice snapping_). Hold still! (_The men +stand huddled together in a sullen silence._ KEENEY'S _voice is +full of mockery._) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on +this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and +(_he gives_ JOE'S _body a contemptuous kick_) drag him with you. +And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead +as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the +same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (_The men leave in cowed silence, +carrying_ JOE _with them._ KEENEY _turns to the_ MATE _with a +short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._) Best get +up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of +their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now +on. I know 'em. + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +(_He goes out, right._ KEENEY _hears his wife's hysterical +weeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her +side._) + +KEENEY (_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff +tenderness_). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all past +and gone. + +MRS. KEENEY (_shrinking away from, him_). Oh, I can't bear it! I +can't bear it any longer! + +KEENEY (_gently_). Can't bear what, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_hysterically_). All this horrible brutality, and +these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell +of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence. + +(_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her +handkerchief._) + +KEENEY (_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a +puzzled frown_). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on +this voyage, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I +didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've +been doing these last six years since we were married--waiting, +and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mind +occupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of being +Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, +wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger +and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they +make you out to be in Homeport. And instead--(_her voice grows +tremulous_) all I find is ice--and cold--and brutality! + +(_Her voice breaks._) + +KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no +ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home +where you've got all your woman's comforts." (_Shaking his head_) +But you was so set on it. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You +see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old +Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them. + +KEENEY (_protestingly_). I done my best to make it as cozy and +comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY _looks around her in wild +scorn._) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' +it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was +calms and things was dull like. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Yes, you were very kind, David. I know +that. (_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole +and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth._) I won't stand it--I +can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (_She runs +over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his +arm protectingly over her shoulders._) Take me away from here, +David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, +I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel +as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. +I'm afraid. Take me home! + +KEENEY (_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face +anxiously_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got +fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you +look this way before. + +MRS. KEENEY (_laughing hysterically_). It's the ice and the cold +and the silence--they'd make anyone look strange. + +KEENEY (_soothingly_). In a month or two, with good luck, three at +the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her +everything she'll stand and p'int for home. + +MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to +get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's +cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. +You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If +you've a heart at all, you've got to turn back. + +KEENEY (_harshly_). I can't, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you? + +KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, +I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other +captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a +full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if +you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it. + +KEENEY (_his jaw set stubbornly_). It ain't that, Annie. Them +skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what +anyone'd say--but--(_He hesitates, struggling to express his +meaning._) You see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as +skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem +right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' +Homeport, and--Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (_He glances at +her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, +not hearing a word he is saying._) Annie! (_She comes to herself +with a start._) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You +ain't well. + +MRS. KEENEY (_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in +rear_). David! Won't you please turn back? + +KEENEY (_gently_). I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my +meanin'. I got to git the ile. + +MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you +don't. You've got more than plenty. + +KEENEY (_impatiently_). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you +think I'm as mean as that? + +MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). No--I don't know--I can't +understand--(_Intensely_) Oh, I want to be home in the old house +once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice +talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so +long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back. + +KEENEY (_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her +eyes_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well. + +MRS. KEENEY (_not appearing to hear him_). I used to be lonely when +you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous +place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it +was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the +fine free life you must be leading. (_She gives a laugh which is +half a sob._) I used to love the sea then. (_She pauses; then +continues with slow intensity._) But now--I don't ever want to see +the sea again. + +KEENEY (_thinking to humor her_). 'Tis no fit place for a woman, +that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye. + +MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a +gesture of pathetic weariness_). How long would it take us to +reach home--if we started now? + +KEENEY (_frowning_). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair +luck. + +MRS. KEENEY (_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt +smile_). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't +it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, +wasn't it? + +KEENEY (_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved +him--gruffly_). Don't you remember? + +MRS. KEENEY (_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_). My +memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (_A +pause--then she smiles dreamily._) It's June now. The lilacs will +be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the +trellis to the side of the house--they're budding. + +(_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to +sob._) + +KEENEY (_disturbed_). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore out +cryin' over what can't be helped. + +MRS. KEENEY (_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and +clinging to him_). You love me, don't you, David? + +KEENEY (_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_) Love you? Why +d'you ask me such a question, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him--fiercely_). But you do, don't you, +David? Tell me! + +KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there +be aught but love between us after all these years? + +MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him again--still more fiercely_). Then you do +love me. Say it! + +KEENEY (_simply_). I do, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. (_Gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her +sides._ KEENEY _regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across +her eyes and murmurs half to herself._) I sometimes think if we +could only have had a child. (KEENEY _turns away from her, deeply +moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face +her--intensely._) And I've always been a good wife to you, +haven't I, David? + +KEENEY (_his voice betraying his emotion_). No man ever had a +better, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, +David? Have I? + +KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, +Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Then do this, this once, for my sake, for +God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the +brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel +the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me--day +after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. +(_Sobbing._) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if +you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me +home! + +(_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. +His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He +holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a +moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens +as he looks at her tear-stained face._) + +KEENEY (_dragging out the words with an effort_). I'll do it, +Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye. + +MRS. KEENEY (_with wild joy--kissing him_). God bless you for that, +David! + +(_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the +companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps +on the stairs and the_ SECOND MATE _enters the cabin._) + +MATE (_excitedly_). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd, sir. +There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, +the lookout says. + +(KEENEY _straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance._ +MRS. KEENEY _looks at the_ MATE _with terrified eyes._) + +KEENEY (_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_). A clear +passage? To no'th'rd? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY (_his voice suddenly grim with determination_). Then get her +ready and we'll drive her through. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. + +MRS. KEENEY (_appealingly_). David! + +KEENEY (_not heeding her_). Will the men turn to willin' or must we +drag 'em out? + +MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God +into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs. + +KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. (_With grim determination_) +They's whale t' other side o' this floe and we're going to git +'em. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. + +(_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of +scuffing feet from the deck outside and the_ MATE'S _voice shouting +orders._) + +KEENEY (_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_). And I was a-goin' +home like a yaller dog! + +MRS. KEENEY (_imploringly_). David! + +KEENEY (_sternly_). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddle +in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I +got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. +I got to git the ile, I tell ye. + +MRS. KEENEY (_supplicatingly_). David! Aren't you going home? + +KEENEY (_ignoring this question--commandingly_). You ain't well. Go +and lay down a mite. (_He starts for the door._) I got to git on +deck. + +(_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. +She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh +hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to +play wildly an old hymn._ KEENEY _reenters from the doorway to the +deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs +her roughly by the shoulder._) + +KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (_She laughs wildly, +and he starts back from her in alarm._) Annie! What is it? (_She +doesn't answer him._ KEENEY'S _voice trembles._) Don't you know me, +Annie? + +(_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that +he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid +expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, +and she commences softly to play the organ again._) + +KEENEY (_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had +difficulty in speaking_). You said--you was agoin' mad--God! + +(_A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" A +moment later the_ MATE'S _face appears through the skylight. He +cannot see_ MRS. KEENEY.) + +MATE (_in great excitement_). Whales, sir--a whole school of +'em--off the starb'd quarter 'bout five mile away--big ones! + +KEENEY (_galvanized into action_). Are you lowerin' the boats? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY (_with grim decision_). I'm a-comin' with ye. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (_Jubilantly_) You'll git the ile now right +enough, sir. + +(_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._) + +KEENEY (_turning to his wife_). Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git +the ile. (_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He +gives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan._) I know you're +foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--(_anxiously_) be +you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while +longer, Annie--then we'll turn hom'ard. I can't turn back now, +you see that, don't ye? I've got to git the ile. (_In sudden +terror_) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you? + +(_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The_ MATE'S +_face appears again through the skylight._) + +MATE. All ready, sir. + +(KEENEY _turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, +where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, +fighting to control his feelings._) + +MATE. Comin', sir? + +KEENEY (_his face suddenly grown hard with determination_). Aye. + +(_He turns abruptly and goes out._ MRS. KEENEY _does not appear to +notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centred in the +organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little +from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move +faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as +the Curtain falls._) + + + + +CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR[1] + +J.A. Ferguson + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the publishers, +Messrs. Gowans and Gray, Glasgow.] + +CHARACTERS + +MARY STEWART +MORAG CAMERON +DUGALD STEWART +CAPTAIN SANDEMAN +ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL +JAMES MACKENZIE + +SCENE: _Interior of a lonely cottage on the road from Struan to +Rannoch in North Perthshire._ + +TIME: _After the Rising of 1745._ + + +MORAG _is restlessly moving backwards and forwards. The old woman +is seated on a low stool beside the peat fire in the centre of +the floor._ + +_The room is scantily furnished and the women are poorly clad. +MORAG is barefooted. At the back is the door that leads to the +outside. On the left of the door is a small window. On the right +side of the room there is a door that opens into a barn. MORAG +stands for a moment at the window, looking out._ + + +MORAG. It is the wild night outside. + +MARY STEWART. Is the snow still coming down? + +MORAG. It is that, then--dancing and swirling with the wind too, +and never stopping at all. Aye, and so black I cannot see the +other side of the road. + +MARY STEWART. That is good. + +(MORAG _moves across the floor and stops irresolutely. She is +restless, expectant._) + +MORAG. Will I be putting the light in the window? + +MARY STEWART. Why should you be doing that? You have not heard +his call (_turns eagerly_), have you? + +MORAG (_with sign of head_). No, but the light in the window would +show him all is well. + +MARY STEWART. It would not, then! The light was to be put there +_after_ we had heard the signal. + +MORAG. But on a night like this he may have been calling for long +and we never hear him. + +MARY STEWART. Do not be so anxious, Morag. Keep to what he says. +Put more peat on the fire now and sit down. + +MORAG (_with increasing excitement_). I canna, I canna! There is +that in me that tells me something is going to befall us this +night. Oh, that wind! Hear to it, sobbing round the house as if +it brought some poor lost soul up to the door, and we refusing it +shelter. + +MARY STEWART. Do not be fretting yourself like that. Do as I bid +you. Put more peats to the fire. + +MORAG (_at the wicker peat-basket_). Never since I.... What was +that? + +(_Both listen for a moment._) + +MARY STEWART. It was just the wind; it is rising more. A sore +night for them that are out in the heather. + +(MORAG _puts peat on the fire without speaking._) + +MARY STEWART. Did you notice were there many people going by +to-day? + +MORAG. No. After daybreak the redcoats came by from Struan; and +there was no more till nine, when an old man like the Catechist +from Killichonan passed. At four o'clock, just when the dark was +falling, a horseman with a lad holding to the stirrup, and +running fast, went by towards Rannoch. + +MARY STEWART. But no more redcoats? + +MORAG (_shaking her head_). The road has been as quiet as the +hills, and they as quiet as the grave. Do you think will he come? + +MARY STEWART. Is it you think I have the gift, girl, that you ask +me that? All I know is that it is five days since he was here for +meat and drink for himself and for the others--five days and five +nights, mind you; and little enough he took away; and those in +hiding no' used to such sore lying, I'll be thinking. He must try +to get through to-night. But that quietness, with no one to be +seen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag. They must +know something. They must be watching. + +(_A sound is heard by both women. They stand listening._) + +MARY STEWART. Haste you with the light, Morag. + +MORAG. But it came from the back of the house--from the hillside. + +MARY STEWART. Do as I tell you. The other side may be watched. + +(_A candle is lit and placed in the window. Girl goes hurrying to +the door._) + +MARY STEWART. Stop, stop! Would you be opening the door with a +light like that shining from the house? A man would be seen +against it in the doorway for a mile. And who knows what eyes may +be watching? Put out the light now and cover the fire. + +(_Room is reduced to semi-darkness, and the door unbarred. Someone +enters._) + +MORAG. You are cold, Dugald! + +(STEWART, _very exhausted, signs assent._) + +MORAG. And wet, oh, wet through and through! + +STEWART. Erricht Brig was guarded, well guarded. I had to win +across the water. + +(_The old woman has now relit candle and taken away plaid from +fire._) + +MARY STEWART. Erricht Brig--then-- + +STEWART (_nods_). Yes--in a corrie, on the far side of Dearig, +half-way up. + +MARY STEWART. Himself is there then? + +STEWART. Aye, and Keppoch as well, and another and a greater is +with them. + +MARY STEWART. Wheest! (_Glances at_ MORAG.) + +STEWART. Mother, is it that you can-- + +MARY STEWART. Yes, yes, Morag will bring out the food for ye to +carry back. It is under the hay in the barn, well hid. Morag will +bring it.--Go, Morag, and bring it. + +(MORAG _enters other room or barn which opens on right._) + +STEWART. Mother, I wonder at ye; Morag would never tell--never. + +MARY STEWART. Morag is only a lass yet. She has never been tried. +And who knows what she might be made to tell. + +STEWART. Well, well, it is no matter, for I was telling you where +I left them, but not where I am to _find_ them. + +MARY STEWART. They are not where you said now? + +STEWART. No; they left the corrie last night, and I am to find +them (_whispers_) in a quiet part on Rannoch moor. + +MARY STEWART. It is as well for a young lass not to be knowing. +Do not tell her. + +(_He sits down at table; the old woman ministers to his wants._) + +STEWART. A fire is a merry thing on a night like this; and a roof +over the head is a great comfort. + +MARY STEWART. Ye'll no' can stop the night? + +STEWART. No. I must be many a mile from here before the day +breaks on Ben Dearig. + +(MORAG _reenters._) + +MORAG. It was hard to get through, Dugald? + +STEWART. You may say that. I came down Erricht for three miles, +and then when I reached low country I had to take to walking in +the burns because of the snow that shows a man's steps and tells +who he is to them that can read; and there's plenty can do that +abroad, God knows. + +MORAG. But none spied ye? + +STEWART. Who can tell? Before dark came, from far up on the +slopes of Dearig I saw soldiers about; and away towards the +Rannoch Moor they were scattered all over the country like black +flies on a white sheet. A wild cat or anything that couldna fly +could never have got through. And men at every brig and ford and +pass! I had to strike away up across the slopes again; and even +so as I turned round the bend beyond Kilrain I ran straight into +a sentry sheltering behind a great rock. But after that it was +easy going. + +MORAG. How could that be? + +STEWART. Well, you see I took the boots off him, and then I had +no need to mind who might see my steps in the snow. + +MORAG. You took the boots off him! + +STEWART (_laughing_). I did that same. Does that puzzle your bonny +head? How does a lad take the boots off a redcoat? Find out the +answer, my lass, while I will be finishing my meat. + +MORAG. Maybe he was asleep? + +STEWART. Asleep! Asleep! Well, well, he sleeps sound enough now, +with the ten toes of him pointed to the sky. + +(_The old woman has taken up dirk from table. She puts it down +again._ MORAG _sees the action and pushes dirk away so that it +rolls off the table and drops to the floor. She hides her face in +her hands._) + +MARY STEWART. Morag, bring in the kebbuck o' cheese. Now that all +is well and safe it is we that will look after his comfort +to-night. (MORAG _goes into barn._)--I mind well her mother saying +to me--it was one day in the black winter that she died, when the +frost took the land in its grip and the birds fell stiff from the +trees, and the deer came down and put their noses to the door--I +mind well her saying just before she died-- + +(_Loud knocking at the door._) + +A VOICE. In the King's name! + +(_Both rise._) + +MARY STEWART. The hay in the barn, quick, my son. + +(_Knocking continues._) + +A VOICE. Open in the King's name! + +(STEWART _snatches up such articles as would reveal his presence +and hurries into barn. He overlooks dirk on floor. The old woman +goes towards door._) + +MARY STEWART. Who is there? What do you want? + +A VOICE. Open, open. + +(MARY STEWART _opens door and_ CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _follows_ CAPTAIN +SANDEMAN _into the house. Behind_ KILMHOR _comes a man carrying a +leather wallet_, JAMES MACKENZIE, _his clerk. The rear is brought +up by soldiers carrying arms._) + +SANDEMAN. Ha, the bird has flown. + +CAMPBELL (_who has struck dirk with his foot and picked it up_). +But the nest is warm; look at this. + +SANDEMAN. It seems as if we had disturbed him at supper. Search +the house, men. + +MARY STEWART. I'm just a lonely old woman. You have been +misguided. I was getting through my supper. + +CAMPBELL (_holding up dirk_). And this was your toothpick, eh? Na! +Na! We ken whaur we are, and wha we want, and by Cruachan, I +think we've got him. + +(_Sounds are heard from barn, and soldiers return with MORAG. She +has stayed in hiding from fear, and she still holds the cheese in +her hands._) + +SANDEMAN. What have we here? + +CAMPBELL. A lass! + +MARY STEWART. It's just my dead brother's daughter. She was +getting me the cheese, as you can see. + +CAMPBELL. On, men, again: the other turtle doo will no' be far +away. (_Banteringly to the old woman_) Tut, tut, Mistress Stewart, +and do ye have her wait upon ye while your leddyship dines alane! +A grand way to treat your dead brother's daughter; fie, fie, upon +ye! + +(_Soldiers reappear with_ STEWART, _whose arms are pinioned._) + +CAMPBELL. Did I no' tell ye! And this, Mrs. Stewart, will be your +dead sister's son, I'm thinking; or aiblins your leddyship's +butler! Weel, woman, I'll tell ye this: Pharaoh spared ae butler, +but Erchie Campbell will no' spare anither. Na! na! Pharaoh's +case is no' to be taken as forming ony preceedent. And so if he +doesna answer certain questions we have to speir at him, before +morning he'll hang as high as Haman. + +(STEWART _is placed before the table at which_ CAMPBELL _has seated +himself. Two soldiers guard_ STEWART. _Another is behind_ CAMPBELL'S +_chair and another is by the door. The clerk_, MACKENZIE, _is seated +at up corner of table._ SANDEMAN _stands by the fire._) + +CAMPBELL (_to STEWART_). Weel, sir, it is within the cognizance of +the law that you have knowledge and information of the place of +harbor and concealment used by certain persons who are in a state +of proscription. Furthermore, it is known that four days ago +certain other proscribed persons did join with these, and that +they are banded together in an endeavor to secure the escape from +these dominions of His Majesty, King George, of certain persons +who by their crimes and treasons lie open to the capital charge. +What say ye? + +(STEWART _makes no reply._) + +CAMPBELL. Ye admit this then? + +(STEWART _as before._) + +CAMPBELL. Come, come, my lad. Ye stand in great jeopardy. Great +affairs of state lie behind this which are beyond your simple +understanding. Speak up and it will be the better for ye. + +(STEWART _silent as before._) + +CAMPBELL. Look you. I'll be frank with you. No harm will befall +you this night--and I wish all in this house to note my words--no +harm will befall you this night if you supply the information +required. + +(STEWART _as before._) + +CAMPBELL (_with sudden passion_). Sandeman, put your sword to the +carcass o' this muckle ass and see will it louse his tongue. + +STEWART. It may be as well then, Mr. Campbell, that I should say +a word to save your breath. It is this: Till you talk Rannoch +Loch to the top of Schiehallion, ye'll no' talk me into a yea or +nay. + +CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Say ye so? Noo, I widna be so very sure if I +were you. I've had a lairge experience o' life, and speaking out +of it I would say that only fools and the dead never change their +minds. + +STEWART (_quietly too_). Then you'll be adding to your experience +to-night, Mr. Campbell, and you'll have something to put on to +the other side of it. + +CAMPBELL (_tapping his snuff-box_). Very possibly, young sir, but +what I would present for your consideration is this: While ye may +be prepared to keep your mouth shut under the condition of a +fool, are ye equally prepared to do so in the condition of a dead +man? + +(CAMPBELL _waits expectantly._ STEWART _silent as before._) + +CAMPBELL. Tut, tut, now, if it's afraid ye are, my lad, with my +hand on my heart and on my word as a gentleman-- + +STEWART. Afraid! + +(_He spits in contempt towards_ CAMPBELL.) + +CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Ye damned stubborn Hieland stot. (_To_ +SANDEMAN) Have him taken out. We'll get it another way. + +(CAMPBELL _rises._ STEWART _is moved into barn by soldiers._) + +CAMPBELL (_walking_). Some puling eediots, Sandeman, would applaud +this contumacy and call it constancy. Constancy! Now, I've had a +lairge experience o' life, and I never saw yet a sensible man +insensible to the touch of yellow metal. If there may be such a +man, it is demonstrable that he is no sensible man. Fideelity! +quotha, it's sheer obstinacy. They just see that ye want +something oot o' them, and they're so damned selfish and thrawn +they winna pairt. And with the natural inabeelity o' their brains +to hold mair than one idea at a time they canna see that in +return you could put something into their palms far more +profitable. (_Sits again at table._) Aweel, bring Mistress Stewart +up. + +(_Old woman is placed before him where son had been._) + +CAMPBELL (_more ingratiatingly_). Weel noo, Mistress Stewart, good +woman, this is a sair predeecament for ye to be in. I would jist +counsel ye to be candid. Doubtless yer mind is a' in a swirl. Ye +kenna what way to turn. Maybe ye are like the Psalmist and say: +"I lookit this way and that, and there was no man to peety me, or +to have compassion upon my fatherless children." But, see now, ye +would be wrong; and, if ye tell me a' ye ken, I'll stand freends +wi' ye. Put your trust in Erchie Campbell. + +MARY STEWART. I trust no Campbell. + +CAMPBELL. Weel, weel noo, I'm no' jist that set up wi' them +myself. There's but ae Campbell that I care muckle aboot, after +a'. But, good wife, it's no' the Campbells we're trying the noo; +so as time presses we'll jist "_birze yont_," as they say +themselves. Noo then, speak up. + +(MARY STEWART _is silent._) + +CAMPBELL (_beginning grimly and passing through astonishment, +expostulation, and a feigned contempt for mother and pity for +son, to a pretence of sadness which, except at the end, makes his +words come haltingly_). Ah! ye also. I suppose ye understand, +woman, how it will go wi' your son? (_To his clerk_) Here's a fine +mother for ye, James! Would you believe it? She kens what would +save her son--the very babe she nursed at her breast; but will +she save him? Na! na! Sir, he may look after himself! A mother, a +mother! Ha! ha! + +(CAMPBELL _laughs._ MACKENZIE _titters foolishly._ CAMPBELL _pauses to +watch effect of his words._) + +Aye, you would think, James, that she would remember the time +when he was but little and afraid of all the terrors that walk in +darkness, and how he looked up to her as to a tower of safety, +and would run to her with outstretched hands, hiding his face +from his fear, in her gown. The darkness! It is the dark night +and a long journey before him now. + +(_He pauses again._) + +You would think, James, that she would mind how she happit him +from the cold of winter and sheltered him from the summer heats, +and, when he began to find his footing, how she had an eye on a' +the beasts of the field and on the water and the fire that were +become her enemies--And to what purpose all this care?--tell me +that, my man, to what good, if she is to leave him at the last to +dangle from a tree at the end of a hempen rope--to see his flesh +given to be meat for the fowls of the air--her son, her little +son! + +MARY STEWAET. My son is guilty of no crime! + +CAMPBELL. Is he no'! Weel, mistress, as ye'll no' take my word +for it, maybe ye'll list to Mr. Mackenzie here. What say ye, +James? + +MACKENZIE. He is guilty of aiding and abetting in the concealment +of proscribed persons; likewise with being found in the +possession of arms, contrary to statute, both very heinous +crimes. + +CAMPBELL. Very well said, James! Forby, between ourselves, Mrs. +Stewart, the young man in my opeenion is guilty of another crime +(_snuffs_)--he is guilty of the heinous crime of not knowing on +which side his bread is buttered.--Come now-- + +MARY STEWART. Ye durst not lay a finger on the lad, ye durst not +hang him. + +MACKENZIE. And why should the gentleman not hang him if it +pleesure him? + +(CAMPBELL _taps snuff-box and takes pinch._) + +MARY STEWART (_with intensity_). Campbell of Kilmhor, lay but one +finger on Dugald Stewart and the weight of Ben Cruachan will be +light to the weight that will be laid on your soul. I will lay +the curse of the seven rings upon your life: I will call up the +fires of Ephron, the blue and the green and the gray fires, for +the destruction of your soul: I will curse you in your homestead +and in the wife it shelters and in the children that will never +bear your name. Yea, and ye shall be cursed. + +CAMPBELL. (_Startled--betrays agitation--the snuff is spilled from +his trembling hand._) Hoot toot, woman! ye're, ye're--(_Angrily_) Ye +auld beldame, to say such things to me! I'll have ye first +whippet and syne droont for a witch. Damn thae stubborn and +supersteetious cattle! (_To_ SANDEMAN) We should have come in here +before him and listened in the barn, Sandeman! + +SANDEMAN. Ah, listen behind the door you mean! Now I never +thought of that! + +CAMPBELL. Did ye not! Humph! Well, no doubt there are a good many +things in the universe that yet wait for your thought upon them. +What would be your objections, now? + +SANDEMAN. There are two objections, Kilmhor, that you would +understand. + +CAMPBELL. Name them. + +SANDEMAN. Well, in the first place, we have not wings like crows +to fly--and the footsteps on the snow--Second point--the woman +would have told him we were there. + +CAMPBELL. Not if I told her I had power to clap her in Inverness +jail. + +MARY STEWART (_in contempt_). Yes, even if ye had told me ye had +power to clap me in hell, Mr. Campbell. + +CAMPBELL. Lift me that screeching Jezebel oot o' here; Sandeman, +we'll mak' a quick finish o' this. (_Soldiers take her towards +barn._) No, not there; pitch the old girzie into the snow. + +MARY STEWART. Ye'll never find him, Campbell, never, never! + +CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Find him! Aye, by God I'll find him, if I +have to keek under every stone on the mountains from the Boar of +Badenoch to the Sow of Athole. (_Old woman and soldiers go +outside._) And now, Captain Sandeman, you an' me must have a word +or two. I noted your objection to listening ahint doors and so +on. Now, I make a' necessary allowances for youth and the grand +and magneeficent ideas commonly held, for a little while, in that +period. I had them myself. But, man, gin ye had trod the floor of +the Parliament Hoose in Edinburry as long as I did, wi' a pair o' +thin hands at the bottom o' toom pockets, ye'd ha'e shed your +fine notions, as I did. Noo, fine pernickety noansense will no' +do in this business-- + +SANDEMAN. Sir! + +CAMPBELL. Softly, softly, Captain Sandeman, and hear till what I +have to say. I have noticed with regret several things in your +remarks and bearing which are displeasing to me. I would say just +one word in your ear; it is this. These things, Sandeman, are not +conducive to advancement in His Majesty's service. + +SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, I am a soldier, and if I speak out my mind, +you must pardon me if my words are blunt. I do not like this +work, but I loathe your methods. + +CAMPBELL. Mislike the methods you may, but the work ye must do! +Methods are my business. Let me tell you the true position. In ae +word it is no more and no less than this. You and me are baith +here to carry out the proveesions of the Act for the Pacification +of the Highlands. That means the cleaning up of a very big mess, +Sandeman, a very big mess. Now, what is your special office in +this work? I'll tell ye, man; you and your men are just beesoms +in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown. In this district, +I order and ye soop! (_He indicates door of barn._) Now soop, +Captain Sandeman. + +SANDEMAN (_in some agitation_). What is your purpose? What are you +after? I would give something to see into your mind. + +CAMPBELL. Ne'er fash aboot my mind: what has a soldier to do with +ony mental operations? It's His Grace's orders that concern you. +Oot wi' your man and set him up against the wa'. + +SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, it is murder--murder, Kilmhor! + +CAMPBELL. Hoots, awa', man, it's a thing o' nae special +significance. + +SANDEMAN. I must ask you for a warrant. + +CAMPBELL. Quick then: Mackenzie will bring it out to you. + +(CLERK _begins writing._ SANDEMAN _and soldiers lead_ STEWART +_outside_, CAMPBELL _sits till they are out._ CLERK _finishes_, +CAMPBELL _signs warrant--and former goes._ CAMPBELL _is alone, +save for_ MORAG CAMERON, _who is sitting huddled up on stool by +fire, and is unnoticed by_ CAMPBELL.) + +CAMPBELL (_as one speaking his thoughts aloud_). I've been beaten +for a' that. A strange thing, noo. Beforehand I would ha'e said +naething could be easier. And yet--and yet--there it is!... It +would have been a grand stroke for me.... Cluny--Keppoch--Lochiel, +and maybe ... maybe--Hell! when I think of it! Just a whispered +word--a mere pointed finger would ha'e telled a'. But no! their +visions, their dreams beat me. "You'll be adding to your +experience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and have something to put to +the other side of it," says he; aye, and by God I have added +something to it, and it is a thing I like but little--that a +dream can be stronger than a strong man armed.--Here come I, +Archibald Campbell of Kilmhor, invested with authority as +law-officer of the Crown, bearing in my hand the power of life +and death, fire and the sword, backed up by the visible authority +of armed men, and yet I am powerless before the dreams of an old +woman and a half-grown lad--soldiers and horses and the gallows +and yellow gold are less than the wind blowing in their +faces.--It is a strange thing that: it is a thing I do not +understand.--It is a thing fit to sicken a man against the notion +that there are probabeelities on this earth.--have been beaten +for a' that. Aye, the pair o' them have beat me--though it's a +matter of seconds till one of them be dead. + +MORAG (_starting into upright position and staring at him; her +voice is like an echo to his_). Dead! + +CAMPBELL (_turning hastily_). What is that! + +MORAG. Is he dead? + +CAMPBELL (_grimly_). Not yet, but if ye'll look through this window +(_he indicates window_) presently, ye'll see him gotten ready for +death. + +(_He begins to collect articles of personal property, hat, etc._) + +MORAG. I will tell you. + +CAMPBELL (_astounded_). What! + +MORAG. I will tell you all you are seeking to know. + +CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Good God, and to think, to think I was on the +very act--in the very act of--tell me--tell me at once. + +MORAG. You will promise that he will not be hanged? + +CAMPBELL. He will not. I swear it. + +MORAG. You will give him back to me? + +CAMPBELL. I will give him back unhung. + +MORAG. Then (CAMPBELL _comes near_), in a corrie half-way up the +far side of Dearig--God save me! + +CAMPBELL. Dished after a'. I've clean dished them! Loard, Loard! +once more I can believe in the rationality of Thy world. (_Gathers +up again his cloak, hat, etc._) And to think--to think--I was on +the very act of going away like a beaten dog! + +MORAG. He is safe from hanging now? + +CAMPBELL (_chuckles and looks out at window before replying, and +is at door when he speaks_). Very near it, very near it. Listen! + +(_He holds up his hand--a volley of musketry is heard. KILMHOR +goes out, closing the door behind him. After a short interval of +silence the old woman enters and advances a few steps._) + +MARY STEWART. Did you hear, Morag Cameron, did you hear? + +(_The girl is sobbing, her head on her arms._) + +MARY STEWART. Och! be quiet now; I would be listening till the +last sound of it passes into the great hills and over all the +wide world.--It is fitting for you to be crying, a child that +cannot understand; but water shall never wet eye of mine for +Dugald Stewart. Last night I was but the mother of a lad that +herded sheep on the Athole hills: this morn it is I that am the +mother of a man who is among the great ones of the earth. All +over the land they will be telling of Dugald Stewart. Mothers +will teach their children to be men by him. High will his name be +with the teller of fine tales.--The great men came, they came in +their pride, terrible like the storm they were, and cunning with +words of guile were they. Death was with them.... He was but a +lad, a young lad, with great length of days before him, and the +grandeur of the world. But he put it all from him. "Speak," said +they, "speak, and life and great riches will be for yourself." +But he said no word at all! Loud was the swelling of their wrath! +Let the heart of you rejoice, Morag Cameron, for the snow is red +with his blood. There are things greater than death. Let them +that are children shed the tears. + +(_She comes forward and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder._) + +MARY STEWART. Let us go and lift him into the house, and not be +leaving him lie out there alone. + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE SUN[1] + +John Glasworthy + + +SCENE: A GIRL sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to a +river. A MAN with a silver badge stands beside her clutching the +worn top plank. THE GIRL'S level brows are drawn together; her +eyes see her memories. THE MAN'S eyes see THE GIRL; he has a +dark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; the quiet river flows; +the cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along the hedge +that ends in the stile on the towing-path. + +[Footnote 1: From _Scribner's Magazine_, May, 1919. +Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons; included by special +permission of the writer and publishers.] + +THE GIRL. God knows what 'e'll say, Jim. + +THE MAN. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all. + +THE GIRL. He couldn't come before. I'm frightened. 'E was fond o' +me. + +THE MAN. And aren't I fond of you? My Gawd! + +THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'. + +THE MAN (_passionately_). And what about me? Aren't I been in the +fightin'--earned all I could get? + +THE GIRL (_touching him_). Ah! + +THE MAN. Did you-- + +(_He cannot speak the words._) + +THE GIRL. Not like you, Jim--not like you. + +THE MAN. 'Ave a spirit, then. + +THE GIRL. I promised 'im. + +THE MAN. One man's luck'a another's poison. I've seen it. + +THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited. I never thought 'e'd come back +from the fightin'. + +THE MAN (_grimly_). Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave. + +THE GIRL (_looking back along the tow-path_). What'll 'e be like, I +wonder? + +THE MAN (_gripping her shoulder_). Daise, don't you never go back +on me, or I should kill you, and 'im too. + +(THE GIRL _looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his._) + +THE GIRL. I never could. + +THE MAN. Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us. + +(THE GIRL _shakes her head._) + +THE MAN (_dully_). What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide. + +THE GIRL. I'd rather have it off me mind, with him 'ome. + +THE MAN (_clenching his hands_). It's temptin' Providence. + +THE GIRL. What's the time, Jim? + +THE MAN (_glancing at the sun_). 'Alf past four. + +THE GIRL (_looking along the towing-path_). 'E said four o'clock. +Jim, you better go. + +THE MAN. Not I. _I've_ not got the wind up. I've seen as +much of hell as he has, any day. What like is he? + +THE GIRL (_dully_). I dunno, just. I've not seen 'im these three +years. I dunno no more, since I've known you. + +THE MAN. Big, or little chap? + +THE GIRL. 'Bout your size. Oh! Jim, go along! + +THE MAN. No fear! What's a blighter like that to old Fritz's +shells? We didn't shift when they was comin'. If you'll go, I'll +go; not else. + +(_Again she shakes her head._) + +THE GIRL. Jim, do you love me true? (_For answer_, THE MAN _takes +her avidly in his arms._) I ain't ashamed--I ain't ashamed. If 'e +could see me 'eart. + +THE MAN. Daise! If I'd known you out there I never could 'a' +stuck it. They'd 'a' got me for a deserter. That's 'ow I love +you! + +THE GIRL. Jim, don't lift your 'and to 'im. Promise! + +THE MAN. That's according. + +THE GIRL. Promise! + +THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable--not +always, I tell you straight--not since I've been through that. + +THE GIRL (_with a shiver_). Nor p'r'aps 'e isn't. + +THE MAN. Like as not. It takes the lynchpins out, I tell you. + +THE GIRL. God 'elp us! + +THE MAN (_grimly_). Ah! We said that a bit too often. What we want, +we take, now; there's no one to give it us, and there's no +fear'll stop us; we seen the bottom o' things. + +THE GIRL. P'r'aps 'e'll say that too. + +THE MAN. Then it'll be 'im or me. + +THE GIRL. I'm frightened. + +THE MAN (_tenderly_). No, Daise, no! (_He takes out a knife._) The +river's 'andy. One more or less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor me +neither. + +THE GIRL (_seizing his hand_). Oh! no! Give it to me, Jim! + +THE MAN (_smiling_). No fear! (_He puts it away._) Shan't 'ave no +need for it, like as not. All right, little Daise; you can't be +expected to see things like what we do. What's a life, anyway? +I've seen a thousand taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men on +the wires like flies on a fly-paper; I've been as good as dead +meself an 'undred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. +'E's safe, if 'e don't get my blood up. If 'e does, nobody's +safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin' +sober. + +THE GIRL (_softly_). Jim, you won't go fightin', wi' the sun out +and the birds all callin'? + +THE MAN. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' for it. Daise, I +love you. I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love you. + +THE GIRL. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin' more than you +in the whole world. + +THE MAN. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me close! + +(_The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace._ THE +GIRL _starts from his arms and looks behind her along the +towing-path._ THE MAN _draws back against the hedge, fingering his +side, where the knife is hidden. The song comes nearer._) + + I'll be right there to-night + Where the fields are snowy white; + Banjos ringin', darkies singin'-- + All the world seems bright. + +THE GIRL. It's 'im! + +THE MAN. Don't get the wind up, Daise. I'm here! + +(_The singing stops. A man's voice says: Christ! It's Daise; it's +little Daise 'erself_! THE GIRL _stands rigid. The figure of a +soldier appears on the other side of the stile. His cap is tucked +into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is lean, +wasted, brown, and laughing._) + +SOLDIER. Daise! Daise! Hallo, old pretty girl! + +(THE GIRL _does not move, barring the way, as it were._) + +THE GIRL. Hallo, Jack! (_Softly_) I got things to tell you. + +SOLDIER. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I got things +that'd take me years to tell. 'Ave you missed me, Daise? + +THE GIRL. You been so long. + +SOLDIER. So I 'ave. My Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in the Army. I +said when I got out of it I'd laugh. Like as the sun itself I +used to think of you, Daise, when the crumps was comin' over, and +the wind was up. D' you remember that last night in the wood? +"Come back, and marry me quick, Jack!" Well, 'ere I am--got me +pass to 'eaven. No more fightin', an' trampin,' no more sleepin" +rough. We can get married now, Daise. We can live soft an' 'appy. +Give us a kiss, old pretty. + +THE GIRL (_drawing back_). No. + +SOLDIER (_blankly_). Why not? + +(THE MAN, _with a swift movement, steps along the hedge to_ THE +GIRL'S _side._) + +THE MAN. That's why, soldier. + +SOLDIER (_leaping over the stile_). 'Oo are you, Pompey? The sun +don't shine in your inside, do it? 'Oo is 'e, Daise? + +THE GIRL. My man. + +SOLDIER. Your--man! Lummy! "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a +thief"! Well, soldier? So you've been through it, too. I'm +laughin' this mornin', as luck will 'ave it. Ah! I can see your +knife. + +THE MAN (_who has half drawn his knife_). Don't laugh at _me_, +I tell you. + +SOLDIER. Not at you, soldier, not at you. (_He looks from one to +the other._) I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you get +it, soldier? + +THE MAN (_watchfully_). Through the lung. + +SOLDIER. Think o' that! An' I never was touched. Four years an' +never was touched. An' so you've come an' took my girl. Nothin' +doin'! Ha! (_Again he looks from one to the other--then away._) +Well! The world's before me. (_He laughs._) I'll give you Daise for +a lung protector. + +THE MAN (_fiercely_). You won't. I've took her. + +SOLDIER. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got a laugh +in me you can't put out, black as you are! Good-bye, little Daise! + +(THE GIRL _makes a movement toward him._) + +THE MAN. Don't touch 'im! + +(THE GIRL _stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into tears._) + +SOLDIER. Look 'ere, soldier; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a +girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much +o' sorrer. You an' me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our +whack. Shake! + +THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er! + +SOLDIER. Oh! I thought I did. + +THE MAN (_fiercely_). I'll fight you for her. + +(_He drops his knife._) + +SOLDIER (_slowly_). Soldier, you done your bit, an' I done mine. +It's took us two ways, seemin'ly. + +THE GIRL (_pleading_). Jim! + +THE MAN (_with clenched fists_). I don't want 'is charity. I only +want what I can take. + +SOLDIER. Daise, which of us will you 'ave? + +THE GIRL (_covering her face_). Oh! _Him._ + +SOLDIER. You see, soldier! Drop your 'ands, now. There's nothin' +for it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, soldier! + +THE MAN. You blarsted-- + +(THE GIRL _springs to him and stops his mouth._) + +SOLDIER. It's no use, soldier. I can't do it. I said I'd laugh +to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all the +stink of it; I've come through sorrer. Never again! Cheer-o, +mate! The sun's shinin'! + +(_He turns away._) + +THE GIRL. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me! + +SOLDIER (_looking back_). No fear, old pretty girl! Enjoy your +fancy! So long! Gawd bless you both! + +(_He sings and goes along the path, and the song_-- + + I'll be right there to-night + Where the fields are snowy white; + Banjos ringin', darkies singin'-- + All the world seems bright!-- + +_fades away._) + +THE MAN. 'E's mad. + +THE GIRL (_looking down the path, with her hands clasped_). The +sun 'as touched 'im, Jim! + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE KNAVE OF HEARTS[1] + +Louise Saunders + +[Footnote 1: This play is fully protected by copyright and may be +used only with the written permission of, and the payment of +royalty to, Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, New Jersey. Included by +permission of the author and Mr. Swartout.] + +CHARACTERS + +THE MANAGER +BLUE HOSE +YELLOW HOSE +1ST HERALD +2D HERALD +POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS + (pronounced Pomp-_di_biley) +THE CHANCELLOR +THE KNAVE OF HEARTS +URSULA +THE LADY VIOLETTA +SIX LITTLE PAGES + + +(THE MANAGER _appears before the curtain in doublet and hose. He +carries a cap with a long, red feather._) + +THE MANAGER (_bowing deeply_). Ladies and gentlemen, you are about +to hear the truth of an old legend that has persisted wrongly +through the ages, the truth that, until now, has been hid behind +the embroidered curtain of a rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts, +who was no knave but a very hero indeed. The truth, you will +agree with me, gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It is +only the quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem what +they are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue, pines +shadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still waters, the +contemplative mystery of the hills--these things which exist, +absorbed but in their own existence--these are the perfect +chalices of truth. + +But we, gentlemen and thrice-honored ladies, flounder about in a +tangled net of prejudice, of intrigue. We are blinded by +conventions, we are crushed by misunderstanding, we are +distracted by violence, we are deceived by hypocrisy, until only +too often villains receive the rewards of nobility and the truly +great-hearted are suspected, distrusted, and maligned. + +And so, ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of justice and also, I +dare to hope, for your approval, I have taken my puppets down +from their dusty shelves. I have polished their faces, brushed +their clothes, and strung them on wires, so that they may enact +for you this history. + +(_He parts the curtains, revealing two_ PASTRY COOKS _in flaring +white caps and spotless aprons leaning over in stiff profile, +their wooden spoons, three feet long, pointing rigidly to the +ceiling. They are in one of the kitchens of_ POMPDEBILE THE +EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS. _It is a pleasant kitchen, with a row of +little dormer windows and a huge stove, adorned with the crest of_ +POMPDEBILE--_a heart rampant, on a gold shield._) + +THE MANAGER. You see here, ladies and gentlemen, two pastry cooks +belonging to the royal household of Pompdebile the Eighth--Blue +Hose and Yellow Hose, by name. At a signal from me they will +spring to action, and as they have been made with astonishing +cleverness, they will bear every semblance of life. Happily, +however, you need have no fear that, should they please you, the +exulting wine of your appreciation may go to their heads--their +heads being but things of wire and wood; and happily, too, as +they are but wood and wire, they will be spared the shame and +humiliation that would otherwise be theirs should they fail to +meet with your approval. + +The play, most honored ladies and gentlemen, will now begin. + +(_He claps his hands. Instantly the two_ PASTRY COOKS _come to life._ +THE MANAGER _bows himself off the stage._) + +BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready for this great event? + +YELLOW HOSE. Everything. The fire blazing in the stove, the +Pages, dressed in their best, waiting in the pantry with their +various jars full of the finest butter, the sweetest sugar, the +hottest pepper, the richest milk, the-- + +BLUE HOSE. Yes, yes, no doubt. (_Thoughtfully_) It is a great +responsibility, this that they have put on our shoulders. + +YELLOW HOSE. Ah, yes. I have never felt more important. + +BLUE HOSE. Nor I more uncomfortable. + +YELLOW HOSE. Even on the day, or rather the night, when I awoke +and found myself famous--I refer to the time when I laid before +an astonished world my creation, "Humming birds' hearts souffle, +au vin blanc"--I did not feel more important. It is a pleasing +sensation! + +BLUE HOSE. I like it not at all. It makes me dizzy, this eminence +on which they have placed us. The Lady Violetta is slim and fair. +She does not, in my opinion, look like the kind of person who is +capable of making good pastry. I have discovered through long +experience that it is the heaviest women who make the lightest +pastry, and _vice versa._ Well, then, suppose that she does +not pass this examination--suppose that her pastry is lumpy, +white like the skin of a boiled fowl. + +YELLOW HOSE. Then, according to the law of the Kingdom of Hearts, +we must condemn it, and the Lady Violetta cannot become the bride +of Pompdebile. Back to her native land she will be sent, riding a +mule. + +BLUE HOSE. And she is so pretty, so exquisite! What a law! What +an outrageous law! + +YELLOW HOSE. Outrageous law! How dare you! There is nothing so +necessary to the welfare of the nation as our art. Good cooks +make good tempers, don't they? Must not the queen set an example +for the other women to follow? Did not our fathers and our +grandfathers before us judge the dishes of the previous queens of +hearts? + +BLUE HOSE. I wish I were mixing the rolls for to-morrow's +breakfast. + +YELLOW HOSE. Bah! You are fit for nothing else. The affairs of +state are beyond you. + +(_Distant sound of trumpets._) + +BLUE HOSE (_nervously_). What's that? + +YELLOW HOSE. The King is approaching! The ceremonies are about to +commence! + +BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready? + +YELLOW HOSE. I told you that everything was ready. Stand still; +you are as white as a stalk of celery. + +BLUE HOSE (_counting on his fingers_). Apples, lemons, peaches, +jam--Jam! Did you forget jam? + +YELLOW HOSE. Zounds, I did! + +BLUE HOSE (_wailing_). We are lost! + +YELLOW HOSE. She may not call for it. + +(_Both stand very erect and make a desperate effort to appear +calm._) + +BLUE HOSE (_very nervous_). Which door? Which door? + +YELLOW HOSE. The big one, idiot. Be still! + +(_The sound of trumpets increases, and cries of "Make way for the +King." Two_ HERALDS _come in and stand on either side of the door. +The_ KING OF HEARTS _enters, followed by ladies and gentlemen of +the court._ POMPDEBILE _is in full regalia, and very imposing +indeed with his red robe bordered with ermine, his crown and +sceptre. After him comes the_ CHANCELLOR, _an old man with a short, +white beard. The_ KING _strides in a particularly kingly fashion, +pointing his toes in the air at every step, toward his throne, +and sits down. The_ KNAVE _walks behind him slowly. He has a sharp, +pale face._) + +POMPDEBILE (_impressively_). Lords and ladies of the court, this is +an important moment in the history of our reign. The Lady +Violetta, whom you love and respect--that is, I mean to say, whom +the ladies love and the lords--er--respect, is about to prove +whether or not she be fitted to hold the exalted position of +Queen of Hearts, according to the law, made a thousand years ago +by Pompdebile the Great, and steadily followed ever since. She +will prepare with her own delicate, white hands a dish of pastry. +This will be judged by the two finest pastry cooks in the land. + +(BLUE HOSE _and_ YELLOW HOSE _bow deeply._) + +If their verdict be favorable, she shall ride through the streets +of the city on a white palfrey, garlanded with flowers. She will +be crowned, the populace will cheer her, and she will reign by +our side, attending to the domestic affairs of the realm, while +we give our time to weightier matters. This of course you all +understand is a time of great anxiety for the Lady Violetta. She +will appear worried--(_To_ CHANCELLOR) The palfrey is in readiness, +we suppose. + +CHANCELLOR. It is, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Garlanded with flowers? + +CHANCELLOR. With roses, Your Majesty. + +KNAVE (_bowing_). The Lady Violetta prefers violets, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Let there be a few violets put in with the +roses--er--We are ready for the ceremony to commence. We confess +to a slight nervousness unbecoming to one of our station. The +Lady Violetta, though trying at times, we have found--er--shall +we say--er--satisfying? + +KNAVE (_bowing_). Intoxicating, Your Majesty? + +CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). His Majesty means nothing of the sort. + +POMPDEBILE. No, of course not--er--The mule--Is that--did you--? + +CHANCELLOR (_in a grieved tone_). This is hardly necessary. Have I +ever neglected or forgotten any of your commands, Your Majesty? + +POMPDEBILE. You have, often. However, don't be insulted. It takes +a great deal of our time and it is most uninteresting. + +CHANCELLOR (_indignantly_). I resign, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Your thirty-seventh resignation will be accepted +to-morrow. Just now it is our wish to begin at once. The anxiety +that no doubt gathered in the breast of each of the seven +successive Pompdebiles before us seems to have concentrated in +ours. Already the people are clamoring at the gates of the palace +to know the decision. Begin. Let the Pages be summoned. + +KNAVE (_bowing_). Beg pardon, Your Majesty; before summoning the +Pages, should not the Lady Violetta be here? + +POMPDEBILE. She should, and is, we presume, on the other side of +that door--waiting breathlessly. + +(THE KNAVE _quietly opens the door and closes it._) + +KNAVE (_bowing_). She is not, Your Majesty, on the other side of +that door waiting breathlessly. In fact, to speak plainly, she is +not on the other side of that door at all. + +POMPDEBILE. Can that be true? Where are her ladies? + +KNAVE. They are all there, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Summon one of them. + +(THE KNAVE _goes out, shutting the door. He returns, following_ +URSULA, _who, very much frightened, throws herself at the_ KING'S +_feet._) + +POMPDEBILE. Where is your mistress? + +URSULA. She has gone, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Gone! Where has she gone? + +URSULA. I do not know, Your Majesty. She was with us a while ago, +waiting there, as you commanded. + +POMPDEBILE. Yes, and then--speak. + +URSULA. Then she started out and forbade us to go with her. + +POMPDEBILE. The thought of possible divorce from us was more than +she could bear. Did she say anything before she left? + +URSULA (_trembling_). Yes, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. What was it? She may have gone to self-destruction. +What was it? + +URSULA. She said-- + +POMPDEBILE. Speak, woman, speak. + +URSULA. She said that Your Majesty-- + +POMPDEBILE. A farewell message! Go on. + +URSULA (_gasping_). That Your Majesty was "pokey" and that she +didn't intend to stay there any longer. + +POMPDEBILE (_roaring_). _Pokey!!_ + +URSULA. Yes, Your Majesty, and she bade me call her when you +came, but we can't find her, Your Majesty. + +(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _whisper._ URSULA _is in tears._) + +CHANCELLOR. This should not be countenanced, Your Majesty. The +word "pokey" cannot be found in the dictionary. It is the most +flagrant disrespect to use a word that is not in the dictionary +in connection with a king. + +POMPDEBILE. We are quite aware of that, Chancellor, and although +we may appear calm on the surface, inwardly we are swelling, +_swelling_, with rage and indignation. + +KNAVE (_looking out the window_). I see the Lady Violetta in the +garden. (_He goes to the door and holds it open, bowing._) The Lady +Violetta is at the door, Your Majesty. + +(_Enter the_ LADY VIOLETTA, _her purple train over her arm. She has +been running._) + +VIOLETTA. Am I late? I just remembered and came as fast as I +could. I bumped into a sentry and he fell down. I didn't. That's +strange, isn't it? I suppose it's because he stands in one +position so long he--Why, Pompy dear, what's the matter? Oh, oh! +(_Walking closer_) Your feelings are hurt! + +POMPDEBILE. _Don't_ call us Pompy. It doesn't seem to matter +to you whether you are divorced or not. + +VIOLETTA (_anxiously_). Is that why your feelings are hurt? + +POMPDEBILE. Our feelings are not hurt, not at all. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they are, Pompdebile dear. I know, because +they are connected with your eyebrows. When your feelings go +down, up go your eyebrows, and when your feelings go up, they go +down--always. + +POMPDEBILE (_severely_). Where have you been? + +VIOLETTA. I, just now? + +POMPDEBILE. Just now, when you should have been outside that door +waiting _breathlessly._ + +VIOLETTA. I was in the garden. Really, Pompy, you couldn't expect +me to stay all day in that ridiculous pantry; and as for being +breathless, it's quite impossible to be it unless one has been +jumping or something. + +POMPDEBILE. What were you doing in the garden? + +VIOLETTA (_laughing_). Oh, it was too funny. I must tell you. I +found a goat there who had a beard just like the Chancellor's--really +it was quite remarkable, the resemblance--in other ways too. I +took him by the horns and I looked deep into his eyes, and I +said, "Chancellor, if you try to influence Pompy--" + +POMPDEBILE (_shouting_). Don't call us Pompy. + +VIOLETTA. Excuse me, Pomp-- + +(_Checking herself._) + +KNAVE. And yet I think I remember hearing of an emperor, a great +emperor, named Pompey. + +POMPDEBILE. We know him not. Begin at once; the people are +clamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients. + +(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _open the door, and, single file, six little +boys march in, bearing large jars labeled butter, salt, flour, +pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The_ COOKS _place a table and a large +bowl and a pan in front of the_ LADY VIOLETTA _and give her a +spoon. The six little boys stand three on each side._) + +VIOLETTA. Oh, what darling little ingredients. May I have an +apron, please? + +(URSULA _puts a silk apron, embroidered with red hearts, on the_ +LADY VIOLETTA.) + +BLUE HOSE. We were unable to find a little boy to carry the +pepper, My Lady. They all _would_ sneeze in such a disturbing +way. + +VIOLETTA. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He hasn't +sneezed once. + +YELLOW HOSE. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not a little +boy. + +VIOLETTA. Oh! How nice! Perhaps she will help me. + +CHANCELLOR (_severely_). You are allowed no help, Lady Violetta. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, Chancellor, how cruel of you. (_She takes up the +spoon, bowing._) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of the court, I +propose to make (_impressively_) raspberry tarts. + +BLUE HOSE. Heaven be kind to us! + +YELLOW HOSE (_suddenly agitated_). Your Majesty, I implore your +forgiveness. There is no raspberry jam in the palace. + +POMPDEBILE What! Who is responsible for this carelessness? + +BLUE HOSE. I gave the order to the grocer, but it didn't come. +(_Aside_) I knew something like this would happen. I knew it. + +VIOLETTA (_untying her apron_). Then, Pompdebile, I'm very +sorry--we shall have to postpone it. + +CHANCELLOR. If I may be allowed to suggest, Lady Violetta can +prepare something else. + +KNAVE. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect has the +privilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to prepare. + +VIOLETTA. Dear Pompdebile, let's give it up. It's such a silly +law! Why should a great splendid ruler like you follow it just +because one of your ancestors, who wasn't half as nice as you +are, or one bit wiser, said to do it? Dearest Pompdebile, please. + +POMPDEBILE. We are inclined to think that there may be something +in what the Lady Violetta says. + +CHANCELLOR. I can no longer remain silent. It is due to that +brilliant law of Pompdebile the First, justly called the Great, +that all members of our male sex are well fed, and, as a natural +consequence, happy. + +KNAVE. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew the +sunlight. + +POMPDEBILE. If we made an effort, we could think of a new +law--just as wise. It only requires effort. + +CHANCELLOR. But the constitution. We can't touch the +constitution. + +POMPDEBILE (_starting up_). We shall destroy the constitution! + +CHANCELLOR. The people are clamoring at the gates! + +POMPDEBILE. Oh, I forgot them. No, it has been carried too far. +We shall have to go on. Proceed. + +VIOLETTA. Without the raspberry jam? + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ KNAVE). Go you, and procure some. I will give a +hundred golden guineas for it. + +(_The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes forward._) + +BOY. Please, Your Majesty, I have some. + +POMPDEBILE. You! Where? + +BOY. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my cinnamon +jar--I could get it. + +(UBSULA _takes it. The boy struggles with his pocket and finally, +triumphantly, pulls out a small jar._) + +There! + +VIOLETTA. How clever of you! Do you always do that? + +BOY. What--eat raspberry jam? + +VIOLETTA. No, supply the exact article needed from your pocket. + +BOY. I eat it for my lunch. Please give me the hundred guineas. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes--Chancellor--if I may trouble you. + +(_Holding out her hand._) + +CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, this is an outrage! Are you going to +allow this? + +POMPDEBILE (_sadly_). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsive +nature! + +(_The_ LADY VIOLETTA _receives the money._) + +VIOLETTA. Thank you. (_She gives it to the boy._) Now we are ready +to begin. Milk, please. (_The boy who holds the milk jar comes +forward and kneels._) I take some of this milk and beat it well. + +YELLOW HOSE (_in a whisper_). _Beat_ it--milk! + +VIOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, taking great +care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (_To the +little boy_) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, and +then--one pound of butter. I hope that it is good butter, or the +whole thing will be quite spoiled. + +BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have ever +witnessed. + +YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it. + +VIOLETTA (_stirring_). I find that the butter is _not_ very +good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more +pepper to counteract it. That's better. (_She pours in pepper. The +boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently._) Oh, oh, dear! Lend +him your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE +_silences the boy's sneezes with the_ KNAVE'S _handkerchief._) I +think that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad, +Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smile +nicely--a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now +for a dash of vinegar. + +COOKS (_in horror_). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar! + +VIOLETTA (_stops stirring_). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do you +like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you, +you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all the +wives how to please all the husbands. + +POMPDEBILE. Remember that they are to go in the museum with the +tests of the previous Queens. + +VIOLETTA (_thoughtfully_). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under the +circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them too +crumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully. +The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now I +dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice +little boy's raspberry jam--I'm sorry I have to use it all, but +you may lick the spoon--put them in the oven, slam the door. Now, +my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest. + +(_She curtsies before the_ KING.) + +POMPDEBILE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with which +you performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks. +This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been +suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of +checkers once more. How long a time will it take for your +creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested? + +VIOLETTA (_considering_). About twenty minutes, Pompy. + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ HERALD). Inform the people. Come, we will retire. +(_To_ KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands. + +(_All exit, left, except the_ KNAVE. _He stands in deep thought, his +chin in hand--then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. The +cuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors open +stealthily. Enter_ LADY VIOLETTA _at one door, the_ KNAVE _at the +other, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly and +see each other._) + +VIOLETTA (_tearfully_). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything--anything +at all, not even a baked potato. + +KNAVE. So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago. + +VIOLETTA (_pleadingly_). Don't you think it might just happen that +they turned out all right? (_Whispering_) Take them out of the +oven. Let's look. + +KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's +possible that a miracle has occurred. + +(_He tries the door of the oven._) + +VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief. + +KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady. + +(_He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out +the pan, which he puts on the table softly._) + +VIOLETTA (_with a look of horror_) How queer! They've melted or +something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that +they will be good for anything, Knave? + +KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful! + +KNAVE. It is. + +VIOLETTA (_beginning to cry_). I don't want to be banished, +especially on a mule-- + +KNAVE. Don't cry, My Lady. It's very--upsetting. + +VIOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The fetes that I would +give--under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the +shadows, fetes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young--like +you and me, Knave--would find the glowing flowers of youth ready +to be gathered in all their dewy freshness! + +KNAVE. Ah! + +VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty +picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers, +followed by the cheers of the populace--Long live Queen Violetta, +long live Queen Violetta! Those _abominable_ tarts! + +KNAVE. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain. + +VIOLETTA. I am indeed. Isn't it fortunate? + +KNAVE. Fortunate? + +VIOLETTA. Well, I mean it would be fortunate if I were going to +be queen. They get so much flattery. The queens who don't adore +it as I do must be bored to death. Poor things! I'm never so +happy as when I am being flattered. It makes me feel all warm and +purry. That is another reason why I feel sure I was _made_ +to be a queen. + +KNAVE (_looking ruefully at the pan_). You will never be queen, My +Lady, unless we can think of something quickly, some plan-- + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, dear Knave, please think of a plan at once. +Banished people, I suppose, have to comb their own hair, put on +their shoes, and button themselves up the back. I have never +performed these estimable and worthy tasks, Knave. I don't know +how; I don't even know how to scent my bath. I haven't the least +idea what makes it smell deliciously of violets. I only know that +it always _does_ smell deliciously of violets because I wish +it that way. I should be miserable; save me, Knave, please. + +KNAVE. My mind is unhappily a blank, Your Majesty. + +VIOLETTA. It's very unjust. Indeed, it's unjust! No other queen +in the world has to understand cooking; even the Queen of Spades +doesn't. Why should the Queen of Hearts, of all people! + +KNAVE. Perhaps it is because--I have heard a proverb: "The way to +the heart is through the--" + +VIOLETTA (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Don't repeat that hateful +proverb! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel like crying when +I hear it, too. Now see, I'm crying. You made me. + +KNAVE. Why does that proverb make you cry, My Lady? + +VIOLETTA. Oh, because it is such a stupid proverb and so silly, +because it's true in most cases, and because--I don't know why. + +KNAVE. We are a set of moles here. One might also say that we are +a set of mules. How can moles or mules either be expected to +understand the point of view of a Bird of Paradise when she-- + +VIOLETTA. Bird of Paradise! Do you mean me? + +KNAVE (_bowing_). I do, My Lady, figuratively speaking. + +VIOLETTA (_drying her eyes_). How very pretty of you! Do you know, +I think that you would make a splendid chancellor. + +KNAVE. Her Ladyship is vain, as I remarked before. + +VIOLETTA (_coldly_). As I remarked before, how fortunate. Have you +anything to suggest--a plan? + +KNAVE. If only there were time my wife could teach you. Her +figure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her eyes stumble +over it; but her cooking, ah--(_He blows a kiss_) it is a thing to +dream about. She cooks as naturally as the angels sing. The +delicate flavors of her concoctions float over the palate like +the perfumes of a thousand flowers. True, her temper, it is +anything but sweet--However, I am conceded by many to be the most +happily married man in the kingdom. + +VIOLETTA (_sadly_). Yes. That's all they care about here. One may +be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if +one can't cook nobody loves one at all. + +KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holding +such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers that +perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower +nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement-- + +VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done--I +shall have to be banished? + +KNAVE. I'm afraid--Wait, I have an idea! (_Excitedly_) Dulcinea, my +wife--her name is Dulcinea--made known to me this morning, very +forcibly--Yes, I remember, I'm sure--Yes, she was going to bake +this very morning some raspberry tarts--a dish in which she +particularly excels--If I could only procure some of them and +bring them here! + +VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean, +would you? Is there time? The court will return. + +(_They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily._) + +KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come in +until I get back, if you can help it. + +(_He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window._) + +VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it. It is the +custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her +coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor. + +KNAVE (_turning back_). Oh, please don't, My Lady, I implore you. + +VIOLETTA. Why not? + +KNAVE. It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I +would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, my +wife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, +the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she would +never wield a spoon again. + +VIOLETTA (_pursing her lips_). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly. +Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoys +social position, I might as well give her some. We have lots and +lots of it lying around. + +KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea is +a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies +solely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would be +miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectly +sure. + +VIOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away from you. +You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do you like that better? +Hurry, please. + +KNAVE. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly. + +(_He goes out with the tarts._ VIOLETTA _listens anxiously for a +minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers +and practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey. +She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers +the mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thought +saddens her, so she curls up in_ POMPDEBILE'S _throne and cries +softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There is +a knock. She flies to the door and holds it shut._) + +VIOLETTA (_breathlessly_). Who is there? + +CHANCELLOR. It is I, Lady Violetta. The King wishes to return. + +VIOLETTA (_alarmed_). Return! Does he? But the tarts are not done. +They are not done at all! + +CHANCELLOR. You said they would be ready in twenty minutes. His +Majesty is impatient. + +VIOLETTA. Did you play a game of checkers with him, Chancellor? + +CHANCELLOR. Yes. + +VIOLETTA. And did you beat him? + +CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). I did not. + +VIOLETTA (_laughing_). How sweet of you! Would you mind doing it +again just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you to +keep from beating him twice in succession? + +CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission. + +(VIOLETTA _runs to the window to see if the_ KNAVE _is in sight. The_ +CHANCELLOR _returns and knocks._) + +CHANCELLOR. The King wishes to come in. + +VIOLETTA. But the checkers! + +CHANCELLOR. The Knights of the Checker Board have taken them +away. + +VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really. + +CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes. + +VIOLETTA. No, I didn't--at least, I said twenty minutes for them +to get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them to +become brown. That makes forty--don't you remember? + +CHANCELLOR. I shall carry your message to His Majesty. + +(VIOLETTA _again runs to the window and peers anxiously up the +road._) + +CHANCELLOR (_knocking loudly_). The King commands you to open the +door. + +VIOLETTA. Commands! Tell him--Is he there--with you? + +CHANCELLOR. His Majesty is at the door. + +VIOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude indeed. I don't +see how you can be so rude--to command me, your own Violetta who +loves you so. (_She again looks in vain for the_ KNAVE.) Oh, dear! +(_Wringing her hands_) Where can he be! + +POMPDEBILE (_outside_). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worried +we are? It is a compliment to you-- + +VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care--only I'm sure they are not +finished. + +(_She opens the door for the_ KING, the CHANCELLOR, _and the two_ +PASTRY COOKS. _The_ KING _walks to his throne. He finds_ LADY +VIOLETTA'S _lace handkerchief on it._) + +POMPDEBILE (_holding up handkerchief_). What is this? + +VIOLETTA. Oh, that's my handkerchief. + +POMPDEBILE. It is very damp. Can it be that you are anxious, that +you are afraid? + +VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always does +after cooking; (_to the_ PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there was +no towel, so I used my handkerchief instead of my petticoat, +which is made of chiffon and is very perishable. + +CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work? + +VIOLETTA. I don't understand what you mean by work, Chancellor. +Oh, the tarts! (_Nervously_) They were quite simple--quite simple +to make--no work at all--A little imagination is all one needs +for such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you, +Pompy, that imagination will work wonders--will do almost +anything, in fact? I remember-- + +POMPDEBILE. The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, _no_, Pompy! They are not finished or cooked, +or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last five minutes is +of the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them! +_Please_-- + +POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If you +wish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm in +looking at them. Come, I will hold your hand. + +VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my +hand. + +(_She scrambles up on the throne beside the_ KING.) + +CHANCELLOR (_in horror_). On the throne, Your Majesty? + +POMPDEBILE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that you are not +yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while-- + +VIOLETTA (_coming down_). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, in +this seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't +_really_ be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying +it so much. + +POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (_To the_ PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts. +This suspense is unbearable! + +(_The_ KING'S _voice is husky with excitement. The two_ PASTRY COOKS, +_after bowing with great ceremony to the_ KING, _to each other, to +the_ CHANCELLOR--_for this is the most important moment of their +lives by far--walk to the oven door and open it, impressively. +They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their +balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again_). + +YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there! + +BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone! + +VIOLETTA (_clasping her hands_). Gone! Oh, where could they have +gone? + +POMPDEBILB (_coming down from throne_). That is impossible. + +PASTRY COOKS (_greatly excited_). You see, you see, the oven is +empty as a drum. + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room? + +VIOLETTA (_wailing_). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my +nose before the mirror in the pantry. (_To_ PASTRY COOKS) When one +cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I had +thought for one little minute-- + +POMPDEBILE (_interrupting_). The tarts have been stolen! + +VIOLETTA (_with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair_). Stolen! +Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that any one would +take my delicious little, my dear little tarts. My salts. Oh! Oh! + +(PASTRY COOKS _run to the door and call._) + +YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts. + +BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted! + +(URSULA _enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle._) + +URSULA. Here, here--What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet +mistress! + +POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts. + +(LADY VIOLETTA _moans._) + +URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and bathe +her forehead. + +VIOLETTA (_sitting up_). I feel better now. Where am I? What is the +matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts! + +(_She buries her face in her hands._) + +CHANCELLOR (_suspiciously_). Your Majesty, this is very strange. + +URSULA (_excitedly_). I know, Your Majesty. It was the Knave. One +of the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw the +Knave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was the +Knave. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really. + +POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banish +him for this or have him _beheaded._ + +CHANCELLOR. It should have been done long ago, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. You are right. + +CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty will never listen to me. + +POMPDEBILE. We _do_ listen to you. Be quiet. + +VIOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear? + +POMPDEBILE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let it be known +all over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought here +dead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in every +direction. + +CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had Your +Majesty listened to me. + +POMPDEBILE (_in a rage_). Be quiet. (_Exit_ HERALD.) I never have a +brilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable! + +(_The_ HERALDS _can be heard in the distance._) + +CHANCELLOR. I resign. + +POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation at +once. + +CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as your +Chancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me an +opportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You must +admit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as your +dressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, +your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will be +just--as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I will +give you a month's notice. + +POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary. + +CHANCELLOR (_referring to the constitution hanging at his belt_). +It's in the constitution. + +POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. + +VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so--so +unfortunately, I shall change my gown. (_To_ URSULA) Put out my +cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief to +change one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather a +pretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to my +calling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, like +holding your hand. + +POMPDEBILE (_magnanimously_). You may hold our hand too, Violetta. + +VIOLETTA (_fervently_). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! But +you see it's impossible just now, as I have to change my +gown--unless you will come with me while I change. + +CHANCELLOR (_in a voice charged with inexpressible horror_). Your +Majesty! + +POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (_He starts to +descend, when a_ HERALD _bursts through the door in a state of +great excitement. He kneels before_ POMPDEBILE.) + +HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. In +fact,_I_ found him all by myself! He was sitting under the +shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs and +fell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into the +dust," he said, and then--I saw him! + +POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? The +scoundrel! Bring him here immediately. + +(_The_ HERALD _rushes out and returns with the_ KNAVE, _followed +by the six little_ PAGES. _The_ KNAVE _carries a tray of tarts in +his hand._) + +POMPDEBILE (_almost speechless with rage_). How dare +you--you--you-- + +KNAVE (_bowing_). Knave, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this. + +CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough. + +POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really, +Violetta-- + +VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's +consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is +inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know? +Let us think of something really cruel--really fiendish. I have +it--deprive him of social position for the rest of his life--force +him to remain a mere knave, forever. + +POMPDEBILE. You are right. + +KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it, +Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly crime? + +KNAVE. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any kind. +There is something in my nature that demands tarts--something in +my constitution that cries out for them--and I obey my +constitution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his. +I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odor +floated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, light +brown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts +fit for the gods--- that I could stand it no longer. It was +stronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances +for future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the +window. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating +it, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. After +having eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts has +disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tart +before me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection. + +POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteen +strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, we +await your decision! + +(_The_ COOKS _bow as before; then each selects a tart from the +tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. An +expression of absolute ecstasy and beatitude comes over their +faces. They clasp hands, then fall on each other's necks, +weeping._) + +POMPDEBILE (_impatiently_). What on earth is the matter? + +YELLOW HOSE. Excuse our emotion. It is because we have at last +encountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, of +our art. + +(_They bow to_ VIOLETTA.) + +POMPDEBILE. They are good, then? + +BLUE HOSE (_his eyes to heaven_). Good! They are angelic! + +POMPDEBILE. Give one of the tarts to us. We would sample it. + +(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _hand the tray to the KING, who selects a +tart and eats it._) + +POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). My dear, they are marvels! marvels! +(_He comes down from the throne and leads_ VIOLETTA _up to the +dais._) Your throne, my dear. + +VIOLETTA (_sitting down, with a sigh_). I'm glad it's such a +comfortable one. + +POMPDEBILE. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temptation was +very great. There are things that mere human nature cannot be +expected to resist. Another tart, Cooks, and yet another! + +CHANCELLOR. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all. They must go +to the museum with the dishes of the previous Queens of Hearts. + +YELLOW HOSE. A museum--those tarts! As well lock a rose in a +money-box! + +CHANCELLOR. But the constitution commands it. How else can we +commemorate, for future generations, this event? + +KNAVE. An Your Majesty, please, I will commemorate it in a rhyme. + +POMPDEBILE. How can a mere rhyme serve to keep this affair in the +minds of the people? + +KNAVE. It is the only way to keep it in the minds of the people. +No event is truly deathless unless its monument be built in +rhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignificant in itself, +became the most famous of all history, because someone happened +to put it into rhyme. The crash of it sounded through centuries +and will vibrate for generations to come. + +VIOLETTA. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman Empire? + +KNAVE. No, Madam, I refer to the fall of Humpty Dumpty. + +POMPDEBILE. Well, make your rhyme. In the meantime let us +celebrate. You may all have one tart. (_The_ PASTRY COOKS _pass +the tarts. To_ VIOLETTA) Are you willing, dear, to ride the white +palfrey garlanded with flowers through the streets of the city? + +VIOLETTA. Willing! I have been practising for days! + +POMPDEBILE. The people, I suppose, are still clamoring at the +gates. + +VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I _want_ them to. Herald, +tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to every woman +a shining gold piece, but to the babies I shall throw only +kisses, thousands of them, like little winged birds. Kisses and +gold and roses! They will surely love me then! + +CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what possible use to the +people--? + +POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. The Queen may scatter what she pleases. + +KNAVE. My rhyme is ready, Your Majesty. + +POMPDEBILE. Repeat it. + +KNAVE. + + The Queen of Hearts + She made some tarts + All on a summer's day. + The Knave of Hearts + He stole those tarts + And took them quite away. + + The King of Hearts + Called for those tarts + And beat the Knave full sore. + The Knave of Hearts + Brought back the tarts + And vowed he'd sin no more. + +VIOLETTA (_earnestly_). My dear Knave, how wonderful of you! You +shall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has no social position, +has he? + +KNAVE. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not he chooses +to be more laureate than poet. + +VIOLETTA (_rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy_). _Your +Majesty!_ Those words go to my head--like wine! + +KNAVE. Long live Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta! + +(_The trumpets sound._) + +HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta! + +VIOLETTA (_excitedly_). _Vee_-oletta, please! + +HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen +_Vee_-oletta-- + +(_The_ KING _and_ QUEEN _show themselves at the door--and the people +can be heard clamoring outside._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +FAME AND THE POET[1] + +Lord Dunsany + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted from the _Atlantic Monthly_ for June, +1919, by special permission of Lord Dunsany and the editors of +the _Atlantic Monthly._] + +SCENE: The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen +in a corner. + +TIME: February 30th. + +CHARACTERS + +HARRY DE REVES.--A Poet. + +(_This name, though of course of French origin, has become +anglicized and is pronounced_ DE REEVES.) + +DICK PRATTLE.--A Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines. + +FAME. + + +(_The_ POET _is sitting at a table, writing. Enter_ DICK PRATTLE.) + +PRATTLE. Hullo, Harry. + +DE REVES. Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you from? + +PRATTLE (_casually_). The ends of the Earth. + +DE REVES. Well, I'm damned! + +PRATTLE. Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on. + +DE REVES. Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London? + +PRATTLE. Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decent +ties to wear,--you can get nothing out there,--then I thought +I'd have a look and see how London was getting on. + +DE REVES. Splendid! How's everybody? + +PRATTLE. All going strong. + +DE REVES. That's good. + +PRATTLE. (_seeing paper and ink_). But what are you doing? + +DE REVES. Writing. + +PRATTLE. Writing? I didn't know you wrote. + +DE REVES. Yes, I've taken to it rather. + +PRATTLE. I say--writing's no good. What do you write? + +DE REVES. Oh, poetry. + +PRATTLE. Poetry? Good Lord! + +DE REVES. Yes, that sort of thing, you know. + +PRATTLE. Good Lord! Do you make any money by it? + +DE REVES. No. Hardly any. + +PRATTLE. I say--why don't you chuck it? + +DE REVES. Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, +rather. That's why I go on. + +PRATTLE. I'd chuck it if there's no money in it. + +DE REVES. Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd +hardly approve of poetry if there _was_ money in it. + +PRATTLE. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry +as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, +only-- + +DE REVES. Only what? + +PRATTLE. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in +betting, somehow. + +DE REVES. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an +earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus-- + +PRATTLE. What's Pegasus? + +DE REVES. Oh, the winged horse of poets. + +PRATTLE. I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you? + +DE REVES. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They +all represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem like Pegasus +is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you. + +PRATTLE. I say. (_Give me a cigarette. Thanks._) What? Then you'd +believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of +birds? + +DE REVES. Yes. Yes. In all of them. + +PRATTLE. Good Lord! + +DE REVES. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you? + +PRATTLE. Yes, of course; but what has-- + +DE REVES. Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't +they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and +tradition of-- + +PRATTLE. Yes; but, I say, what has all this-- + +DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him +Lord Mayor, and so he is one.... + +PRATTLE. Well, of course he is. + +DE REVES. In the same way Pan has been made what he is by +millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions. + +PRATTLE. (_rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing +and looking at the POET in a kind of assumed wonder_). I say.... I +say.... You old heathen ... but Good Lord.... + +(_He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little._) + +DE REVES. Look out! Look out! + +PRATTLE. What? What's the matter? + +DE REVES. The screen! + +PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right. + +(_He is about to go round behind it._) + +DE REVES. No, don't go round there. + +PRATTLE. What? Why not? + +DE REVES. Oh, you wouldn't understand. + +PRATTLE. Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got? + +DE REVES. Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand. + +PRATTLE. Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look. (_The_ POET +_walks toward_ PRATTLE _and the screen. He protests no further._ +PRATTLE _looks round the corner of the screen._) An altar. + +DE REVES. (_removing the screen altogether_). That is all. What do +you make of it? + +(_An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. +Papers litter the floor all about it._) + +PRATTLE. I say--you always were an untidy devil. + +DE REVES. Well, what do you make of it? + +PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton. + +DE REVES. My room at Eton? + +PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor. + +DE REVES. Oh, yes-- + +PRATTLE. And what are these? + +DE REVES. All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame. + +PRATTLE. To Fame? + +DE REVES. The same that Homer knew. + +PRATTLE. Good Lord! + +DE REVES. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came +late at the best of times, now scarcely ever. + +PRATTLE. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there +really is such a person? + +DE REVES. I offer all my songs to her. + +PRATTLE. But you don't mean you think you could actually +_see_ Fame? + +DE REVES. We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only +but sculptors and painters too. All the great things of the world +are those abstract things. + +PRATTLE. But what I mean is they're not really there, like you or +me. + +DE REVES. To us these things are more real than men, they outlive +generations, they watch the passing of Kingdoms: we go by them +like dust; they are still here, unmoved, unsmiling. + +PRATTLE. But, but, you can't think that you could _see_ +Fame, you don't expect to _see_ it. + +DE REVES. Not to me. Never to me. She of the golden trumpet and +Greek dress will never appear to me.... We all have our dreams. + +PRATTLE. I say--what have you been doing all day? + +DE REVES. I? Oh, only writing a sonnet. + +PRATTLE. Is it a long one? + +DE REVES. Not very. + +PRATTLE. About how long is it? + +DE REVES. About fourteen lines. + +PRATTLE (_impressively_). I tell you what it is. + +DE REVES. Yes? + +PRATTLE. I tell you what. You've been overworking yourself. I +once got like that on board the Sandhurst, working for the +passing-out exam. I got so bad that I could have seen anything. + +DE REVES. Seen anything? + +PRATTLE. Lord, yes: horned pigs, snakes with wings, anything, one +of your winged horses even. They gave me some stuff called +bromide for it. You take a rest. + +DE REVES. But my dear fellow, you don't understand at all. I +merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and real +and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids. + +PRATTLE. I know. You take a rest. + +DE REVES. Well, perhaps I will. I'd come with you to that musical +comedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit tired after writing +this; it's a tedious job. I'll come another night. + +PRATTLE. How do you know I'm going to see a musical comedy? + +DE REVES. Well, where would you go? _Hamlet's_ on at the +Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there. + +PBATTLE. Do I look like it? + +DE REVES. No. + +PRATTLE. Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see "The Girl +from Bedlam." So long. I must push off now. It's getting late. +You take a rest. Don't add another line to that sonnet; +fourteen's quite enough. You take a rest. Don't have any dinner +to-night, just rest. I was like that once myself. So long. + +DE REVES. So long. + +(_Exit_ PRATTLE. DE REVES _returns to his table and sits down._) + +Good old Dick. He's the same as ever. Lord, how time passes. + +(_He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations._) + +Well, that's finished. I can't do any more to it. + +(_He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and +goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverently +at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses._) + +No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar. + +(_He places the sonnet upon the altar itself._) + +If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have done +before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do. + +(_He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table. +Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, his +head on his hand, or however the actor pleases._) + +Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys his life, +so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money in +poetry. You'd better chuck it." Ten years' work and what have I +to show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, and +how many of _them_ are there? There's a bigger demand for +smoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Fame +come to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough to +keep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to +slight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame +care for us? Yes, Dick is right. It's a poor game chasing +illusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? Why, +we are ourselves dreams. (_He leans back in his chair._) + + We are such stuff + As dreams are made on, and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep. + +(_He is silent for a while. Suddenly he lifts his head_) + +My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess. + +(_As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place +to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play +may have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more +than a poet's dream._) + +So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (_looking at screen_) too. +Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole damned heap. +(_He advances impetuously toward the screen_) Every damned poem +that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on. + +(_He pushes back the screen._ FAME _in a Greek dress with a long +golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the +altar like a marble goddess._) + +So ... you have come! + +(_For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches the +altar._) + +Divine fair lady, you have come. + +(_He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar +and into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor +finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet +that he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME.) + +This is my sonnet. Is it well done? + +(FAME _takes it, reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches her +rapturously._) + +FAME. You're a bit of all right. + +DE REVES. What? + +FAME. Some poet. + +DE REVES. I--I--scarcely ... understand. + +FAME. You're IT. + +DE REVES. But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer? + +FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard. + +DE REVES. O Heavens! + +(FAME _walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts her +head out._) + +FAME (_in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry +for help if the house was well alight_). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say, +folks! Hi! + +(_The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard._ FAME _blows her +trumpet._) + +FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (_Quickly, over her shoulder._) What's your +name? + +DE REVES. De Reves. + +FAME. His name's de Reves. + +DE REVES. Harry de Reves. + +FAME. His pals call him Harry. + +THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! + +FAME. Say, what's your favourite color? + +DE REVES. I ... I ... I don't quite understand. + +FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue? + +DE REVES. Oh--er--blue. (_She blows her trumpet out of the +window._) No--er--I think green. + +FAME. Green is his favourite colour. + +THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! + +FAME. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all about yer. + +DE REVES; Wouldn't you perhaps ... would they care to hear my +sonnet, if you would--er.... + +FAME (_picking up quill_). Here, what's this? + +DE REVES. Oh, that's my pen. + +FAME (_after another blast on her trumpet_). He writes with a +quill. (_Cheers from_ THE CROWD.) + +FAME (_going to a cupboard_). Here, what have you got in here? + +DE REVES. Oh ... er ... those are my breakfast things. + +FAME (_finding a dirty plate_). What have yer had on this one? + +DE REVES (_mournfully_). Oh, eggs and bacon. + +FAME (_at the window_). He has eggs and bacon for breakfast. + +THE CROWD. Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_ +Hip hip hip _hooray!_ + +FAME. Hi, and what's this? + +DE REVES (_miserably_). Oh, a golf stick. + +FAME. He's a man's man! He's a virile man! He's a manly man! + +(_Wild cheers from_ THE CROWD, _this time only from women's voices._) + +DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is +terrible. + +(FAME _gives another peal on her horn. She is about to speak._) + +DE REVES (_solemnly and mournfully_). One moment, one moment.... + +FAME. Well, out with it. + +DE REVES. For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped you, +offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not worthy.... + +FAME. Oh, you're all right. + +DE REVES. No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It cannot +possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! _I cannot +possibly love you._ Others are worthy. You will find others. +But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, but +it _must_ not. + +(_Meanwhile_ FAME _has been lighting one of his cigarettes. She sits +in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puts her feet right +up on the table amongst the poet's papers._) + +Oh, I fear I offend you. But--it cannot be. + +FAME. Oh, that's all right, old bird; no offence. I ain't going +to leave you. + +DE REVES. But--but--but--I do not understand. + +FAME. I've come to stay, I have. + +(_She blows a puff of smoke through her trumpet._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE[1] + +Beulah Marie Dix + + +SCENE: In the cheerless hour before the dawn of a wet spring +morning five gentlemen-troopers of the broken Royalist army, +fagged and outworn with three long days of siege, are holding, +with what strength and courage are left them, the Gatehouse of +the Bridge of Cashala, which is the key to the road that leads +into Connaught. The upper chamber of the Gatehouse, in which they +make their stand, is a narrow, dim-lit apartment, built of stone. +At one side is a small fireplace, and beside it a narrow, barred +door, which leads to the stairhead. At the end of the room, +gained by a single raised step, are three slit-like windows, +breast-high, designed, as now used, for defense in time of war. +The room is meagrely furnished, with a table on which are +powder-flask, touch-box, etc., for charging guns, a stool or two, +and an open keg of powder. The whole look of the place, bare and +martial, but depressed, bespeaks a losing fight. On the hearth +the ashes of a fire are white, and on the chimneypiece a brace of +candles are guttering out. + +The five men who hold the Gatehouse wear much soiled and torn +military dress. They are pale, powder-begrimed, sunken-eyed, with +every mark of weariness of body and soul. Their leader, JOHN +TALBOT, is standing at one of the shot-windows, with piece +presented, looking forth. He is in his mid-twenties, of +Norman-Irish blood, and distinctly of a finer, more nervous type +than his companions. He has been wounded, and bears his left hand +wrapped in a bloody rag. DICK FENTON, a typical, careless young +English swashbuckler, sits by the table, charging a musket, and +singing beneath his breath as he does so. He, too, has been +wounded, and bears a bandage about his knee. Upon the floor (_at +right_) KIT NEWCOMBE lies in the sleep of utter exhaustion. He is +an English lad, in his teens, a mere tired, haggard child, with +his head rudely bandaged. On a stool by the hearth sits MYLES +BUTLER, a man of JOHN TALBOT'S own years, but a slower, heavier, +almost sullen type. Beside him kneels PHELIMY DRISCOLL, a +nervous, dark Irish lad, of one and twenty. He is resting his +injured arm across BUTLER'S knee, and BUTLER is roughly bandaging +the hurt. + +For a moment there is a weary, heavy silence, in which the words +of the song which FENTON sings are audible. It is the doleful old +strain of "the hanging-tune." + +[Footnote 1: Included by permission of the author and of Messrs. +Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume +_Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes._ (1910).] + +FENTON (_singing_). + +Fortune, my foe, why dost thou frown on me, +And will thy favors never greater be? +Wilt thou, I say, forever breed me pain, +And wilt thou not restore my joys again? + +BUTLER (_shifting_ DRISCOLL'S _arm, none too tenderly_). More to the +light! + +DRISCOLL (_catching breath with pain_). Ah! Softly, Myles! + +JOHN TALBOT (_leaning forward tensely_). Ah! + +FENTON. Jack! Jack Talbot! What is it that you see? + +JOHN TALBOT (_with the anger of a man whose nerves are strained +almost beyond endurance_). What should I see but Cromwell's +watch-fires along the boreen? What else should I see, and the +night as black as the mouth of hell? What else should I see, and +a pest choke your throat with your fool's questions, Dick Fenton! + +(_Resumes his watch._) + +FENTON (_as who should say: "I thank you!"_). God 'a' +mercy--_Captain_ Talbot! + +(_Resumes his singing._) + +DRISCOLL. God's love! I bade ye have a care, Myles Butler. + +BUTLEK (_tying the last bandage_). It's a stout heart you have in +you, Phelimy Driscoll--you to be crying out for a scratch. It's +better you would have been, you and the like of you, to be +stopping at home with your mother. + +(_Rises and takes up his musket from the corner by the fireplace._) + +DRISCOLL. You--you dare--you call me--coward? Ye black liar! I'll +lesson ye! I'll-- + +(_Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and rests +with his head upon the stool which_ BUTLER _has quitted._) + +BUTLER. A'Heaven's name, ha' done with that hanging tune! Ha' +done, Dick Fenton! We're not yet at the gallows' foot. + +(_Joins_ JOHN TALBOT _at the shot-windows._) + +FENTON. Nay, Myles, for us 'tis like to be nothing half so merry +as the gallows. + +BUTLER. Hold your fool's tongue! + +NEWCOMBE (_crying out in his sleep_). Oh! Oh! + +JOHN TALBOT. What was that? + +FENTON. 'Twas naught but young Newcombe that cried out in the +clutch of a nightmare. + +BUTLER. 'Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his watch. + +JOHN TALBOT (_leaving the window_). Nay, 'tis only a boy. Let him +sleep while he can! Let him sleep! + +BUTLER. Turn and turn at the watch, 'tis but fair. Stir yonder +sluggard awake, Dick! + +FENTON. Aye. (_Starts to rise._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Who gives commands here? Sit you down, Fenton! To +your place, Myles Butler! + +BUTLER. Captain of the Gate! D'ye mark the high tone of him, +Dick? + +JOHN TALBOT (_tying a fresh bandage about his hand_). You're out +there, Myles. There is but one Captain of the Gate of +Connaught--he who set me here--my cousin, Hugh Talbot. + +BUTLER (_muttering_). Aye, and it's a deal you'll need to be +growing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot's shoes. + +JOHN TALBOT. And that's a true word! But 'twas Hugh Talbot's will +that I should command, here at the Bridge of Cashala. And as long +as breath is in me I-- + +DRISCOLL (_raising his head heavily_). Water! Water! Myles! Dick! +Will ye give me to drink, lads? Jack Talbot! I'm choked wi' +thirst. + +JOHN TALBOT. There's never a drop of water left us, Phelimy, lad. + +FENTON. Owen Bourke drained the last of it, God rest him! + +BUTLER. 'Tis likely our clever new Captain of the Gate will hit +on some shift to fill our empty casks. + +(DRISCOLL _rises heavily._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The old Captain of +the Gate--Hugh Talbot. He'll be here this day--this hour, maybe. + +FENTON. That tale grows something old, Jack Talbot. + +JOHN TALBOT. He swore he'd bring us succor. He-- + +(DRISCOLL _tries to unbar the exit door._) + +Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door! + +(_Thrusts_ DRISCOLL _from the door._) + +DRISCOLL (_half delirious_). Let me forth! The spring--'tis just +below--there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it--but a +moment--and drink! + +JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell's soldiers hold the spring. + +DRISCOLL. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me forth! + +JOHN TALBOT. 'T would be to your death. + +BUTLER. And what will he get but his death if he stay here, +Captain Talbot? + +DRISCOLL (_struggling with_ JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, I +tell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go! + +NEWCOMBE (_still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terrible +cry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head_). God's +pity! No! no! no! + +DRISCOLL (_shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing himself_). +God shield us! + +BUTLER. Silence that whelp! + +FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him! + +JOHN TALBOT (_catching_ NEWCOMBE _by the shoulder_). Newcombe! Kit +Newcombe! + +NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me! + +JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done! + +NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Not +that! + +JOHN TALBOT (_stifling_ NEWCOMBE'S _outcry with a hand upon his +mouth_). Wake! You're dreaming! + +DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming! + +NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my +brother--my brother--they beat out his brains--Cromwell's +men--with their clubbed muskets--they-- + +(_Clings shuddering to_ JOHN TALBOT.) + +FENTON. English officers that serve amongst the Irish--'t is thus +that Cromwell uses them! + +BUTLER. English officers--aye, like ourselves! + +JOHN TALBOT. Be quiet, Kit! You're far from Drogheda--here at +the Bridge of Cashala. + +BUTLER. Aye, safe in Cashala Gatehouse, with five hundred of +Cromwell's men sitting down before it. + +JOHN TALBOT. Keep your watch, Butler! + +NEWCOMBE. You give orders? You still command, Jack? Where's +Captain Talbot, then? + +(_Snatches up his sword and rises._) + +BUTLER (_quitting the window_). Aye, where _is_ Captain +Talbot? + +JOHN TALBOT. You say-- + +FENTON (_rising_). We all say it. + +JOHN TALBOT. Even thou, Dick? + +DRISCOLL. He does not come! Hugh Talbot does not come! + +FENTON. He bade us hold the bridge one day. We've held it three +days now. + +BUTLER. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he promised? + +JOHN TALBOT. He promised. He has never broken faith. He will +bring us aid. + +FENTON. Aye, if he be living! + +DRISCOLL. Living? You mean that he--Och, he's dead! Hugh Talbot's +dead! And we're destroyed! We're destroyed! + +NEWCOMBE (_cowering_). The butt of the muskets! + +FENTON. God! + +(_Deliberately_ BUTLER _lays down his musket._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Take up your piece! + +BUTLER. Renounce me if I do! + +FENTON. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms for us, John +Talbot, or, on my soul, we'll make them for ourselves. + +JOHN TALBOT. Surrender? + +NEWCOMBE. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now? Will +he spare us? Will he-- + +FENTON. 'Tis our one chance. + +NEWCOMBE. Give me that white rag! + +(_Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece._) + +FENTON (_drawing his ramrod_). Here's a staff! + +(_Together FENTON and NEWCOMBE make ready a flag of truce._) + +JOHN TALBOT (_struggling with_ BUTLER _and_ DRISCOLL). A black curse +on you! + +BUTLER. We'll not be butchered like oxen in the shambles! + +JOHN TALBOT. Your oaths! + +BUTLER. We'll not fight longer to be knocked on the head at the +last. + +NEWCOMBE. No! No! Not that! Out with the flag, Dick! + +FENTON. A light here at the grating! + +(NEWCOMBE _turns to take a candle, obedient to_ FENTON'S _order. At +that moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Hark! + +DRISCOLL. The bugle! They're upon us! + +BUTLER (_releasing his hold on_ JOHN TALBOT). What was that? + +JOHN TALBOT. You swore to hold the bridge. + +BUTLER. Swore to hold it one day. We've held it three days now. + +FENTON. And the half of us are slain. + +NEWCOMBE. And we've no water--and no food! + +JOHN TALBOT (_pointing to the powder-keg_). We have powder in +plenty. + +DRISCOLL. We can't drink powder. Ah, for God's love, be swift, +Dick Fenton! Be swift! + +JOHN TALBOT. You shall not show that white flag! + +(_Starts toward_ FENTON, _hand on sword._) + +BUTLER (_pinioning_ JOHN TALBOT). God's death! We shall! Help me +here, Phelimy! + +JOHN TALBOT. A summons to parley. What see you, Fenton? + +FENTON (_at the shot-window_). Torches coming from the boreen, and +a white flag beneath them. I can see the faces. (_With a cry_) +Look, Jack! A'God's name! Look! + +(JOHN TALBOT _springs to the window._) + +DRISCOLL. What is it you're seeing? + +FENTON. It _is_-- + +JOHN TALBOT (_turning from the window_). 'Tis Hugh Talbot comes! +'Tis the Captain of the Gate! + +BUTLER. With them? A prisoner? + +JOHN TALBOT. No, no! No prisoner! He wears his sword. + +(BUTLER _snatches up his piece and resumes watch._) + +FENTON. Then he'll have made terms with them! Terms! + +NEWCOMBE (_embracing_ DRISCOLL). Terms for us! Terms for us! + +JOHN TALBOT. I told ye truth. He has come. Hugh Talbot has come. + +(_Goes to door._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_speaks outside_). Open! I come alone, and in peace. +Open unto me! + +JOHN TALBOT. Who goes there? + +HUGH TALBOT (_outside_). The Captain of the Gate! + +(JOHN TALBOT _unbars the door, and bars it again upon the entrance +of_ HUGH TALBOT. _The latter comes slowly into the room. He is a +man in his late thirties, a tall, martial figure, clad in +much-worn velvet and leather, with sword at side. The five salute +him as he enters._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_halts and for a moment surveys his followers_). Well, +lads? + +(_The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break, unable +for the moment to speak._) + +NEWCOMBE. We thought--we thought--that you--that you-- + +(_Breaks into childish sobbing._) + +FENTON. What terms will they grant us, sir? + +JOHN TALBOT. Sir, we have held the bridge. + +HUGH TALBOT. You five-- + +JOHN TALBOT. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and Langdale, +and--and James Talbot, my brother. + +DRISCOLL. And we've had no water, sir, these many hours. + +HUGH TALBOT. So! You're wounded, Phelimy. + +DRISCOLL. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (_At the voice_ NEWCOMBE _pulls himself +together._) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand? + +FENTON. 'Tis here, sir. + +(_Offers his tobacco pouch._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_filling his pipe_). Leave the window, Myles! They've +promised us a half hour's truce--and Cromwell's a man of his +word. + +NEWCOMBE (_bringing a lighted candle_). He'll let us pass free now, +sir, will he not? + +HUGH TALBOT (_lighting his pipe at the candle_). You're not afraid, +Kit? + +NEWCOMBE. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now! + +HUGH TALBOT. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look dead on your +feet. Give me to see that arm! (_As_ HUGH TALBOT _starts toward_ +DRISCOLL, _his eye falls on the open keg of powder. He draws back +hastily, covering his lighted pipe._) Jack Talbot! Who taught ye +to leave your powder uncovered, where lighted match was laid? + +BUTLER. My blame, sir. + +(_Covers the keg._) + +JOHN TALBOT. We opened the keg, and then-- + +FENTON. Truth, we did not cover it again, being somewhat pressed +for time. + +(_The five laugh, half hysterically._) + +HUGH TALBOT (_sitting by fire_). And you never thought, maybe, that +in that keg there was powder enough to blow the bridge of Cashala +to hell? + +JOHN TALBOT. It seemed a matter of small moment, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. Small moment! Powder enough, put case ye set it +there, at the stairhead--d'ye follow me?--powder enough to make +an end of Cashala Bridge for all time--aye, and of all within the +Gatehouse. You never thought on that, eh? + +JOHN TALBOT. We had so much to think on, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. I did suspect as much. So I came hither to recall +the powder to your minds. + +DRISCOLL. We thought--(BUTLER _motions him to be silent._) We +thought maybe you would not be coming at all, sir. Maybe you +would be dead. + +HUGH TALBOT. Well? What an if I had been dead? You had your +orders. You did not dream of giving up the Bridge of Cashala--eh, +Myles Butler? + +BUTLER (_after a moment_). No, sir. + +HUGH TALBOT. Nor you, Dick Fenton? + +FENTON. Sir, I--No! + +HUGH TALBOT (_smoking throughout_). Good lads! The wise heads were +saying I was a stark fool to set you here at Cashala. But I said: +I can be trusting the young riders that are learning their +lessons in war from me. I'll be safe putting my honor into their +hands. And I was right, wasn't I, Phelimy Driscoll? + +DRISCOLL. Give us the chance, sir, and we'll be holding Cashala, +even against the devil himself! + +FENTON. Aye, well said! + +HUGH TALBOT. Sure,'tis a passing good substitute for the devil +sits yonder in Cromwell's tent. + +NEWCOMBE (_with a shudder_). Cromwell! + +HUGH TALBOT. Aye, he was slaying your brother at Drogheda, Kit, +and a fine, gallant lad your brother was. And I'm thinking you're +like him, Kit. Else I shouldn't be trusting you here at Cashala. + +NEWCOMBE. I--I--Will they let us keep our swords? + +HUGH TALBOT. Well, it's with yourselves it lies, whether you'll +keep them or not. + +FENTON. He means--we mean--on what terms, sir, do we surrender? + +HUGH TALBOT. Surrender? Terms? + +JOHN TALBOT. We thought, sir, from your coming under their white +flag--perhaps you had made terms for us. + +HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms? + +NEWCOMBE. Captain! + +(_At a look from_ HUGH TALBOT _he becomes silent, fighting for +self-control._) + +HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms that you would hear to? +Cashala Bridge is the gate of Connaught. + +JOHN TALBOT. Yes. + +HUGH TALBOT. Give Cromwell Cashala Bridge, and he'll be on the +heels of our women and our little ones. At what price would ye be +selling their safety? + +DRISCOLL. Cromwell--when he takes us--when he takes us-- + +NEWCOMBE. He'll knock us on the head! + +HUGH TALBOT. Yes. At the last. Your five lives against our +people's safety. You'd not give up the bridge? + +JOHN TALBOT. Five? Our five? But you--you are the sixth. + +FENTON. You stay with us, Captain. And then we'll fight--you'll +see how we shall fight. + +HUGH TALBOT. I shall be seeing you fight, perhaps, but I cannot +stay now at Cashala. + +(_Rises._) + +DRISCOLL. Ye won't be staying with us? + +BUTLER (_laughing harshly_). Now, on my soul! Is this your faith, +Hugh Talbot? One liar I've followed, Charles Stuart, the son of a +liar, and now a second liar-- + +JOHN TALBOT (_catching BUTLER'S throat_). A plague choke you! + +HUGH TALBOT (_stepping between_ JOHN TALBOT _and_ BUTLER). Ha' done, +Jack! Ha' done! What more, Myles Butler? + +BUTLER. Tell us whither you go, when you turn your back on us +that shall die at Cashala--you that come walking under the rebel +flag--that swore to bring us aid--and have not brought it! Tell +us whither you go now! + +HUGH TALBOT. Well, I'm a shade doubtful, Myles, my lad, though +hopeful of the best. + +BUTLER. 'Tis to Cromwell you go--you that have made your peace +with him--that have sold us-- + +DRISCOLL. Captain! A' God's name, what is it that you're meaning? + +HUGH TALBOT. I mean that you shall hold the Bridge of +Cashala--whatever happen to you--whatever happen to me-- + +FENTON. To you? Captain Talbot! + +HUGH TALBOT. I am going unto Cromwell--as you said, Myles. I gave +my promise. + +DRISCOLL. Your promise? + +JOHN TALBOT. We--have been very blind. So--they made you +prisoner? + +HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Jack. When I tried to cut my way through to +bring you aid. And they granted me this half hour on my parole to +come unto you. + +JOHN TALBOT. To come-- + +HUGH TALBOT. To counsel you to surrender. And I have given you +counsel. Hold the bridge! Hold it! Whatever they do! + +DRISCOLL. Captain! Captain Talbot! God of Heaven! If you go +back--'tis killed you'll be among them! + +HUGH TALBOT. A little sooner than you lads? Aye, true! + +FENTON. They cannot! Even Cromwell-- + +HUGH TALBOT. Tut, tut, Dick! It's little ye know of Cromwell. + +JOHN TALBOT. Then--you mean-- + +HUGH TALBOT. An you surrender Cashala, we may all six pass free. +An you hold Cashala, they will hang me, here before your eyes. + +(DRISCOLL _gives a rattling cry._) + +BUTLER. God forgive me! + +HUGH TALBOT. You have your orders. Hold the bridge! + +(_Turns to door._) + +JOHN TALBOT (_barring his way_). No, no! You shan't go forth! + +FENTON. God's mercy, no! + +HUGH TALBOT. Are you stark crazed? + +FENTON. You shall stay with us. + +JOHN TALBOT. What's your pledged word to men that know not honor? + +HUGH TALBOT. My word. Unbar the door, Jack. Why, lad, we're +traveling the same road. + +FENTON. God! But we'll give them a good fight at the last. (_Goes +to the shot-window._) Take up your musket, Kit. + +NEWCOMBB. But I--Captain! When you are gone, I--I-- + +HUGH TALBOT. I'll not be far. You'll hold the bridge? + +JOHN TALBOT. Aye, sir. + +BUTLER. We've powder enough--you said it, sir,--laid there at the +stairhead, to blow the bridge to hell. + +HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Myles, you've hit it! + +(_Holds out his hand._) + +BUTLER. Not yet, sir! + +HUGH TALBOT. Hereafter, then. God speed you, lads! + +JOHN TALBOT. Speed you, sir! (_All five stand at salute as_ HUGH +TALBOT _goes out. In the moment's silence upon his exit_, JOHN +TALBOT _bars the door and turns to his comrades._) You have--Hugh +Talbot's orders. Take your pieces! Driscoll! Newcombe! + +(_Obediently the two join_ FENTON _at windows._) Butler! + +BUTLER. Aye! We have Hugh Talbot's orders. + +(_Points to powder-keg._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Are you meaning-- + +BUTLER. It's not I will be failing him now! + +FENTON (_at window_). God! They waste no time. + +JOHN TALBOT. Already--they have dared-- + +FENTON. Here--this moment--under our very eyes! + +DRISCOLL. Christ Jesus! + +(_Goes back from the window, with his arm across his eyes, and +falls on his knees in headlong prayer._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Kit! Kit Newcombe! + +(_Motions him to window._) + +NEWCOMBE. I cannot! I-- + +JOHN TALBOT. Look forth! Look! And remember--when you meet +them--remember! (NEWCOMBE _stands swaying, clutching at the +grating of the window, as he looks forth._) Lads! (_Motions to_ +BUTLER _and_ FENTON _to carry the powder to the stairhead._) The time +is short. His orders! + +(DRISCOLL _raises his head and gazes fixedly toward the centre of +the room._) + +FENTON. Yonder, at the stairhead. + +BUTLER. Aye. + +(FENTON _and_ BUTLER _carry the keg to the door._) + +NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not that death! No! No! + +JOHN TALBOT. Be silent! And look yonder! Driscoll! Fetch the +light! Newcombe! Come! You have your places, all. + +DRISCOLL. But, Captain! The sixth man--where will the sixth man +be standing? + +(_There is a blank silence, in which the men look questioningly at_ +DRISCOLL'S _rapt face and at one another._) + +JOHN TALBOT. Sixth? + +FENTON. What sixth? + +DRISCOLL. The blind eyes of ye! Yonder! + +(_Comes to the salute, even as, a few moments before, he has +saluted_ HUGH TALBOT, _living._ + +NEWCOMBE _gives a smothered cry, as one who half sees, and takes +courage._ FENTON _dazedly starts to salute. Outside a bugle +sounds, and a voice, almost at the door, is heard to speak._) + +VOICE OUTSIDE. For the last time: will you surrender you? + +JOHN TALBOT (_in a loud and confident voice_). No! Not while our +commander stands with us! + +VOICE OUTSIDE. And who might your commander be? + +JOHN TALBOT. Hugh Talbot, the Captain of the Gate! The light +here, Phelimy. + +(JOHN TALBOT _bends to set the candle to the powder that shall +destroy Cashala Gatehouse, and all within it. His mates are +gathered round him, with steady, bright faces, for in the little +space left vacant in their midst they know in that minute that_ +HUGH TALBOT _stands._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +GETTYSBURG[1] + +Percy MacKaye + + +SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of a farm-house. + +The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures +being slightly arched at the top. (_In bad weather, these +presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open +now--swung back outward beyond sight._) Thus the nearer opening is +the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks +through the shed to the background--a grassy yard, a road with +great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green +hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams. + +On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house +kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. +In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On +this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small +oil-stove, with steaming kettle upon it. + +Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is +stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stovewood and +kindlings mixed with small chips of the floor, which is piled +deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust. + +Not far from this mounded pile, at right centre of the scene, +stands a wooden armchair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his +shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, +his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair +cropped close, and gray moustache of a faded black hue at the +outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled +round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his +lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and +collar. Near him is a chopping-block. + +In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and +floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs +in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again. + +From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl of +seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In +one hand she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat, over the +other arm a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him +asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the +chopping-block, goes to the bench, and trims the wick of the +oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near +LINK, surveying the shed. + +On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain +order in its chaos; some of the splittings have been piled in +irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and +chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like +miniature valleys and hills. [2] + +Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among the +hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping and +smoothing the little mounds with the hoe. As she does so, from +far away, a bugle sounds. + +[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1912, by Percy Mackaye. All rights +reserved.] + +[Footnote 2: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of +these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexed +to the volume by Captain R.K. Beecham, entitled _Gettysburg_ +(A.C. McClurg, 1911).] + + + LINK + (_snapping his eyes wide open, sits up_) + + Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly? + + POLLY + Just + A kitten-nap, I guess. + + (_Laying the hoe down, she approaches_) + + The yoke done? + + LINK + (_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_) + + Thar! + When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug, + I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to-- + (_Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he + holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two + with expert eye_) + and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech + or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip + at birch, for ox-yokes.--Polly, are ye thar? + + POLLY + Yes, Uncle Link. + + LINK + What's that I used to sing ye? + + "Polly, put the kittle on, + Polly, put the kittle on, + Polly, put the kittle on--" + + (_Chuckling'_) + + We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea! + + POLLY + The kettle's boilin'. + + LINK + Wall, then, steep him good. + + (POLLY _takes from_ LINK _the collar-thong, carries it to the + work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she + then closes tight and connects--by a piece of hose--to the spout + of the kettle. At the farther end of the box, steam then emerges + through a small hole._) + + POLLY + You're feelin' smart to-day. + + LINK + Smart!--Wall, if I + could git a hull man to swap legs with me, + mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin' + dead an' alive, without no legs, day in, + day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats. + + POLLY + (_cheerfully_) + + I guess you'll soon be walkin' round. + + LINK + Not if + that doctor feller has his say: He says + I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan; + and looks like he's 'bout right.--Nine months to-morrer, + Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke. + + POLLY + (_pointing to the ox-yoke_) + + You're fitter + sittin' than most folks standin'. + + LINK + (_briskly_) + + Oh, they can't + keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's + my second natur' sence I was a boy. + + (_Again in the distance a bugle sounds._ LINK _starts._) + + What's that? + + POLLY + Why, that's the army veterans + down to the graveyard. This is Decoration + mornin': you ain't forgot? + + LINK + So't is, so't is. + Roger, your young man--ha! (_chuckling_) he come and axed me + was I a-goin' to the cemetery. + "Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?" + + POLLY + He meant--to decorate the graves. + + LINK + O' course; + but I must take my little laugh. I told him + I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow, + my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'. + I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.-- + Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks, + Polly? + + POLLY + Dear no! I told my boys and girls + to march up this way with the band. I said + I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how + to keep school in the woodpile here with you. + + LINK + (_looking up at her proudly_) + + Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye! + + POLLY + (_caressing him_) + + Schoolmaster, you, past seventy; that's smarter! + I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach + my young folks what the study-books leave out. + + LINK + Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'? + + POLLY + No, _sir!_ We're goin' to celebrate right here, + and you're to teach me to keep school some more. + + (_She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat._) + + LINK + (_looking up_) + + What's thar? + + POLLY + Your teachin' rig. + + (_She helps him on with it._) + + LINK + The old blue coat!-- + My, but I'd like to see the boys--(_gazing at the hat_) the Grand + Old Army Boys! (_dreamily_) Yes, we was boys: jest boys! + Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study + the books, that we was nothin' else but boys + jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home-- + the same as you; and when the shot was singin', + we pulled their picters out, and prayed to them + 'most morn'n the Almighty. + + (LINK _looks up suddenly--a strange light in his face. + Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds._) + + Thar she blows + Agin! + + POLLY + They're marchin' to the graves with flowers. + + LINK + My Godfrey!'t ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers + and the young folks, their faces, and the blue + line of old fellers marchin'--it's the music! + that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though, + legs or no legs, I'd have to up and foller + to God-knows-whar, and holler--holler back + to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no! + I jest can't stan' the music. + + POLLY + (_goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming_) + + Uncle Link, + you want that I should steam this longer? + + LINK + (_absently_) + + Oh, + A kittleful, a kittleful. + + POLLY + (_coming over to him_) + + Now, then, + I'm ready for school.--I hope I've drawed the map + all right. + + LINK + Map? Oh, the map! + + (_Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods._) + + Yes, thar she be: + old Gettysburg! + + POLLY + I know the places--most. + + LINK + So, _do_ ye? Good, now: whar's your marker? + + POLLY + (_taking up the hoe_) + + Here. + + LINK + Willoughby Run: whar's that? + + POLLY + (_pointing with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile_) + + That's farthest over + next the barn door. + + LINK + My, how we fit the Johnnies + thar, the fust mornin'! Jest behind them willers, + acrost the Run, that's whar we captur'd Archer. + My, my! + + POLLY + Over there--that's Seminary Ridge. + + (_She points to different heights and depressions, as_ LINK + _nods his approval._) + + Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheatfield-- + + LINK + Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield! + + POLLY + (_continuing_) + + Cemetery Hill, + Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here + is Cemetery Ridge. + + LINK + (_pointing to the little flag_) + + And colors flyin'! + We _kep_ 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days, + From start to finish. + + POLLY + Have I learned 'em right? + + LINK + _A_ number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill: + I don't jest spy Culp's Hill. + + POLLY + There wa'n't enough + kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay + east there, towards the kitchen. + + LINK + Let it go! + That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar + and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep' it thar, + too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum. + Let Culp's Hill lay for now.--Lend me your marker. + (POLLY _hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches + with it and digs in the chips._) + Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So: + smooth off them chips. + + (POLLY _does so with her foot._) + + You better guess't was deep + As hell, that second day, come sundown.--Here, + (_He hands back the hoe to her._) + flat down the Wheatfield yonder. + + (POLLY _does so._) + + God a'mighty! + That Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter + than any pancake what you ever cooked, + Polly; and't wa'n't no maple syrup neither + was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black, + all over it, that nightfall. + + POLLY + Here's the road + to Emmetsburg. + + LINK + No,'t 'ain't: this here's the pike + to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin', + after an all-night march, jest in the nick + to save our second day. The Emmetsburg + road's thar.--Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'? + + POLLY + At sunset, July second, sixty-three. + + LINK + (_nodding, reminiscent_) + + The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun: + she set a dozen times that afternoon, + red-yeller as a punkin jack-o'-lantern, + rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke + till she clean busted, like the other bombs, + behind the hills. + + POLLY + My! Wa'n't you never scart + and wished you'd stayed t' home? + + LINK + Scart? Wall, I wonder! + Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars. + I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,-- + a dressy mister, span-new from the city-- + layin' the law down: "All this stars and stripes," + says he, "and red and white and blue is rubbish, + mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!" + "I wan't' know!" says I. "In sixty-three, + I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown + I met him stumblin'--with two dead men's muskets + for crutches--towards a bucket, full of ink--- + water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell, + he tuk the rest to wash his bullet-holes.--- + Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, + with red and white and blue, tore'most t' tatters, + a-danglin' from it. 'Be you color sergeant?' + says I. 'Not me,' says Link; 'the sergeant's dead; + but when he fell, he handed me this bit + o' rubbish--red and white and blue.' And Link + he laughed. 'What be you laughin' for?' says I. + 'Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!'" says Link. + + POLLY + What did the span-new mister say to that? + + LINK + I didn't stop to listen. Them as never + heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't + guess what they be. + + (_Sitting up and blinking hard_) + + But this ain't keepin' school! + + POLLY + (_quietly_) + + I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link. + + LINK + The second day, 'fore sunset. + + (_He takes the hoe and points with it._) + + Yon's the Wheatfield. + Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels. + Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge + behind 'em. Hancock--he's our general-- + he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements + from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose + the Ridge, and lose the Ridge--lose God-and-all!-- + Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington, + Abe Lincoln, and the White House in one bite!-- + So the Union, Polly--me and you and Roger, + your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam--is all + thar--growin' in that Wheatfield. + + POLLY + (_smiling proudly_) + + And they're growin' + still! + + LINK + Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls, + thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers: + gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat-tops, + and now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat, + thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round + in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces, + and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke, + and stingin' smother, and--up thar through the dark-- + that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon + lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder! + + (_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial + music of a brass band begins. Again_ LINK'S _face + twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment + on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly + growing louder, permeates the scene._) + + POLLY + Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow + the created world to act that awful? + + LINK + Now, + I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe: + + (_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron._) + + Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see + yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy + I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link," + they call him, 'cause his legs is spry's a squirrel's.-- + Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes + like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day, + keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him. + + (_Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe_) + + If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you. + But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein' + them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps + o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized + Link as his livin' image, and so kep' him + to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs, + and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs, + list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'. + + (LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music + draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly.) + + POLLY + Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind'em. + + LINK + (_relaxing under her touch_) + + No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct-- + onct we was boys, onct we was boys--with legs. + But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle. + _Onct_, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin' + outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin' + outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds + a-blowin' _Glory Hallelujahs_, like + brass music, from his mouth.--But never mind! + 'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now. + Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin' + gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs. + + (_With smouldering fire_) + + But jest the same-- + + (_His face convulses and he cries out, terribly--straining + in his chair to rise._) + + --for holy God, that band! + Why don't they stop that band! + + POLLY + (_going_) + + I'll run and tell them. + Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back. + + (_Glancing back anxiously,_ POLLY _disappears outside. The + approaching band begins to play "John Brown's Body."_ + LINK _sits motionless, gripping his chair._) + + LINK + _Set quiet!_ + Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand, + and Link--he kin set quiet.--God a'mighty, + how kin he set, and them a-marchin' thar + with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot + the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin' + home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown, + a-singin' Glory to ye! Jest look down: + thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge: + don't say ye disremember them! And thar's + the colors. Look, he's picked 'em up--the sergeant's + blood splotched 'em some--but thar they be, still flyin'! + Link done that: Link--the spry boy, what they call + Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step, + have ye? + + (_Again he cries out, beseechingly_) + + My God, why do You keep on marchin' + and leave him settin' here? + (_To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing + the words of "John Brown's Body." At the sound,_ + LINK'S _face becomes transformed with emotion, his + body shakes, and his shoulders heave and straighten._) + No!--I--_won't_--set! + + (_Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands._) + + Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come + ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line. + Them voices--Lord, I guess you've brought along + Your Sunday choir of young angel folks + to help the boys out. + + (_Following the music with swaying arms_) + + Glory!--Never mind + me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm + goin' t' jine in, or bust! + + (_Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously + along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps--his + one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as + to unseen hands, that draw him--he totters toward + the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, + his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where + the children's are singing it._) + + "--a-mould'rin' in the grave, + John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave. + John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave, + But his soul goes--" + + (_Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries + aloud, astounded_) + Lord, Lord, my legs! + Whar did Ye git my legs? + + (_Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the + little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously._) + + I'm comin', boys! + Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap. + + (_With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the + woodpile._) + + Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge! + Jine in, jine in! + + (_Swinging the flag_) + + Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray! + + (_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old + men and children sing martially to the brass music._ + + _With his final cheer_, LINK _stumbles down from the + mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other + the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching + procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked + voice, jubilant, with the singers:_) + + "--ry hallelujah, + Glory, glory hallelujah, + His truth is marchin" on!" + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +LONESOME-LIKE[1] + +Harold Brighouse + +[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the author and of +the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow.] + +CHARACTERS + +SAKAH ORMEHOD, An old woman +EMMA BRIERLEY, A young woman +THE REV. FRANK ALLEYNE, A curate +SAM HORROCKS, A young man + +THE SCENE _represents the interior of a cottage in a Lancashire +village. Through the window at the back the gray row of cottages +opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window. +Door left. As regards furniture the room is very bare. The +suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. For +example, there are several square patches where the distemper of +the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating the +places once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered deal +the left wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above it containing a +few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. A +blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking-range, but the +room contains only the barest necessities. The floor is +uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheap +muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, high +enough to prevent a passer-by from looking in, should he wish to +do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin +trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door left +is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned beaded +bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises the room is +empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens and SARAH +ORMEROD, an old woman, enters, carrying clumsily in her arms a +couple of pink flannelette nightdresses, folded neatly. Her black +stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding-ring is her only +ornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short +skirt shows a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl +covers her shoulders. SARAH crosses and puts the nightdresses on +the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There is a knock at the +outside door and she looks up._ + + +SARAH. Who's theer? + +EMMA (_without_). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierley. + +SARAH. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass. + +(_Enter_ EMMA BRIERLEY. _She is a young weaver, and, having just +left her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of some +indeterminate blue-gray shade made of cotton, and a large shawl +over her head and shoulders in place of a jacket and hat. A +colored cotton apron covers her skirt below the waist, and the +short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She +wears clogs, and the clothes--except the shawl--are covered with +ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has not +escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist._) + +SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o' +coomin' to see an ould woman like me. + +EMMA (_by door_). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' mill's just +loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' and see 'ow tha +was feeling like. + +SARAH (_crossing to box_). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's +only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's no +manner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 'er'ands. A'm all +reeght in masel'. That's worst of it. + +EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A +can do for thee? + +SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma. + +EMMA (_taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a +peg in the door_). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' when +A coom in? Packin' yon box? + +SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer's a two three things as A canna bear +thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let me +tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' rest +of stuff. + +EMMA (_crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees_). Let me +help yo'. + +SARAH. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee. + +EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as they'd carry +safe that road. + +SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it difficult for +me. + +(_Sits on chair._) + +EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter. + +(_Lifts all out, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges its +contents._) + +SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll not weave +by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows. + +EMMA (_looking round_). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's stopped. +It's Saturday afternoon. + +SARAH. So 't is. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th' week +sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do. + +EMMA. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry about me. +Tha's got trouble enough of thy own. + +(_Resuming at the box_) + +SARAH. Aye, th' art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us likes +to think o' goin' to workus when we're ould. + +EMMA. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin' to +see thee. + +SARAH. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes 'e'll do +summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them folks can do. + +EMMA (_kneeling up_). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Ormerod. That's +what my moother says to me when A tould 'er A were coomin' in to +thee. Keep 'er pecker oop, she says. It's not as if she'd been +lazy or a wastrel, she says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in +'er day, she says. It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't +'elp tha 'ands goin' paralytic. + +(_She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking._) + +SARAH. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game enough for +work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 'ave to work for my +living all th' days o' my life. A never was a savin' sort. + +EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's soom as can be +careful o' theer brass an' soom as can't. It's not a virtue, it's +a gift. That's what my moother allays says. + +(_Resumes packing._) + +SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' savin', my +man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took an' died, the club money as +A drew all went on 'is funeral an' 'is gravestone. A warn't goin' +to 'ave it said as 'e warn't buried proper. + +EMMA. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Aye. + +EMMA. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a better, +an' A goes to all as A can. (_Rises._) A dotes on buryin's. Are +these the next? + +(_Crosses before table for nightdresses, takes the nightdresses +and resumes packing._) + +SARAH. Aye + +(_Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to Sarah's +next speech._) + +SARAH (_pause_). A've been a 'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, +an' A've took pride in 'avin' my bits o' sticks as good as +another's. Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, +she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though A says it +as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a decent 'ouse over your +yead. An' we allays 'ad our full week's 'ollydayin' at Blackpool +reg'lar at Wakes time. Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to +spend it on, an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty +o' good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'e +liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier, too, in +'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away wi' a mint o' +money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no brass to put in th' bank. +We was allays spent oop coom wages neeght. + +EMMA. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young, but A knaw 'ow 't +is. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an' when us plays, us plays +as 'ard too (_pause_), an' small blame to us either. It's our +_own_ we're spendin'. + +SARAH. Aye. It's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can mind me +many an' many's the time when th' warnin' bell went on th' +factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's mornin' as A've +craved for another ha'f hour in my bed, but Tom 'e got me oop an' +we was never after six passin' through factory gates all th' +years we were wed. There's not many as can say they were never +late. "Work or clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould +bell were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma. "Work or clem" is +God's truth. (EMMA'S _head in box._) An' now th' time's coom when A +can't work no more. But Parson's a good man, 'e'll mak' it all +reeght. (EMMA'S _head appears._) Eh, it were good o' thee to coom +in, lass. A bit o' coompany do mak' a world o' difference. A'm +twice as cheerful as A were. + +EMMA. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. (_Rises from the +box._) Is theer owt else? + +SARAH. A were thinkin' A'd like to tak' my black silk as A've +worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think it's reeght +thing for workus. + +EMMA. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt, nobbut what +chairs an table 'ull payfor, and A doan't like thowt o' leaving +owt as A'm greatly fond of. + +EMMA. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is it? A'll +put un in. Theer's lots o'room on top. A'll see un's noan +crushed. + +SARAH. It's hanging theer behind door. (EMMA _crosses back to +door, gets clothes._) A got un out to show Parson. A thowt A'd ask +un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go. My best bonnet's +with it, an' all. + +(EMMA _goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it on +the table, and packs it._) + +EMMA. A'll put un in. + +SARAH. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass. + +EMMA. That's nowt; neighbors mun be neighborly. + +(_Gets bonnet from table and packs it._) + +SARAH (_after a pause, looking round_). Place doan't look much, an' +that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and theer +ain't much left to part wi' now. + +EMMA. Never mind; it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takken thee +oop. + +SARAH. A'm hopin' so. A _am_ hopin' so. A never could abide +th' thowt o' th' workus--me as 'as bin an 'ard-workin' woman. A +couldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi' strange folk round +me, an' when th' Matron said, "Do that," A'd 'ave to do it, an' +when she said, "Go theer," A'd 'ave to a' gone wheer she tould +me--me as 'as allays 'eld my yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased +masel'. Eh, it's a terrible thowt, the workus. + +EMMA (_rising_). Now tha's sure that's all? + +SARAH (_after a pause, considers_). Eh, if A havna forgot my +neeghtcaps. (_Rises, moves centre and stops._) A suppose they'll +let me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly think as A'd get my +rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps. + +EMMA. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght. + +SARAH (_as she goes_). A'll go an' get un. (_Exit right, returning +presently with the white nightcaps._) That's all now. + +(_Gives them to_ EMMA _who meets her at centre._) + +EMMA (_putting them in_). Yo' never 'ad no childer, did yo', Mrs. +Ormerod? + +SARAH. No, Emma, no--maybe that's as broad as's long. (_Sits above +fire._) Yo' never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on 'em turn again yo' +when they're growed, or they get wed themselves an' forget all as +yo' 've done for 'em, like a many A could name, and they're +allays a worrit to yo' when they're young. + +EMMA. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Are yo', now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them +graceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother, A +knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin' coompany +with? + +EMMA. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. 'Indle, 'Indle? What, not son to Robert 'Indle, 'im as +used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to foreign +parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave? + +EMMA. Aye, that's 'im. + +SARAH. Well, A dunno aught about th' lad. 'Is faither were a fine +man. A minds 'im well. But A'll tell thee this, Emma, an' A'll +tell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for 'isself, is young +Joe 'Indle. + +EMMA. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as 't were only +t'other day as tha was runnin' about in short frocks, an' now +tha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed! Time do run on. Sithee, +Emma, tha's a good lass, A've gotten an ould teapot in yonder +(_indicating her bedroom_) as my moother give me when A was wed. A +weren't for packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A +were going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A +died, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus. + +EMMA. Tha's not gone theer yet. + +SARAH. Never mind that. (_Slowly rises._) A'm going to give it +thee, lass, for a weddin' gift. Tha'll tak' care of it, A knaw, +and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare me a thowt. + +EMMA. Oh, no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it. + +SARAH. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me? + +EMMA. No. Tha knaws A'm not. + +SARAH. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute. Happen A'd +best tidy masel' up too against Parson cooms. + +EMMA. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod? + +SARAH. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My 'ands isn't +that bad; A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do all as A need do. + +EMMA. Well, A'll do box up. + +(_Crosses to table right and gets cord._) + +SARAH. Aye. + +EMMA. All reeght. + +(_Exit_ SARAH. _A man's face appears outside at the window. He +surveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks at the +door._) + +Who's theer? + +SAM (_without_). It's me, Sam Horrocks. (_EMMA crosses left and +opens door._) May A coom in? + +EMMA. What dost want? + +SAM (_on the doorstep_). A want a word wi' thee, Emma Brierley. A +followed thee oop from factory and A've bin waitin' out theer +till A'm tired o' waitin'. + +EMMA. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk wi' thee +at door. + +(EMMA _lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in the +middle of the room, resumes work on her knees at the box._ SAM +HORROCKS _is a hulking young man of a rather vacant expression. He +is dressed in mechanic's blue dungarees. His face is oily and his +clothes stained. He wears boots, not clogs. He mechanically takes +a ball of oily black cotton-waste from his right pocket when in +conversational difficulties and wipes his hands upon it. He has a +red muffler round his neck without collar, and his shock affair +hair is surmounted by a greasy black cap, which covers perhaps +one tenth of it._) + +SAM (_after watching_ EMMA's _back for a moment_). Wheer's Mrs. +Ormerod? + +EMMA (_without looking up_). What's that to do wi' thee? + +SAM (_apologetically_). A were only askin'. Tha needn't be short +wi' a chap. + +EMMA. She's in scullery washin' 'er, if tha wants to knaw. + +SAM. Oh! + +EMMA (_looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause_). +Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks? + +SAM. Naw. + +EMMA. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' t'other +side o' door. + +SAM. (_Takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after +trying his right and finding the ball of waste in it._) Yes, Emma. + +(EMMA _resumes work with her back towards him and waits for him to +speak. But he is not ready yet._) + +EMMA. Well, what dost want? + +SAM. Nought.--Eh, but tha art a gradely wench. + +EMMA. What's that to do wi' thee? + +SAM. Nought. + +EMMA. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't pass +compliments behind folks' backs. + +SAM. A didn't mean no 'arm. + +EMMA. Well? + +SAM. It's a fine day, isn't it? For th' time o' th' year? + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. A very fine day. + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM (_desperately_). It's a damned fine day. + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM (_after a moment_). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma? + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. Wert ever in it? + +EMMA. Not sin' tha moother died. + +SAM. Naw. A suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died. She were a +fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed-ridden. + +EMMA. She were better than 'er son, though that's not saying much +neither. + +SAM. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were when she +were alive? + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. A 've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt on +bed from Co-op. Red un, it is, wi' blue stripes down 'er. + +EMMA. Aye. + +SAM. Well, Emma? + +EMMA (_over her shoulder_). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse an' thy +quilt to do wi' me? + +SAM. Oh, nought.--Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much, neither. + +EMMA. (_Rises and faces him. SAM is behind corner table and backs +a little before her._) What's tha gettin' at, Sam Horrocks? Tha's +got a tongue in thy faice, hasn't tha? + +SAM. A suppose so. A doan't use it much though. + +EMMA. No. Tha's not much better than a tongue-tied idiot, Sam +Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine-house in daytime an' +sulkin' at 'ome neeghttime. + +SAM. Aye, A'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave a way wi' +'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin t' same to me sin' +she went. Daytime, tha knaws, A'm all reeght. Tha sees, them +engines, them an' me's pals. They talks to me an' A understands +their ways. A doan't some'ow seem to understand th' ways o' folks +like as A does th' ways o' them engines. + +EMMA. Tha doesn't try. T' other lads goes rattin' or +dog-feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday +afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's not likely to +understand folks. Tha's not sociable. + +SAM. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed at when A +tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down at th' pub wi' th' +rest o' th' lads. It's no use ma tryin' to soop ale; A can't +carry th' drink like t' others. A knaws A've ways o' ma own. + +EMMA. Tha has that. + +SAM. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o' mine, it do +want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines is all reeght for +days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like tha wouldn't believe. + +EMMA. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi' me, +choosehow. + +SAM. Naw? A'd--A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave, Emma. + +EMMA (_approaching threateningly_). Sam Horrocks, if tha doan't +tell me proper what tha means A 'll give tha such a slap in th' +mouth. + +SAM (_backing before her_). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma. Just +like ma moother. + +EMMA. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into thy +silly yead. + +SAM (_suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table_). +Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak' good money in th'engine-house. + +EMMA. Get oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel' so +close wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' never +speakin' a word to nobody, tha'd knaw A were keepin' coompany wi' +Joe Hindle. + +SAM (_scrambling up_). Is that a fact, Emma? + +EMMA. Of course it's a fact. Banns 'ull be oop come Sunday +fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just like the great +blind idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long enough sin'. + +SAM. A wer'n't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha'd 'ave me, +Emma. + +EMMA (_a little more softly_). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee, Sam. + +SAM. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe A'd best be +goin'. + +EMMA (_lifts box to left_). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs. +Ormerod in a minute. + +SAM (_with pride_). A knaw all about that, anyhow. + +EMMA. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can do much +for 'er. + +SAM. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo' 'll not want +me'ere. A 'll be movin' on. (_Getting his cap out_) No offense, +Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd knawn as 'e were +after thee. A've bin tryin' for long enough. + +EMMA. No. Theer's no offense, Sam. Tha's a good lad if tha art a +fool, an' mebbe tha's not to blame for that. Good-bye. + +SAM. Good-bye, Emma. An'--An' A 'ope 'e'll mak' thee 'appy. A'd +dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' shake 'is 'and. + +(MRS. ORMEROD _heard off right._) + +EMMA. A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'. Tha'd +best be gettin'. + +SAM. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma. + +EMMA. Good-bye, Sam. + +(_Exit_ SAM _left centre._ MRS. ORMEROD _comes from the inside door. +She has a small blue teapot in her hand._) + +SARAH. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard someun talkin', +only my yearin' isn't what it used to be, an' A warn't sure. + +EMMA. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im as +isn't reeght in 'is yead? + +EMMA. Aye. 'E's bin askin' me to wed 'im. + +SARAH (_incensed_). In my 'ouse? Theer's imperence for thee, an' +tha promised to another lad, an' all. A'd 'ave set about 'im wi' +a stick, Emma. + +EMMA. 'E didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel like to +'ave to tell 'im. + +SARAH. 'E'll get ower it. Soom lass 'll tak' 'im. + +EMMA. A suppose so. + +SARAH (_coming down, putting the teapot in EMMA'S hands_). Well, +theer's teapot. + +EMMA (_meets SARAH right centre, examining teapot_). It's +beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak' care +on't, lass, won't thee? + +EMMA. A will an' all. + +SARAH. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than it would +be in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice. A goa cold all +ower at thowt of it. + +(_A knock at the door._) + +EMMA. That'll be Parson. + +SARAH (_crosses left, smoothing her hair_). Goa an' look through +window first, an' see who 't is. + +EMMA (_puts teapot on table; looking through window_). It is not +th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps. + +SARAH. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down. It won't do +to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's not th' ould +Parson. + +(EMMA _leaves the window and goes to right of table. The knock is +repeated._) + +SARAH (_raising her voice_). Coom in so who tha art. Door's on +latch. + +(_Enter the_ REV. FRANK ALLEYNE. _He is a young curate, a +Londoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and taste +totally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is, +unfortunately, no exception._) + +ALLEYNE. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Good day to thee. + +ALLEYNE. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to a +missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you in his +stead. + +SARAH. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee doon. + +(EMMA _comes below table left. Dusts a chair, which doesn't need +it, with her apron._ ALLEYNE _raises a deprecatory hand._ SARAH'S +_familiarity, as it seems to him, offends him. He looks sourly at_ +EMMA _and markedly ignores her._) + +ALLEYNE. Thank you; no, I won't sit; I cannot stay long. + +SARAH. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me. + +(EMMA _stays by right of table._) + +ALLEYNE. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod? + +SARAH. It might be worse. A've lost th' use o' my 'ands, and +they're takin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet, and that's +summat to be thankul for. + +ALLEYNE. Oh, yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The--er--message I am to +deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led you to hope +for. His efforts on your behalf have--er--- unfortunately failed. +He finds himself obliged to give up all hope of aiding you to a +livelihood. In fact--er--I understand that the arrangements made +for your removal to the workhouse this afternoon must be carried +out. It seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the +bearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a comfortable +home awaiting you, Mrs.--er--Ormerod. + +SARAH. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no tellin' 'ow +you'll favor a thing till you've tried it. + +ALLEYNE. You must resign yourself to the will of Providence. The +consolations of religion are always with us. Shall I pray with +you? + +SARAH. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off, an' A +doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me if A coom cryin' +to 'im now A'm 'urt. + +ALLEYNE. He will understand. Can I do nothing for you? + +SARAH. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same. + +ALLEYNE. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permission to bring +a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. (_Feeling in his coattails +and bringing out a Testament._) Allow me to present you with this +Testament, and may it help you to bear your Cross with resignation. +(_He hands her the Testament._ SARAH _does not raise her hands, +and it drops on her lap._ ALLEYNE _takes it again and puts it on +the table._) Ah, yes, of course--your poor hands--I understand. + +SARAH. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me, an' my eyes +aren't what they were, but A'll mak' most of it. + +ALLEYNE. You will never read that in vain. And now, dear sister, +I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All will be well. +Good day. + +SARAH. Good day to thee. + +(_Exit_ ALLEYNE.) + +EMMA. Tha doesn't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma. 'E should +'a' coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks like 'e were feart to do it. +A never could abide them curate lads. We doan't want no grand +Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 'E doan't understand us no more than +we understand 'im. 'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, +A've bin a church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop to +church, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o' me in my +time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate with a tuppenny +Testament. That's all th' good yo' get out o' they folks. + +EMMA. We'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to let me +see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony different wi' +chapels, neither. They get what they can outer yo', but yo' +mustn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch cooms. (_Clock +outside strikes three._) Sakes alive, theer's clock goin' three. +My dinner 'ull be nice an' cold. + +SARAH. Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's bin +clemmin' all this time? + +EMMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory. + +SARAH. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat. + +EMMA. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha 's no +reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'. + +EMMA (_putting her shawl on_). All reeght. A'm off. + +(_Picks up teapot._) + +SARAH. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll be 'arder +to bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much for me. Eh, lass, +A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building wi' th' drear windows. + +EMMA. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a bit o' +coompany. A 'll ask her to coom an' fetch thee a coop o' tea +bye-an'-bye. + +(_A knock at the door._) + +SARAH. Who's theer? + +SAM (_without_). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod. + +EMMA. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again. + +SARAH. Sam Horrocks! What can th'lad be after now? (_Calling_) Hast +tha wiped thy boots on scraper? + +SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. Coom in then. (EMMA _in left corner. Enter_ SAM.) Tak' thy +cap off. + +SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. + +SARAH. What dost want? + +SAM. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by thysel'. +A'll coom again (_bolting nervously for the door_). + +SARAH. Let that door be. Dost say tha's got business 'ere? + +SAM. Aye, wi' thee. A'd like a word wi' thee private. + +(EMMA _moves to open door._) + +SARAH. All reeght. Emma's just goin' to 'er dinner. + +EMMA (_speaking through door_). A'll ask my moother to step hi +later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for th' teapot. + +SARAH. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (_Exit_ EMMA _with teapot._) +Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee? + +SAM (_dropping the cotton-waste he is fumbling with and picking it +up_). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year. + +SARAH. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad? + +SAM. Naw, not exactly. + +SARAH. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on thee. Art +tongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawlin' yon bit o' waste an' tell me +what 'tis tha wants? + +SAM (_desperately_). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'. + +SARAH. A'll tell thee what A'd do to thee if A 'ad the use o' my +'ands, my lad. A'd coom aside thee and A'd box thy ears. If tha's +got business wi' me, tha'd best state it sharp or A 'll be +showin' thee the shape o' my door. + +SAM. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A am. A've +not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould moother died. + +SARAH. A've 'eerd folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi' 'er +tongue. + +SAM (_admiringly_). She were that. Rare talker she were. She'd lie +theer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon corner, an' call +me all th' names she could put her tongue to, till A couldn't +tell ma reeght 'and from ma left. (_Still reminiscent._) Wonnerful +sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she were bed-ridden so long. She +were only a little un an' cripple an' all, but by gum, she could +sling it at a feller if 'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. +Talk! She'd talk a donkey's yead off, she would. + +SARAH (_on her mettle_). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an' all +if tha doan't get sharp to tellin' me what tha wants after in my +'ouse, tha great mazed idiot. + +SAM. Eh, but she were a rare un. + +SARAH. The lad's daft aboot his moother. + +SAM (_detachedly, looking at window; pause_). Wunnerful breeght the +sky is, to-day. + +SARAH. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to thee +if--if A'd the use o' my 'ands. + +SAM. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say. + +SARAH. Dang thy moother. An' A doan't mean no disrepect to 'er +neither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more, poor woman. + +SAM. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she were +wunnerful. + +SARAH. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd call thee +if A were thy moother an' A'd to live aside o' thee neeght an' +day. + +SAM (_eagerly_). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would. + +SARAH. Would what? + +SAM. Would coom an' live along wi' me. + +SARAH. Tha great fool, what does mean? Art askin' me to wed thee? + +SAM. A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm sorry A +spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 'ope as tha might +coom. Tha sees A got used to moother. A got used to 'earin' 'er +cuss me. A got used to doin' for 'er an' A've nought to do in th' +evenings now. It's terrible lonesome in th' neeghttime. An' when +notion coom to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual. + +SARAH. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what tha's +sayin', or is tha foolin' me? + +SAM. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A'm not a marryin' sort. Th' +lasses won't look at me. A'm silly Sam to them, A knaws it. A've +a slate loose; A shan't never get wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chance +wi' yon lass as were 'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were too +late. A allays were slow. A left askin' too long an' A 've missed +'er. A gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a young +wench. They mak's me go 'ot and cowld all over. An' when curate +towld me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A'd a chance wi' +thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big chance, because my plaice ain't +much cop after what tha's bin used to 'ere. A've got no fine +fixin's nor big chairs an' things like as tha used to 'ave. Eh, +but A would 'ave loved to do for thee as A used to do for ma +moother, an' when A yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a fool +an' th' rest, by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. +Tha'd fill 'er plaice wunnerful well. A'd just a' loved to adopt +thee. + +SARAH. To adopt me? + +SAM. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way to let +me. A didn't mean no offence (_turning to the door_). + +SARAH. 'Ere, lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might tak' me +for thy moother, what wouldst ha' done? + +SAM. Why, kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms whoam to +thy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean sheets an' all, +an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll pardon th' liberty o' +mentioning it. + +SARAH. A new quilt, Sam? What's color? + +SAM. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er. + +SARAH. A'm not a light weight, tha knows. + +SAM. A'd carry thee easy--"Strong in th' arm and weak in th' +yead." It's an ould sayin', but it's a good un, an' it fits. + +SARAH. Wilt tha try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt tha try, +lad? + +SAM. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll coom? Tha's not +coddin' a feller, art tha? + +SARAH. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son. + +(_He kisses her and lifts her in his arms._) + +SAM. By gum, but that were good. A'll coom back fur thy box. + +SABAH. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack o' flour. + +SAM. Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real mootherly, +it were. + +(_Exit through door, carrying her._) + +[CURTAIN _at clink of latch_] + + + + +RIDERS TO THE SEA[1] + +J.M. Synge + +[Footnote 1: Included by permission of Messrs. John W. Luce and +Company.] + +CHARACTERS + +MAURYA, an old woman +BARTLEY, her son +CATHLEEN, her daughter +NORA, a younger daughter +MEN AND WOMEN + +SCENE: _An island off the West of Ireland. Cottage kitchen, with +nets, oilskins, spinning-wheel, some new boards standing by the +wall, etc._ CATHLEEN, _a girl of about twenty, finishes kneading +cake, and puts it down in the pot-oven by the fire; then wipes +her hands, and begins to spin at the wheel._ NORA, _a young girl, +puts her head in at the door._ + + +NORA (_in a low voice_). Where is she? + +CATHLEEN. She's lying down, God help her, and maybe sleeping, if +she's able. + +(NORA _comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her shawl._) + +CATHLEEN (_spinning the wheel rapidly_). What is it you have? + +NOBA. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a shirt and a +plain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal. + +(CATHLEEN _stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans out +to listen._) + +NORA. We're to find out if it's Michael's they are; some time +herself will be down looking by the sea. + +CATHLEEN. How would they be Michael's, Nora? How would he go the +length of that way to the far north? + +NORA. The young priest says he's known the like of it. "If it's +Michael's they are," says he, "you can tell herself he's got a +clean burial by the grace of God, and if they're not his, let no +one say a word about them, for she'll be getting her death," says +he, "with crying and lamenting." + +(_The door which_ NORA _half closed is blown open by a gust of +wind._) + +CATHLEEN (_looking out anxiously_). Did you ask him would he stop +Bartley going this day with the horses to the Galway fair? + +NORA. "I won't stop him," says he, "but let you not be afraid. +Herself does be saying prayers half through the night, and the +Almighty God won't leave her destitute," says he, "with no son +living." + +CATHLEEN. Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora? + +NORA. Middling bad, God help us. There's a great roaring in the +west, and it's worse it'll be getting when the tide's turned to +the wind. + +(_She goes over to the table with the bundle._) + +Shall I open it now? + +CATHLEEN. Maybe she'd wake up on us, and come in before we'd +done. (_Coming to the table_) It's a long time we'll be, and the +two of us crying. + +NORA (_goes to the inner door and listens_). She's moving about on +the bed. She'll be coming in a minute. + +CATHLEEN. Give me the ladder, and I'll put them up in the +turf-loft, the way she won't know of them at all, and maybe when +the tide turns she'll be going down to see would he be floating +from the east. + +(_They put the ladder against the gable of the chimney_; CATHLEEN +_goes up a few steps and hides the bundle in the turf-loft. MAURYA +comes from the inner room._) + +MAURYA (_looking up at CATHLEEN and speaking querulously_). Isn't +it turf enough you have for this day and evening? + +CATHLEEN. There's a cake baking at the fire for a short space +(_throwing down the turf_) and Bartley will want it when the tide +turns if he goes to Connemara. + +(NORA _picks up the turf and puts it round the pot-oven._) + +MAURYA (_sitting down on a stool at the fire_). He won't go this +day with the wind rising from the south and west. He won't go +this day, for the young priest will stop him surely. + +NORA. He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon Simon and +Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he would go. + +MAURYA. Where is he itself? + +NORA. He went down to see would there be another boat sailing in +the week, and I'm thinking it won't be long till he's here now, +for the tide's turning at the green head, and the hooker's +tacking from the east. + +CATHLEEN. I hear someone passing the big stones. + +NORA (_looking out_). He's coming now, and he in a hurry. + +BARTLEY (_comes in and looks round the room; speaking sadly and +quietly_). Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, was bought in +Connemara? + +CATHLEEN (_coming down_). Give it to him, Nora; it's on a nail by +the white boards. I hung it up this morning, for the pig with the +black feet was eating it. + +NORA (_giving him a rope_). Is that it, Bartley? + +MAURYA. You'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hanging by +the boards. (BARTLEY _takes the rope._) It will be wanting in this +place, I'm telling you, if Michael is washed up to-morrow +morning, or the next morning, or any morning in the week, for +it's a deep grave we'll make him by the grace of God. + +BARTLEY (_beginning to work with the rope_). I've no halter the way +I can ride down on the mare, and I must go now quickly. This is +the one boat going for two weeks or beyond it, and the fair will +be a good fair for horses, I heard them saying below. + +MAURYA. It's a hard thing they'll be saying below if the body is +washed up and there's no man in it to make the coffin, and I +after giving a big price for the finest white boards you'd find +in Connemara. + +(_She looks round at the boards._) + +BARTLEY. How would it be washed up, and we after looking each day +for nine days, and a strong wind blowing a while back from the +west and south? + +MAURYA. If it wasn't found itself, that wind is raising the sea, +and there was a star up against the moon, and it rising in the +night. If it was a hundred horses, or a thousand horses you had +itself, what is the price of a thousand horses against a son +where there is one son only? + +BARTLEY (_working at the halter, to_ CATHLEEN). Let you go down +each day, and see the sheep aren't jumping in on the rye, and if +the jobber comes you can sell the pig with the black feet if +there is a good price going. + +MAURYA. How would the like of her get a good price for a pig? + +BARTLEY (_to_ CATHLEEN). If the west wind holds with the last bit +of the moon let you and Nora get up weed enough for another cock +for the kelp. It's hard set we'll be from this day with no one in +it but one man to work. + +MAURYA. It's hard set we'll be surely the day you're drownd'd +with the rest. What way will I live and the girls with me, and I +an old woman looking for the grave? + +(BARTLEY _lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and puts +on a newer one of the same flannel._) + +BARTLEY (_to_ NORA). Is she coming to the pier? + +NORA (_looking out_). She's passing the green head and letting fall +her sails. + +BARTLEY (_getting his purse and tobacco_). I'll have half an hour +to go down, and you'll see me coming again in two days, or in +three days, or maybe in four days if the wind is bad. + +MAURYA (_turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over her +head_). Isn't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a word from an +old woman, and she holding him from the sea? + +CATHLEEN. It's the life of a young man to be going on the sea, +and who would listen to an old woman with one thing and she +saying it over? + +BARTLEY (_taking the halter_). I must go now quickly. I'll ride +down on the red mare, and the gray pony'll run behind me. The +blessing of God on you. + +(_He goes out._) + +MAURYA (_crying out as he is in the door_). He's gone now, God +spare us, and we'll not see him again. He's gone now, and when +the black night is falling I'll have no son left me in the world. + +CATHLEEN. Why wouldn't you give him your blessing and he looking +round in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough is on everyone in this +house without your sending him out with an unlucky word behind +him, and a hard word in his ear? + +(MAURYA _takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aimlessly +without looking round._) + +NORA (_turning towards her_). You're taking away the turf from the +cake. + +CATHLEEN (_crying out_). The Son of God forgive us, Nora, we're +after forgetting his bit of bread. + +(_She comes over to the fire._) + +NORA. And it's destroyed he'll be going till dark night, and he +after eating nothing since the sun went up. + +CATHLEEN (_turning the cake out of the oven_). It's destroyed he'll +be, surely. There's no sense left on any person in a house where +an old woman will be talking for ever. + +(MAURYA _sways herself on her stool._) + +CATHLEEN (_cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in a +cloth, to_ MAURYA). Let you go down now to the spring well and +give him this and he passing. You'll see him then and the dark +word will be broken, and you can say, "God speed you," the way +he'll be easy in his mind. + +MAURYA (_taking the bread_). Will I be in it as soon as himself? + +CATHLEEN. If you go now quickly. + +MAURYA (_standing up unsteadily_). It's hard set I am to walk. + +CATHLEEN (_looking at her anxiously_). Give her the stick, Nora, or +maybe she'll slip on the big stones. + +NORA. What stick? + +CATHLEEN. The stick Michael brought from Connemara. + +MAURYA (_taking a stick NORA gives her_). In the big world the old +people do be leaving things after them for their sons and +children, but in this place it is the young men do be leaving +things behind for them that do be old. + +(_She goes out slowly. NORA goes over to the ladder._) + +CATHLEEN. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd turn back quickly. She's that +sorry, God help her, you wouldn't know the thing she'd do. + +NORA. Is she gone round by the bush? + +CATHLEEN (_looking out_). She's gone now. Throw it down quickly, +for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it again. + +NORA (_getting the bundle from the loft_). The young priest said +he'd be passing to-morrow, and we might go down and speak to him +below if it's Michael's they are surely. + +CATHLEEN (_taking the bundle_). Did he say what way they were +found? + +NORA (_coming down_). "There were two men," says he, "and they +rowing round with poteen before the cocks crowed, and the oar of +one of them caught the body, and they passing the black cliffs of +the north." + +CATHLEEN (_trying to open the bundle_). Give me a knife, Nora; the +string's perished with the salt water, and there's a black knot +on it you wouldn't loosen in a week. + +NORA (_giving her a knife_). I've heard tell it was a long way to +Donegal. + +CATHLEEN (_cutting the string_). It is surely. There was a man in +here a while ago--the man sold us that knife--and he said if you +set off walking from the rocks beyond, it would be seven days +you'd be in Donegal. + +NORA. And what time would a man take, and he floating? + +(CATHLEEN _opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking. +They look at them eagerly._) + +CATHLEEN (_in a low voice_). The Lord spare us, Nora! Isn't it a +queer hard thing to say if it's his they are surely? + +NORA. I'll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the one +flannel on the other. (_She looks through some clothes hanging in +the corner_) It's not with them, Cathleen, and where will it be? + +CATHLEEN. I'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, for +his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it. (_Pointing to the +corner_) There's a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give me +that and it will do. + +(NORA _brings it to her and they compare the flannel._) + +CATHLEEN. It's the same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself, aren't +there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn't it many +another man may have a shirt of it as well as Michael himself? + +NORA (_who has taken up the stocking and counted the stitches, +crying out_) It's Michael, Cathleen, it's Michael; God spare his +soul and what will herself say when she hears this story, and +Bartley on the sea? + +CATHLEEN (_taking the stocking_). It's a plain stocking. + +NORA. It's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and I put +up three score stitches, and I dropped four of them. + +CATHLEEN (_counts the stitches_). It's that number is in it. +(_Crying out_) Ah, Nora, isn't it a bitter thing to think of him +floating that way to the far north, and no one to keen him but +the black hags that do be flying on the sea? + +NORA (_swinging herself round, and throwing out her arms on the +clothes_). And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is nothing left +of a man who was a great rower and fisher, but a bit of an old +shirt and a plain stocking? + +CATHLEEN (_after an instant_). Tell me is herself coming, Nora? I +hear a little sound on the path. + +NORA (_looking out_). She is, Cathleen. She's coming up to the +door. + +CATHLEEN. Put these things away before she'll come in. Maybe it's +easier she'll be after giving her blessing to Bartley, and we +won't let on we've heard anything the time he's on the sea. + +NORA (_helping CATHLEEN to close the bundle_). We'll put them here +in the corner. + +(_They put them into a hole in the chimney corner. CATHLEEN goes +back to the spinning wheel._) + +NORA. Will she see it was crying I was? + +CATHLEEN. Keep your back to the door the way the light'll not be +on you. + +(NORA _sits down at the chimney corner, with her back to the door._ +MAURYA _comes in very slowly, without looking at the girls, and +goes over to her stool at the other side of the fire. The cloth +with the bread is still in her hand. The girls look at each +other, and_ NORA _points to the bundle of bread._) + +CATHLEEN (_offer spinning for a moment_), You didn't give him his +bit of bread? + +(MAURYA _begins to keen softly, without turning round._) + +CATHLEEN. Did you see him riding down? + +(MAURYA _goes on keening._) + +CATHLEEN (_a little impatiently_). God forgive you; isn't it a +better thing to raise your voice and tell what you seen, than to +be making lamentation for a thing that's done? Did you see +Bartley, I'm saying to you. + +MAURYA (_with a weak voice_). My heart's broken from this day. + +CATHLEEN (_as before_). Did you see Bartley? + +MAURYA. I seen the fearfulest thing. + +CATHLEEN (_leaves her wheel and looks out_). God forgive you; he's +riding the mare now over the green head, and the gray pony behind +him. + +MAURYA (_starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head and +shows her white tossed hair; with a frightened voice_). The gray +pony behind him. + +CATHLEEN (_coming to the fire_). What is it ails you, at all? + +MAURYA (_speaking very slowly_). I've seen the fearfulest thing any +person has seen, since the day Bride Dara seen the dead man with +the child in his arms. + +CATHLEEN AND NORA. Uah. + +(_They crouch down in front of the old woman at the fire._) + +NORA. Tell us what it is you seen. + +MAURYA. I went down to the spring-well, and I stood there saying +a prayer to myself. Then Bartley came along, and he riding on the +red mare with the gray pony behind him. (_She puts up her hands, +as if to hide something from her eyes._) The Son of God spare us, +Nora! + +CATHLEEN. What is it you seen? + +MAURYA. I seen Michael himself. + +CATHLEEN (_speaking softly_). You did not, mother; it wasn't +Michael you seen, for his body is after being found in the far +north, and he's got a clean burial by the grace of God. + +MAURYA (_a little defiantly_). I'm after seeing him this day, and +he riding and galloping. Bartley came first on the red mare; and +I tried to say "God speed you," but something choked the words in +my throat. He went by quickly; and, "The blessing of God on you," +says he, and I could say nothing. I looked up then, and I crying, +at the gray pony, and there was Michael upon it--with fine +clothes on him, and new shoes on his feet. + +CATHLEEN (_begins to keen_). It's destroyed we are from this day. +It's destroyed, surely. + +NORA. Didn't the young priest say the Almighty God wouldn't leave +her destitute with no son living? + +MAUKYA (_in a low voice, but clearly_). It's little the like of him +knows of the sea.... Bartley will be lost now, and let you call +in Eamon and make me a good coffin out of the white boards, for I +won't live after them. I've had a husband, and a husband's +father, and six sons in this house--six fine men, though it was a +hard birth I had with every one of them and they coming to the +world--and some of them were found and some of them were not +found, but they're gone now, the lot of them.... There were +Stephen, and Shawn, were lost in the great wind, and found after +in the Bay of Gregory of the Golden Mouth, and carried up the two +of them on the one plank, and in by that door. + +(_She pauses for a moment, the girls start as if they heard +something through the door that is half-open behind them._) + +NORA (_in a whisper_). Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did you hear a +noise in the northeast? + +CATHLEEN (_in a whisper_). There's someone after crying out by the +seashore. + +MAURYA (_continues without hearing anything_). There was Sheamus +and his father, and his own father again, were lost in a dark +night, and not a stick or sign was seen of them when the sun went +up. There was Patch after was drowned out of a curagh that turned +over. I was sitting here with Bartley, and he a baby, lying on my +two knees, and I seen two women, and three women, and four women +coming in, and they crossing themselves, and not saying a word. I +looked out then, and there were men coming after them, and they +holding a thing in the half of a red sail, and water dripping out +of it--it was a dry day, Nora--and leaving a track to the door. + +(_She pauses again with her hand stretched out towards the door. +It opens softly and old women begin to come in, crossing +themselves on the threshold, and kneeling down in front of the +stage with red petticoats over their heads._) + +MAURYA (_half in a dream, to Cathleen_). Is it Patch, or Michael, +or what is it at all? + +CATHLEEN. Michael is after being found in the far north, and when +he is found there how could he be here in this place? + +MAURYA. There does be a power of young men floating round in the +sea, and what way would they know if it was Michael they had, or +another man like him, for when a man is nine days in the sea, and +the wind blowing, it's hard set his own mother would be to say +what man was it. + +CATHLEEN. It's Michael, God spare him, for they're after sending +us a bit of his clothes from the far north. + +(_She reaches out and hands MAURYA the clothes that belonged to_ +MICHAEL. MAURYA _stands up slowly, and takes them in her hands._ +NORA _looks out._) + +NORA. They're carrying a thing among them and there's water +dripping out of it and leaving a track by the big stones. + +CATHLEEN (_in a whisper to the women who have come in_). Is it +Bartley it is? + +ONE OF THE WOMEN. It is surely, God rest his soul. + +(_Two younger women come in and pull out the table. Then men carry +in the body of_ BARTLEY, _laid on a plank, with a bit of a sail +over it, and lay it on the table._) + +CATHLEEN (_to the women, as they are doing so_). What way was he +drowned? + +ONE OF THE WOMEN. The gray pony knocked him into the sea, and he +was washed out where there is a great surf on the white rocks. + +(MAURYA _has gone over and knelt down at the head of the table. +The women are keening softly and swaying themselves with a slow +movement._ CATHLEEN _and_ NORA _kneel at the other end of the table. +The men kneel near the door._) + +MAURYA (_raising her head and speaking as if she did not see the +people around her_). They're all gone now, and there isn't +anything more the sea can do to me.... I'll have no call now to +be up crying and praying when the wind breaks from the south, and +you can hear the surf is in the east, and the surf is in the +west, making a great stir with the two noises, and they hitting +one on the other. I'll have no call now to be going down and +getting Holy Water in the dark nights after Samhain, and I won't +care what way the sea is when the other women will be keening. +(_To_ NORA) Give me the Holy Water, Nora; there's a small sup still +on the dresser. + +(NORA _gives it to her._) + +MAURYA (_drops_ MICHAEL'S _clothes across_ BARTLEY'S _feet, and +sprinkles the Holy Water over him_). It isn't that I haven't +prayed for you, BARTLEY, to the Almighty God. It isn't that I +haven't said prayers in the dark night till you wouldn't know +what I'd be saying; but it's a great rest I'll have now, and it's +time surely. It's a great rest I'll have now, and great sleeping +in the long nights after Samhain, if it's only a bit of wet flour +we do have to eat, and maybe a fish that would be stinking. + +(_She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying prayers +under her breath._) + +CATHLEEN (_to an old man_). Maybe yourself and Eamon would make a +coffin when the sun rises. We have fine white boards herself +bought, God help her, thinking Michael would be found, and I have +a new cake you can eat while you'll be working. + +THE OLD MAN (_looking at the boards_). Are there nails with them? + +CATHLEEN. There are not, Colum; we didn't think of the nails. + +ANOTHER MAN. It's a great wonder she wouldn't think of the nails, +and all the coffins she's seen made already. + +CATHLEEN. It's getting old she is, and broken. + +(MAURYA _stands up again very slowly and spreads out the pieces of_ +MICHAEL'S _clothes beside the body, sprinkling them with the last +of the Holy Water._) + +NORA (_in a whisper to_ CATHLEEN). She's quiet now and easy; but +the day Michael was drowned you could hear her crying out from +this to the spring-well. It's fonder she was of Michael, and +would anyone have thought that? + +CATHLEEN (_slowly and clearly_). An old woman will be soon tired +with anything she will do, and isn't it nine days herself is +after crying and keening, and making great sorrow in the house? + +MAURYA (_puts the empty cup mouth downwards on the table, and lays +her hands together on_ BARTLEY'S _feet_). They're all together this +time, and the end is come. May the Almighty God have mercy on +Bartley's soul, and on Michael's soul, and on the souls of +Sheamus and Patch, and Stephen and Shawn (_bending her head_); and +may He have mercy on my soul, Nora, and on the soul of everyone +is left living in the world. + +(_She pauses, and the keen rises a little more loudly from the +women, then sinks away._) + +MAURYA (_continuing_). Michael has a clean burial in the far north, +by the grace of the Almighty God. Bartley will have a fine coffin +out of the white boards, and a deep grave surely. What more can +we want than that? No man at all can be living for ever, and we +must be satisfied. + +(_She kneels down again, and the curtain falls slowly_). + + + + +THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE[1] + +William Butler Yeats + +[Footnote 1: Reprinted by arrangement with Mr. Yeats and the +Macmillan Company, New York, publishers of Mr. Yeats's Collected +Works (1912).] + +CHARACTERS + +MAURTEEN BRUIN +BRIDGET BRUIN, his wife +SHAWN BRUIN, their son +MAIRE BRUIN, wife of Shawn +FATHER HART +A FAERY CHILD + +SCENE: _In the Barony of Kilmacowan, in the county of Sligo, at a +remote time._ + +SETTING: _a room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a +deep alcove on the right. There are benches in the alcove, and a +table; a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of +light from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience, +to the left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the door +one can see the forest. It is night, but the moon or a late +sunset glimmers through the trees, and carries the eye far off +into a vague, mysterious world. MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, and +BRIDGET BRUIN sit in the alcove at the table, or about the fire. +They are dressed in the costume of some remote time, and near +them sits an old priest, FATHER HART, in the garb of a friar. +There is food and drink upon the table. MAIRE BRUIN stands by the +door, reading a yellow manuscript. If she looks up, she can see +through the door into the wood._ + + + BRIDGET BRUIN + Because I bade her go and feed the calves, + She took that old book down out of the thatch + And has been doubled over it all day. + We should be deafened by her groans and moans + Had she to work as some do, Father Hart, + Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour; + Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you, + The pyx and blessed bread under your arm. + + SHAWN BRUIN + You are too cross. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The young side with the young. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + She quarrels with my wife a bit at times, + And is too deep just now in the old book! + But do not blame her greatly; she will grow + As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree + When but the moons of marriage dawn and die + For half a score of times. + + FATHER HART + Their hearts are wild + As be the hearts of birds, till children come. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow, + Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth. + + FATHER HART + I never saw her read a book before; + What may it be? + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + I do not rightly know; + It has been in the thatch for fifty years. + My father told me my grandfather wrote it, + Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide. + But draw your chair this way--supper is spread; + And little good he got out of the book, + Because it filled his house with roaming bards, + And roaming ballad-makers and the like, + And wasted all his goods.--Here is the wine: + The griddle bread's beside you, Father Hart. + Colleen, what have you got there in the book + That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I, + Or had my father, read or written books + There were no stocking stuffed with golden guineas + To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you. + + FATHER HART + You should not fill your head with foolish dreams. + What are you reading? + + MARIE BRUIN + How a Princess Edane, + A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard + A voice singing on a May Eve like this, + And followed, half awake and half asleep, + Until she came into the Land of Faery, + Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, + Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, + Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue; + And she is still there, busied with a dance, + Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, + Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Persuade the colleen to put by the book: + My grandfather would mutter just such things, + And he was no judge of a dog or horse, + And any idle boy could blarney him: + Just speak your mind. + + FATHER HART + Put it away, my colleen. + God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, + And gives a little round of deeds and days, + And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, + And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams, + Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes, + Half shuddering and half joyous, from God's peace: + And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears, + Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words. + My colleen, I have seen some other girls + Restless and ill at ease, but years went by + And they grew like their neighbours and were glad + In minding children, working at the churn, + And gossiping of weddings and of wakes; + For life moves out of a red flare of dreams + Into a common light of common hours, + Until old age bring the red flare again. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + That's true--but she's too young to know it's true. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She's old enough to know that it is wrong + To mope and idle. + + SHAWN BRUIN + I've little blame for her; + And mother's tongue were harder still to bear, + But for her fancies: this is May Eve too, + When the good people post about the world, + And surely one may think of them to-night. + Maire, have you the primroses to fling + Before the door to make a golden path + For them to bring good luck into the house? + Remember, they may steal new-married brides + After the fall of twilight on May Eve. + + (MAIRE BRUIN _goes over to the window and takes flowers + from the bowl and strews them outside the door._) + + FATHER HART + You do well, daughter, because God permits + Great power to the good people on May Eve. + + SHAWN BRUIN + They can work all their will with primroses; + Change them to golden money, or little flames + To burn up those who do them any wrong. + + MARIE BRUIN (_in a dreamy voice_) + I had no sooner flung them by the door + Than the wind cried and hurried them away; + And then a child came running in the wind + And caught them in her hands and fondled them: + Her dress was green: her hair was of red gold; + Her face was pale as water before dawn. + + FATHER HART + Whose child can this be? + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + No one's child at all. + She often dreams that someone has gone by + When there was nothing but a puff of wind. + + MARIE BRUIN + They will not bring good luck into the house, + For they have blown the primroses away; + Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them, + For are not they, likewise, children of God? + + FATHER HART + Colleen, they are the children of the fiend, + And they have power until the end of Time, + When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle + And hack them into pieces. + + MARIE BRUIN + He will smile, + Father, perhaps, and open His great door, + And call the pretty and kind into His house. + + FATHER HART + Did but the lawless angels see that door, + They would fall, slain by everlasting peace; + And when such angels knock upon our doors + Who goes with them must drive through the same storm. + + (_A knock at the door._ MAIRE BRUIN _opens it and then + goes to the dresser and fills a porringer with milk and + hands it through the door, and takes it back empty and + closes the door._) + + MARIE BRUIN + A little queer old woman cloaked in green, + Who came to beg a porringer of milk. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The good people go asking milk and fire + Upon May Eve--Woe on the house that gives, + For they have power upon it for a year. + I knew you would bring evil on the house. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Who was she? + + MARIE BRUIN + Both the tongue and face were strange. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill; + She must be one of them. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I am afraid. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + The priest will keep all harm out of the house. + + FATHER HART + The cross will keep all harm out of the house + While it hangs there. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Come, sit beside me, colleen, + And put away your dreams of discontent, + For I would have you light up my last days + Like the good glow of the turf, and when I die + I will make you the wealthiest hereabout: + For hid away where nobody can find + I have a stocking full of yellow guineas. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + You are the fool of every pretty face, + And I must pinch and pare that my son's wife + May have all kinds of ribbons for her head. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Do not be cross; she is a right good girl! + The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart. + My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change + Done well for me and for old Bridget there? + We have a hundred acres of good land, + And sit beside each other at the fire, + The wise priest of our parish to our right, + And you and our dear son to left of us. + To sit beside the board and drink good wine + And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire + And feel content and wisdom in your heart, + This is the best of life; when we are young + We long to tread a way none trod before, + But find the excellent old way through love + And through the care of children to the hour + For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye. + + (_A knock at the door._ MAIRE BRUIN _opens it and then + takes a sod of turf out of the hearth in the tongs and + goes out through the door._ SHAWN _follows her and + meets her coming in._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + What is it draws you to the chill o' the wood? + There is a light among the stems of the trees + That makes one shiver. + + MARIE BRUIN + A little queer old man + Made me a sign to show he wanted fire + To light his pipe. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + You've given milk and fire, + Upon the unluckiest night of the year, and brought, + For all you know, evil upon the house. + Before you married you were idle and fine, + And went about with ribbons on your head; + And now--no, father, I will speak my mind, + She is not a fitting wife for any man-- + + SHAWN BRUIN + Be quiet, mother! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You are much too cross! + + MARIE BRUIN + What do I care if I have given this house, + Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue, + Into the power of faeries! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + You know well + How calling the good people by that name + Or talking of them over much at all + May bring all kinds of evil on the house. + + MARIE BRUIN + Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house! + Let me have all the freedom I have lost; + Work when I will and idle when I will! + Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, + For I would ride with you upon the wind, + Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, + And dance upon the mountains like a flame! + + FATHER HART + You cannot know the meaning of your words. + + MARIE BRUIN + Father, I am right weary of four tongues: + A tongue that is too crafty and too wise, + A tongue that is too godly and too grave, + A tongue that is more bitter than the tide, + And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love, + Of drowsy love and my captivity. + + (SHAWN BRUIN _comes over to her and leads her to the + settle._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + Do not blame me: I often lie awake + Thinking that all things trouble your bright head-- + How beautiful it is--such broad pale brows + Under a cloudy blossoming of hair! + Sit down beside me here--these are too old, + And have forgotten they were ever young. + + MARIE BRUIN + Oh, you are the great door-post of this house, + And I, the red nasturtium, climbing up. + + (_She takes_ SHAWN'S _hand, but looks shyly at the priest + and lets it go._) + + FATHER HART + Good daughter, take his hand--by love alone + God binds us to Himself and to the hearth + And shuts us from the waste beyond His peace, + From maddening freedom and bewildering light. + + SHAWN BRUIN + Would that the world were mine to give it you + With every quiet hearth and barren waste, + The maddening freedom of its woods and tides, + And the bewildering light upon its hills. + + MARIE BRUIN + Then I would take and break it in my hands + To see you smile watching it crumble away. + + SHAWN BRUIN + Then I would mould a world of fire and dew + With no one bitter, grave, or over wise, + And nothing marred or old to do you wrong, + And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky + With candles burning to your lonely face. + + MARIE BRUIN + Your looks are all the candles that I need. + + SHAWN BRUIN + Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun, + Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn, + Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew, + But now the indissoluble sacrament + Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold + With my warm heart forever; and sun and moon + Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll; + But your white spirit still walk by my spirit. + + (_A_ VOICE _sings in the distance._) + + MARIE BRUIN + Did you hear something call? Oh, guard me close, + Because I have said wicked things to-night; + And seen a pale-faced child with red-gold hair, + And longed to dance upon the winds with her. + + A VOICE (_close to the door_) + The wind blows out of the gates of the day, + The wind blows over the lonely of heart + And the lonely of heart is withered away, + While the faeries dance in a place apart, + Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, + Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; + For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing + Of a land where even the old are fair, + And even the wise are merry of tongue; + But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, + "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, + The lonely of heart is withered away!" + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + I am right happy, and would make all else + Be happy too. I hear a child outside, + And will go bring her in out of the cold. + + (_He opens the door. A_ CHILD _dressed in pale green and + with red-gold hair comes into the house._) + + THE CHILD + I tire of winds and waters and pale lights! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You are most welcome. It is cold out there; + Who would think to face such cold on a May Eve? + + THE CHILD + And when I tire of this warm little house + There is one here who must away, away, + To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams + Are holding a continual festival. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Oh, listen to her dreamy and strange talk. + Come to the fire. + + THE CHILD + I will sit upon your knee, + For I have run from where the winds are born, + And long to rest my feet a little while. + + (_She sits upon his knee._) + + BRIDGET BRUIN + How pretty you are! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Your hair is wet with dew! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I will warm your chilly feet. + + (_She takes the child's feet in her hands._) + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You must have come + A long, long way, for I have never seen + Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry; + Here is some bread and wine. + + THE CHILD + The wine is bitter. + Old mother, have you no sweet food for me? + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I have some honey! + + (_She goes into the next room._) + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + You are a dear child; + The mother was quite cross before you came. + + (BRIDGET _returns with the honey, and goes to the dresser + and fills a porringer with milk._) + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She is the child of gentle people; look + At her white hands and at her pretty dress. + I've brought you some new milk, but wait awhile, + And I will put it by the fire to warm, + For things well fitted for poor folk like us + Would never please a high-born child like you. + + THE CHILD + Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn + Brightens above while you blow up the fire; + And evening finds you spreading the white cloth. + The young may lie in bed and dream and hope, + But you work on because your heart is old. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The young are idle. + + THE CHILD + Old father, you are wise + And all the years have gathered in your heart + To whisper of the wonders that are gone. + The young must sigh through many a dream and hope, + But you are wise because your heart is old. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Oh, who would think to find so young a child + Loving old age and wisdom? + + (BRIDGET _gives her more bread and honey._) + + THE CHILD + No more, mother. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + What a small bite! The milk is ready now; + What a small sip! + + THE CHILD + Put on my shoes, old mother, + For I would like to dance now I have eaten. + The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake, + And I would like to dance until the reeds + And the white waves have danced themselves to sleep. + + BRIDGET + (_Having put on her shoes, she gets off the old man's knees + and is about to dance, but suddenly sees the crucifix + and shrieks and covers her eyes._) + What is that ugly thing on the black cross? + + FATHER HART + You cannot know how naughty your words are! + That is our Blessed Lord! + + THE CHILD + Hide it away! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + I have begun to be afraid, again! + + THE CHILD + Hide it away! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + That would be wickedness! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + That would be sacrilege! + + THE CHILD + The tortured thing! + Hide it away! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + Her parents are to blame. + + FATHER HART + That is the image of the Son of God. + + (THE CHILD _puts her arm around his neck and kisses him._) + + THE CHILD + Hide it away! Hide it away! + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + No! no! + + FATHER HART + Because you are so young and little a child + I will go take it down. + + THE CHILD + Hide it away, + And cover it out of sight and out of mind. + + (FATHER HART _takes it down and carries it towards the + inner room._) + + FATHER HART + Since you have come into this barony + I will instruct you in our blessed faith: + Being a clever child you will soon learn. + + (_To the others_) + + We must be tender with all budding things. + Our Maker let no thought of Calvary + Trouble the morning stars in their first song. + + (_Puts the crucifix in the inner room._) + + THE CHILD + Here is level ground for dancing. I will dance. + The wind is blowing on the waving reeds, + The wind is blowing on the heart of man. + + (_She dances, swaying about like the reeds._) + + MAIRE (_to_ SHAWN BRUIN) + Just now when she came near I thought I heard + Other small steps beating upon the floor, + And a faint music blowing in the wind, + Invisible pipes giving her feet the time. + + SHAWN BRUIN + I heard no step but hers. + + MARIE BRUIN + Look to the bolt! + Because the unholy powers are abroad. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN (_to_ THE CHILD) + Come over here, and if you promise me + Not to talk wickedly of holy things + I will give you something. + + THE CHILD + Bring it me, old father! + + (MAURTEEN BRUIN _goes into the next room._) + + FATHER HART + I will have queen cakes when you come to me! + + (MAURTEEN BRUIN _returns and lays a piece of money on + the table._ THE CHILD _makes a gesture of refusal._) + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + It will buy lots of toys; see how it glitters! + + THE CHILD + Come, tell me, do you love me? + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + I love you! + + THE CHILD + Ah! but you love this fireside! + + FATHER HART + I love you. + When the Almighty puts so great a share + Of His own ageless youth into a creature, + To look is but to love. + + THE CHILD + But you love Him above. + + BRIDGET BRUIN + She is blaspheming. + + THE CHILD (_to_ MAIRE) + And do you love me? + + MARIE BRUIN + I--I do not know. + + THE CHILD + You love that great tall fellow over there: + Yet I could make you ride upon the winds, + Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, + And dance upon the mountains like a flame! + + MARIE BRUIN + Queen of the Angels and kind Saints, defend us! + Some dreadful fate has fallen: a while ago + The wind cried out and took the primroses, + And she ran by me laughing in the wind, + And I gave milk and fire, and she came in + And made you hide the blessed crucifix. + + FATHER HART + You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle; + She knows no better. + + (_To_ THE CHILD) + + Child, how old are you? + + THE CHILD + When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin, + My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken + My mother carries me in her golden arms. + I will soon put on my womanhood and marry + The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell + When I was born for the first time? I think + I am much older than the eagle cock + That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill, + And he is the oldest thing under the moon. + + FATHER HART + She is of the faery people. + + THE CHILD + I am Brig's daughter. + I sent my messengers for milk and fire, + And then I heard one call to me and came. + + (_They all except_ SHAWN _and_ MAIRE BRUIN _gather + behind the priest for protection._) + + SHAWN (_rising_) + Though you have made all these obedient, + You have not charmed my sight, and won from me + A wish or gift to make you powerful; + I'll turn you from the house. + + FATHER HART + No, I will face her. + + THE CHILD + Because you took away the crucifix + I am so mighty that there's none can pass + Unless I will it, where my feet have danced + Or where I've twirled my finger tops. + + (SHAWN _tries to approach her and cannot._) + + MAURTEEN + Look, look! + There something stops him--look how he moves his hands + As though he rubbed them on a wall of glass. + + FATHER HART + I will confront this mighty spirit alone. + + (_They cling to him and hold him back._) + + THE CHILD (_while she strews primroses_) + No one whose heart is heavy with human tears + Can cross these little cressets of the wood. + + FATHER HART + Be not afraid, the Father is with us, + And all the nine angelic hierarchies, + The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents, + The adoring Magi in their coats of mail, + And He who died and rose on the third day, + And Mary with her seven times wounded heart. + + (THE CHILD _ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels + upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about + her neck._) + + Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints. + + THE CHILD + You shall go with me, newly married bride, + And gaze upon a merrier multitude; + White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the birds, + Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him + Who is the ruler of the Western Host, + Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire, + Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, + But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song. + I kiss you and the world begins to fade. + + FATHER HART + Daughter, I call you unto home and love! + + THE CHILD + Stay, and come with me, newly married bride, + For, if you hear him, you grow like the rest: + Bear children, cook, be mindful of the churn, + And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs, + And sit at last there, old and bitter of tongue, + Watching the white stars war upon your hopes. + + SHAWN + Awake out of that trance, and cover up + Your eyes and ears. + + FATHER HART + She must both look and listen, + For only the soul's choice can save her now. + Daughter, I point you out the way to heaven. + + THE CHILD + But I can lead you, newly married bride, + Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, + Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, + Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue, + And where kind tongues bring no captivity; + For we are only true to the far lights + We follow singing, over valley and hill. + + FATHER HART + By the dear name of the one crucified, + I bid you, Maire Bruin, come to me. + + THE CHILD + I keep you in the name of your own heart! + + (_She leaves the settle, and stooping takes up a mass + of primroses and kisses them._) + + We have great power to-night, dear golden folk, + For he took down and hid the crucifix. + And my invisible brethren fill the house; + I hear their footsteps going up and down. + Oh, they shall soon rule all the hearts of men + And own all lands; last night they merrily danced + About his chapel belfry! (_To_ MAIRE) Come away, + I hear my brethren bidding us away! + + FATHER HART + I will go fetch the crucifix again. + + (_They hang about him in terror and prevent him from + moving._) + + BRIDGET BRUIN + The enchanted flowers will kill us if you go. + + MAURTEEN BRUIN + They turn the flowers to little twisted flames. + + SHAWN BRUIN + The little twisted flames burn up the heart. + + THE CHILD + I hear them crying, "Newly married bride, + Come to the woods and waters and pale lights." + + MARIE BRUIN + I will go with you. + + FATHER HART + She is lost, alas! + + THE CHILD (_standing by the door_) + But clinging mortal hope must fall from you: + For we who ride the winds, run on the waves + And dance upon the mountains, are more light + Than dewdrops on the banners of the dawn. + + MARIE BRUIN + Oh, take me with you. + + (SHAWN BRUIN _goes over to her._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + Beloved, do not leave me! + Remember when I met you by the well + And took your hand in mine and spoke of love. + + MARIE BRUIN + Dear face! Dear voice! + + THE CHILD + Come, newly married bride! + + MARIE BRUIN + I always loved her world--and yet--and yet-- + + (_Sinks into his arms._) + + THE CHILD (_from the door_) + White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird. + + MARIE BRUIN + She calls to me! + + THE CHILD + Come with me, little bird! + + MARIE BRUIN + I can hear songs and dancing! + + SHAWN BRUIN + Stay with me! + + MARIE BRUIN + I think that I would stay--and yet--and yet-- + + THE CHILD + Come, little bird with crest of gold! + + MARIE BRUIN (_very softly_) + And yet-- + + THE CHILD + Come, little bird with silver feet! + + (MAIRE _dies, and the child goes._) + + SHAWN BRUIN + She is dead! + + BRIDGET BRUIN + Come from that image: body and soul are gone. + You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves + Or bole of an ash tree changed into her image. + + FATHER HART + Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey + Almost out of the very hand of God; + And day by day their power is more and more, + And men and women leave old paths, for pride + Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart. + + A VOICE (_singing outside_) + The wind blows out of the gates of the day, + The wind blows over the lonely of heart, + And the lonely of heart is withered away + While the faeries dance in a place apart, + Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, + Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; + For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing + Of a land where even the old are fair, + And even the wise are merry of tongue; + But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, + "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, + The lonely of heart is withered away." + + (_The song is taken up by many voices, who sing loudly, + as if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from + within the house._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +THE RIDING TO LITHEND[1] + +Gordon Bottomley + +[Footnote 1: This play is reprinted by permission of and by +arrangement with Constable and Company, Limited, London.] + +CHARACTERS + +GUNNAR HAMUNDSSON +HALLGERD LONGCOAT, his wife +RANNVEIG, his mother +ODDNY, ASTRID, and STEINVOR, Hallgerd's housewomen +ORMILD, a woman thrall +BIARTEY, JOFRID, and GUDFINN, beggar-women +GIZUR THE WHITE, MORD VALGARDSSON, THORGRIM THE + EASTERLING, THORBRAND THORLEIKSSON and ASBRAND + his brother, AUNUND, THORGEIB, and HROALD, + riders +MANY OTHER RIDERS AND VOICES OF RIDERS + +TIME: _Iceland, A.D. 990_ + +SCENE: _The hall of GUNNAR'S house at Lithend in South Iceland. +The portion shewn is set on the stage diagonally, so that to the +right one end is seen, while from the rear corner of this, one +side runs down almost to the left front._ + +_The side wall is low and wainscoted with carved panelling on +which hang weapons, shields, and coats of mail. In one place a +panel slid aside shews a shut bed._ + +_In front of the panelling are two long benches with a carved +high-seat between them. Across the end of the hall are similar +panellings and the seats, with corresponding tables, of the +women's dais; behind these and in the gable wall is a high narrow +door with a rounded top._ + +_A timber roof slopes down to the side wall and is upheld by +cross-beams and two rows of tall pillars which make a rather +narrow nave of the centre of the hall. One of these rows runs +parallel to the side wall, the pair of pillars before the +high-seat being carved and ended with images; of the other row +only two pillars are visible at the extreme right._ + +_Within this nave is the space for the hearths; but the only +hearth visible is the one near the women's dais. In the roof +above it there is a louvre: the fire glows and no smoke rises. +The hall is lit everywhere by the firelight._ + +_The rafters over the women's dais carry a floor at the level of +the side walls, forming an open loft which is reached by a wide +ladder fixed against the wall: a bed is seen in this loft. Low in +the roof at intervals are shuttered casements, one being above +the loft: all the shutters are closed. Near the fire a large +shaggy hound is sleeping; and ORMILD, in the undyed woollen dress +of a thrall, is combing wool._ + +ODDNY _stands spinning at the side; near her_ ASTRID _and_ STEINVOR +_sit stitching a robe which hangs between them._ + + + ASTRID + Night is a winter long: and evening falls. + Night, night and winter and the heavy snow + Burden our eyes, intrude upon our dreams, + And make of loneliness an earthly place. + + ORMILD + This bragging land of freedom that enthralls me + Is still the fastness of a secret king + Who treads the dark like snow, of old king Sleep. + He works with night, he has stolen death's tool frost + That makes the breaking wave forget to fall. + + ASTRID + Best mind thy comb-pot and forget our king + Before the Longcoat helps at thy awaking.... + I like not this forsaken quiet house. + The housemen out at harvest in the Isles + Never return. Perhaps they went but now, + Yet I am sore with fearing and expecting + Because they do not come. They will not come. + I like not this forsaken quiet house, + This late last harvest, and night creeping in. + + ODDNY + I like not dwelling in an outlaw's house. + Snow shall be heavier upon some eyes + Than you can tell of--ay, and unseen earth + Shall keep that snow from filling those poor eyes. + This void house is more void by brooding things + That do not happen, than by absent men. + Sometimes when I awaken in the night + My throbbing ears are mocking me with rumours + Of crackling beams, beams falling, and loud flames. + + ASTRID (_pointing to the weapons by the high-seat_) + The bill that Gunnar won in a far sea-fight + Sings inwardly when battle impends; as a harp + Replies to the wind, thus answers it to fierceness, + So tense its nature is and the spell of its welding; + Then trust ye well that while the bill is silent + No danger thickens, for Gunnar dies not singly. + + STEINVOR + But women are let forth free when men go burning? + + ODDNY + Fire is a hurrying thing, and fire by night + Can see its way better than men see theirs. + + ASTRID + The land will not be nobler or more holpen + If Gunnar burns and we go forth unsinged. + Why will he break the atonement that was set? + That wise old Njal who has the second sight + Foretold his death if he should slay twice over + In the same kin, or break the atonement set: + Yet has he done these things and will not care. + Kolskegg, who kept his back in famous fights, + Sailed long ago and far away from us + Because that doom is on him for the slayings; + Yet Gunnar bides although that doom is on him + And he is outlawed by defiance of doom. + + STEINVOR + Gunnar has seen his death: he is spoken for. + He would not sail because, when he rode down + Unto the ship, his horse stumbled and threw him, + His face toward the Lithe and his own fields. + Olaf the Peacock bade him be with him + In his new mighty house so carven and bright, + And leave this house to Rannveig and his sons: + He said that would be well, yet never goes. + Is he not thinking death would ride with him? + Did not Njal offer to send his sons, + Skarphedin ugly and brave and Hauskuld with him, + To hold this house with Gunnar, who refused them, + Saying he would not lead young men to death? + I tell you Gunnar is done.... His fetch is out. + + ODDNY + Nay, he's been topmost in so many fights + That he believes he shall fight on untouched. + + STEINVOR + He rides to motes and Things before his foes. + He has sent his sons harvesting in the Isles. + He takes deliberate heed of death--to meet it, + Like those whom Odin needs. He is fey, I tell you-- + And if we are past the foolish ardour of girls + For heroisms and profitless loftiness + We shall get gone when bedtime clears the house. + 'T is much to have to be a hero's wife, + And I shall wonder if Hallgerd cares about it: + Yet she may kindle to it ere my heart quickens. + I tell you, women, we have no duty here: + Let us get gone to-night while there is time, + And find new harbouring ere the laggard dawn, + For death is making narrowing passages + About this hushed and terrifying house. + + (RANNVEIG, _an old wimpled woman, enters as if from a door at the + unseen end of the hall._) + + ASTRID + He is so great and manly, our master Gunnar, + There are not many ready to meet his weapons: + And so there may not be much need of weapons. + He is so noble and clear, so swift and tender, + So much of Iceland's fame in foreign places, + That too many love him, too many honour him + To let him die, lest the most gleaming glory + Of our grey country should be there put out. + + RANNVEIG + Girl, girl, my son has many enemies + Who will not lose the joy of hurting him. + This little land is no more than a lair + That holds too many fiercenesses too straitly, + And no man will refuse the rapture of killing + When outlawry has made it cheap and righteous. + So long as anyone perceives he knows + A bare place for a weapon on my son + His hand shall twitch to fit a weapon in. + Indeed he shall lose nothing but his life + Because a woman is made so evil fair, + Wasteful and white and proud in harmful acts. + I lose two sons when Gunnar's eyes are still, + For then will Kolskegg never more turn home.... + If Gunnar would but sail, three years would pass; + Only three years of banishment said the doom-- + So few, so few, for I can last ten years + With this unshrunken body and steady heart. + + (_To_ ORMILD) + + Have I sat down in comfort by the fire + And waited to be told the thing I knew? + Have any men come home to the young women, + Thinking old women do not need to hear, + That you can play at being a bower-maid + In a long gown although no beasts are foddered? + Up, lass, and get thy coats about thy knees, + For we must cleanse the byre and heap the midden + Before the master knows--or he will go, + And there is peril for him in every darkness. + + ORMILD (_tucking up her skirts_) + Then are we out of peril in the darkness? + We should do better to nail up the doors + Each night and all night long and sleep through it, + Giving the cattle meat and straw by day. + + ODDNY + Ay, and the hungry cattle should sing us to sleep. + +(_The others laugh. ORMILD goes out to the left_; RANNVEIG _is +following her, but pauses at the sound of a voice._) + + HALLGERD (_beyond the door of the women's dais_) + Dead men have told me I was better than fair, + And for my face welcomed the danger of me: + Then am I spent? + + (_She enters angrily, looking backward through the doorway._) + + Must I shut fast my doors + And hide myself? Must I wear up the rags + Of mortal perished beauty and be old? + Or is there power left upon my mouth + Like colour, and lilting of ruin in my eyes? + Am I still rare enough to be your mate? + Then why must I shame at feasts and bear myself + In shy ungainly ways, made flushed and conscious + By squat numb gestures of my shapeless head-- + Ay, and its wagging shadow--clouted up, + Twice tangled with a bundle of hot hair, + Like a thick cot-quean's in the settling time? + There are few women in the Quarter now + Who do not wear a shapely fine-webbed coif + Stitched by dark Irish girls in Athcliath + With golden flies and pearls and glinting things: + Even my daughter lets her big locks show, + Show and half show, from a hood gentle and close + That spans her little head like her husband's hand. + + GUNNAR (_entering by the same door_) + I like you when you bear your head so high; + Lift but your heart as high, you could get crowned + And rule a kingdom of impossible things. + You would have moon and sun to shine together, + Snowflakes to knit for apples on bare boughs, + Yea, love to thrive upon the terms of hate. + If I had fared abroad I should have found + In many countries many marvels for you-- + Though not more comeliness in peopled Romeborg + And not more haughtiness in Mickligarth + Nor craftiness in all the isles of the world, + And only golden coifs in Athcliath: + Yet you were ardent that I should not sail, + And when I could not sail you laughed out loud + And kissed me home.... + + HALLGERD (_who has been biting her nails_) + And then ... and doubtless ... and strangely ... + And not more thriftiness in Bergthorsknoll + Where Njal saves old soft sackcloth for his wife. + Oh, I must sit with peasants and aged women, + And keep my head wrapped modestly and seemly. + + (_She turns to_ RANNVEIG.) + + I must be humble--as one who lives on others. + + (_She snatches off her wimple, slipping her gold circlet as she + does so, and loosens her hair._) + + Unless I may be hooded delicately + And use the adornment noble women use + I'll mock you with my flown young widowhood, + Letting my hair go loose past either cheek + In two bright clouds and drop beyond my bosom, + Turning the waving ends under my girdle + As young glad widows do, and as I did + Ere ever you saw me--ay, and when you found me + And met me as a king meets a queen + In the undying light of a summer night + With burning robes and glances--stirring the heart with scarlet. + + (_She tucks the long ends of her hair under her girdle._) + + RANNVEIG + You have cast the head-ring of the nobly nurtured, + Being eager for a bold uncovered head. + You are conversant with a widow's fancies.... + Ay, you are ready with your widowhood: + Two men have had you, chilled their bosoms with you, + And trusted that they held a precious thing-- + Yet your mean passionate wastefulness poured out + Their lives for joy of seeing something done with. + Cannot you wait this time? 'Twill not be long. + + HALLGERD + I am a hazardous desirable thing, + A warm unsounded peril, a flashing mischief, + A divine malice, a disquieting voice: + Thus I was shapen, and it is my pride + To nourish all the fires that mingled me. + I am not long moved, I do not mar my face, + Though men have sunk in me as in a quicksand. + Well, death is terrible. Was I not worth it? + Does not the light change on me as I breathe? + Could I not take the hearts of generations, + Walking among their dreams? Oh, I have might, + Although it drives me too and is not my own deed.... + And Gunnar is great, or he had died long since. + It is my joy that Gunnar stays with me: + Indeed the offence is theirs who hunted him, + His banishment is not just; his wrongs increase, + His honour and his following shall increase + If he is steadfast for his blamelessness. + + RANNVEIG + Law is not justice, but the sacrifice + Of singular virtues to the dull world's ease of mind; + It measures men by the most vicious men; + It is a bargaining with vanities, + Lest too much right should make men hate each other + And hasten the last battle of all the nations. + Gunnar should have kept the atonement set, + For then those men would turn to other quarrels. + + GUNNAR + I know not why it is I must be fighting, + For ever fighting, when the slaying of men + Is a more weary and aimless thing to me + Than most men think it ... and most women too. + There is a woman here who grieves she loves me, + And she too must be fighting me for ever + With her dim ravenous unsated mind.... + Ay, Hallgerd, there's that in her which desires + Men to fight on for ever because she lives: + When she took form she did it like a hunger + To nibble earth's lip away until the sea + Poured down the darkness. Why then should I sail + Upon a voyage that can end but here? + She means that I shall fight until I die: + Why must she be put off by whittled years, + When none can die until his time has come? + + (_He turns to the hound by the fire._) + + Samm, drowsy friend, dost scent a prey in dreams? + Shake off thy shag of sleep and get to thy watch: + 'Tis time to be our eyes till the next light. + Out, out to the yard, good Samm. + + (_He goes to the left, followed by the hound. In the meantime_ + HALLGERD _has seated herself in the high-seat near the sewing + women, turning herself away and tugging at a strand of her hair, + the end of which she bites._) + + RANNVEIG (_intercepting him_) + Nay, let me take him. + It is not safe--there may be men who hide.... + Hallgerd, look up; call Gunnar to you there: + + (HALLGERD _is motionless._) + Lad, she beckons. I say you shall not come. + + GUNNAR (_laughing_) + Fierce woman, teach me to be brave in age, + And let us see if it is safe for you. + + (_Leads_ RANNVEIG _out, his hand on her shoulder; the hound goes + with them._) + + STEINVOR + Mistress, my heart is big with mutinies + For your proud sake: does not your heart mount up? + He is an outlaw now and could not hold you + If you should choose to leave him. Is it not law? + Is it not law that you could loose this marriage-- + Nay, that he loosed it shamefully years ago + By a hard blow that bruised your innocent cheek, + Dishonouring you to lesser women and chiefs? + See, it burns up again at the stroke of thought. + Come, leave him, mistress; we will go with you. + There is no woman in the country now + Whose name can kindle men as yours can do-- + Ay, many would pile for you the silks he grudges; + And if you did withdraw your potent presence + Fire would not spare this house so reverently. + + HALLGERD + Am I a wandering flame that sears and passes? + We must bide here, good Steinvor, and be quiet. + Without a man a woman cannot rule, + Nor kill without a knife; and where's the man + That I shall put before this goodly Gunnar? + I will not be made less by a less man. + There is no man so great as my man Gunnar: + I have set men at him to show forth his might; + I have planned thefts and breakings of his word + When my pent heart grew sore with fermentation + Of malice too long undone, yet could not stir him. + Oh, I will make a battle of the Thing, + Where men vow holy peace, to magnify him. + Is it not rare to sit and wait o' nights, + Knowing that murderousness may even now + Be coming down outside like second darkness + Because my man is greater? + + STEINVOR (_shuddering_) + Is it not rare. + + HALLGERD + That blow upon the face + So long ago is best not spoken of. + I drave a thrall to steal and burn at Otkell's + Who would not sell to us in famine time + But denied Gunnar as if he were suppliant: + Then at our feast when men rode from the Thing + I spread the stolen food and Gunnar knew. + He smote me upon the face--indeed he smote me. + Oh, Gunnar smote me and had shame of me + And said he'd not partake with any thief; + Although I stole to injure his despiser.... + But if he had abandoned me as well + 'Tis I who should have been unmated now; + For many men would soon have judged me thief + And shut me from this land until I died-- + And then I should have lost him. Yet he smote me-- + + ASTRID + He kept you his--yea, and maybe saved you + From a debasement that could madden or kill, + For women thieves ere now have felt a knife + Severing ear or nose. And yet the feud + You sowed with Otkell's house shall murder Gunnar. + Otkell was slain: then Gunnar's enviers, + Who could not crush him under his own horse + At the big horse-fight, stirred up Otkell's son + To avenge his father; for should he be slain + Two in one stock would prove old Njal's foretelling, + And Gunnar's place be emptied either way + For those high helpless men who cannot fill it. + O mistress, you have hurt us all in this: + You have cut off your strength, you have maimed yourself, + You are losing power and worship and men's trust. + When Gunnar dies no other man dare take you. + + HALLGERD + You gather poison in your mouth for me. + A high-born woman may handle what she fancies + Without being ear-pruned like a pilfering beggar. + Look to your ears if you touch ought of mine: + Ay, you shall join the mumping sisterhood + And tramp and learn your difference from me. + + (_She turns from_ ASTRID.) + + Steinvor, I have remembered the great veil, + The woven cloud, the tissue of gold and garlands, + That Gunnar took from some outlandish ship + And thinks was made in Greekland or in Hind: + Fetch it from the ambry in the bower. + + (STEINVOR _goes out by the dais door._) + + ASTRID + Mistress, indeed you are a cherished woman. + That veil is worth a lifetime's weight of coifs: + I have heard a queen offered her daughter for it, + But Gunnar said it should come home and wait-- + And then gave it to you. The half of Iceland + Tells fabulous legends of a fabulous thing, + Yet never saw it: I know they never saw it, + For ere it reached the ambry I came on it + Tumbled in the loft with ragged kirtles. + + HALLGERD + What, are you there again? Let Gunnar alone. + + (STEINVOR _enters with the veil folded._ HALLGERD _takes + it with one hand and shakes it into a heap._) + + This is the cloth. He brought it out at night, + In the first hour that we were left together, + And begged of me to wear it at high feasts + And more outshine all women of my time: + He shaped it to my head with my gold circlet, + Saying my hair smouldered like Rhine-fire through, + He let it fall about my neck, and fall + About my shoulders, mingle with my skirts, + And billow in the draught along the floor. + + (_She rises and holds the veil behind her head._) + + I know I dazzled as if I entered in + And walked upon a windy sunset and drank it, + Yet must I stammer with such strange uncouthness + And tear it from me, tangling my arms in it. + Why should I so befool myself and seem + A laughable bundle in each woman's eyes, + Wearing such things as no one ever wore, + Useless ... no head-cloth ... too unlike my fellows. + Yet he turns miser for a tiny coif. + It would cut into many golden coifs + And dim some women in their Irish clouts-- + But no; I'll shape and stitch it into shifts, + Smirch it like linen, patch it with rags, to watch + His silent anger when he sees my answer. + Give me thy shears, girl Oddny. + + ODDNY + You'll not part it? + + HALLGERD + I'll shorten it. + + ODDNY + I have no shears with me. + + HALLGERD + No matter; I can start it with my teeth + And tear it down the folds. So. So. So. So. + Here's a fine shift for summer: and another. + I'll find my shears and chop out waists and neck-holes. + Ay, Gunnar, Gunnar! + + (_She throws the tissue on the ground, and goes out by + the dais door._) + + ODDNY (_lifting one of the pieces_) + O me! A wonder has vanished. + + STEINVOR + What is a wonder less? She has done finely, + Setting her worth above dead marvels and shows. + + (_The deep menacing baying of the hound is heard near + at hand. A woman's cry follows it._) + + They come, they come! Let us flee by the bower! + + (_Starting up, she stumbles in the tissue and sinks upon it. The + others rise._) + + You are leaving me--will you not wait for me-- + Take, take me with you. + + (_Mingled cries of women are heard._) + + GUNNAR (_outside_) + Samm, it is well: be still. + Women, be quiet; loose me; get from my feet, + Or I will have the hound to wipe me clear. + + STEINVOR (_recovering herself_) + Women are sent to spy. + + (_The sound of a door being opened is heard. GUNNAR enters from + the left, followed by three beggar-women, BIARTEY, JOFRID, and + GUDFINN. They hobble and limp, and are swathed in shapeless, + nameless rags which trail about their feet; BIARTEY'S left sleeve + is torn completely away, leaving her arm bare and mud-smeared; + the others' skirts are torn, and JOFRID'S gown at the neck; + GUDFINN wears a felt hood buttoned under her chin; the others' + faces are almost hid in falling tangles of grey hair. Their faces + are shriveled and weather-beaten, and BIARTEY'S mouth is + distorted by two front teeth that project like tusks._) + + GUNNAR + Get in to the light. + Yea, has he mouthed ye?... What men send ye here? + Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye seek? + I think no mother ever suckled you: + You must have dragged your roots up in waste places + One foot at once, or heaved a shoulder up-- + + BIARTEY (_interrupting him_) + Out of the bosoms of cairns and standing stones. + I am Biartey: she is Jofrid: she is Gudfinn: + We are lone women known to no man now. + We are not sent: we come. + + GUNNAR + Well, you come. + You appear by night, rising under my eyes + Like marshy breath or shadows on the wall; + Yet the hound scented you like any evil + That feels upon the night for a way out. + And do you, then, indeed wend alone? + Came you from the West or the sky-covering North + Yet saw no thin steel moving in the dark? + + BIARTEY + Not West, not North: we slept upon the East, + Arising in the East where no men dwell. + We have abided in the mountain places, + Chanted our woes among the black rocks crouching. + + (GUDFINN _joins her in a sing-song utterance._) + From the East, from the East we drove and the wind waved us, + Over the heaths, over the barren ashes. + We are old, our eyes are old, and the light hurts us, + We have skins on our eyes that part alone to the star-light. + We stumble about the night, the rocks tremble + Beneath our trembling feet; black sky thickens, + Breaks into clots, and lets the moon upon us. + + (JOFRID _joins her voice to the voices of the other two._) + Far from the men who fear us, men who stone us, + Hiding, hiding, flying whene'er they slumber, + High on the crags we pause, over the moon-gulfs; + Black clouds fall and leave us up in the moon-depths + Where wind flaps our hair and cloaks like fin-webs, + Ay, and our sleeves that toss with our arms and the cadence + Of quavering crying among the threatening echoes. + Then we spread our cloaks and leap down the rock-stairs, + Sweeping the heaths with our skirts, greying the dew-bloom, + Until we feel a pool on the wide dew stretches + Stilled by the moon or ruffling like breast-feathers, + And, with grey sleeves cheating the sleepy herons, + Squat among them, pillow us there and sleep. + But in the harder wastes we stand upright, + Like splintered rain-worn boulders set to the wind + In old confederacy, and rest and sleep. + + (HALLGERD'S _women are huddled together and clasping each other._) + + ODDNY + What can these women be who sleep like horses, + Standing up in the darkness? What will they do? + + GUNNAR + Ye wail like ravens and have no human thoughts. + What do ye seek? What will ye here with us? + + BIARTEY (_as all three cower suddenly_) + Succour upon this terrible journeying. + We have a message for a man in the West, + Sent by an old man sitting in the East. + We are spent, our feet are moving wounds, our bodies + Dream of themselves and seem to trail behind us + Because we went unfed down in the mountains. + Feed us and shelter us beneath your roof, + And put us over the Markfleet, over the channels. + We are weak old women: we are beseeching you. + + GUNNAR + You may bide here this night, but on the morrow + You shall go over, for tramping shameless women + Carry too many tales from stead to stead-- + And sometimes heavier gear than breath and lies. + These women will tell the mistress all I grant you; + Get to the fire until she shall return. + + BIARTEY + Thou art a merciful man and we shall thank thee. + + (GUNNAR _goes out again to the left. The old women approach the + young ones gradually._) + Little ones, do not doubt us. Could we hurt you? + Because we are ugly must we be bewitched? + + STEINVOR + Nay, but bewitch us. + + BIARTEY + Not in a litten house: + Not ere the hour when night turns on itself + And shakes the silence: not while ye wake together. + Sweet voice, tell us, was that verily Gunnar? + + STEINVOR + Arrh--do not touch me, unclean flyer-by-night: + Have ye birds' feet to match such bat-webbed fingers? + + BIARTEY + I am only a cowed curst woman who walks with death; + I will crouch here. Tell us, was it Gunnar? + + ODDNY + Yea, Gunnar surely. Is he not big enough + To fit the songs about him? + + BIARTEY + He is a man. + Why will his manhood urge him to be dead? + We walk about the whole old land at night, + We enter many dales and many halls: + And everywhere is talk of Gunnar's greatness, + His slayings and his fate outside the law. + The last ship has not gone: why will he tarry? + + ODDNY + He chose a ship, but men who rode with him + Say that his horse threw him upon the shore, + His face toward the Lithe and his own fields; + As he arose he trembled at what he gazed on + (_Although those men saw nothing pass or meet them_) + And said ... What said he, girls? + + ASTRID + "Fair is the Lithe: + I never thought it was so far, so fair. + Its corn is white, its meadows green after mowing. + I will ride home again and never leave it." + + ODDNY + 'Tis an unlikely tale: he never said it. + No one could mind such things in such an hour. + Plainly he saw his fetch come down the sands, + And knew he need not seek another country + And take that with him to walk upon the deck + In night and storm. + + GUDFINN + He, he, he! No man speaks thus. + + JOFRID + No man, no man: he must be doomed somewhere. + + BIARTEY + Doomed and fey, my sisters.... We are too old, + Yet I'd not marvel if we outlasted him. + Sisters, that is a fair fierce girl who spins.... + My fair fierce girl, you could fight--but can you ride? + Would you not shout to be riding in a storm? + Ah--h, girls learnt riding well when I was a girl, + And foam rides on the breakers as I was taught.... + My fair fierce girl, tell me your noble name. + + ODDNY + My name is Oddny. + + BIARTEY + Oddny, when you are old + Would you not be proud to be no man's purse-string, + But wild and wandering and friends with the earth? + Wander with us and learn to be old yet living. + We'd win fine food with you to beg for us. + + STEINVOR + Despised, cast out, unclean, and loose men's night-bird. + + ODDNY + When I am old I shall be some man's friend, + And hold him when the darkness comes.... + + BIARTEY + And mumble by the fire and blink.... + Good Oddny, let me spin for you awhile, + That Gunnar's house may profit by his guesting: + Come, trust me with your distaff.... + + ODDNY + Are there spells + Wrought on a distaff? + + STEINVOR + Only by the Norns, + And they'll not sit with human folk to-night. + + ODDNY + Then you may spin all night for what I care; + But let the yarn run clean from knots and snarls, + Or I shall have the blame when you are gone. + + BIARTEY (_taking the distaff_) + Trust well the aged knowledge of my hands; + Thin and thin do I spin, and the thread draws finer. + + (_She sings as she spins._) + + They go by three. + And the moon shivers; + The tired waves flee, + The hidden rivers + Also flee. + + I take three strands; + There is one for her, + One for my hands, + And one to stir + For another's hands. + + I twine them thinner, + The dead wool doubts; + The outer is inner, + The core slips out.... + + (HALLGERD _reenters by the dais door, holding a pair of shears._) + + HALLGERD + What are these women, Oddny? Who let them in? + + BIARTEY (_who spins through all that follows_) + Lady, the man of fame who is your man + Gave us his peace to-night, and that of his house. + We are blown beggars tramping about the land, + Denied a home for our evil and vagrant hearts; + We sought this shelter when the first dew soaked us, + And should have perished by the giant hound + But Gunnar fought it with his eyes and saved us. + That is a strange hound, with a man's mind in it. + + HALLGERD (_seating herself in the high-seat_) + It is an Irish hound, from that strange soil + Where men by day walk with unearthly eyes + And cross the veils of the air, and are not men + But fierce abstractions eating their own hearts + Impatiently and seeing too much to be joyful. + If Gunnar welcomed ye, ye may remain. + + BIARTEY + She is a fair free lady, is she not? + But that was to be looked for in a high one + Who counts among her fathers the bright Sigurd, + The bane of Fafnir the Worm, the end of the god-kings; + Among her mothers Brynhild, the lass of Odin, + The maddener of swords, the night-clouds' rider. + She has kept sweet that father's lore of bird-speech, + She wears that mother's power to cheat a god. + Sisters, she does well to be proud. + + JOFRID and GUDFINN + Ay, well. + + HALLGERD (_shaping the tissue with her shears_) + I need no witch to tell I am of rare seed, + Nor measure my pride nor praise it. Do I not know? + Old women, ye are welcomed: sit with us, + And while we stitch tell us what gossip runs-- + But if strife might be warmed by spreading it. + + BIARTEY + Lady, we are hungered; we were lost + All night among the mountains of the East; + Clouds of the cliffs come down my eyes again. + I pray you let some thrall bring us to food. + + HALLGERD + Ye get nought here. The supper is long over; + The women shall not let ye know the food-house, + Or ye'll be thieving in the night. Ye are idle, + Ye suck a man's house bare and seek another. + 'Tis bed-time; get to sleep--that stills much hunger. + + BIARTEY + Now it is easy to be seeing what spoils you. + You were not grasping or ought but over warm + When Sigmund, Gunnar's kinsman, guested here. + You followed him, you were too kind with him, + You lavished Gunnar's treasure and gear on him + To draw him on, and did not call that thieving. + Ay, Sigmund took your feuds on him and died + As Gunnar shall. Men have much harm by you. + + HALLGERD + Now have I gashed the golden cloth awry: + 'Tis ended--a ruin of clouts--the worth of the gift-- + Bridal dish-clouts--nay, a bundle of flame + I'll burn it to a breath of its old queen's ashes: + Fire, O fire, drink up. + + (_She throws the shreds of the veil on the glowing embers: they + waft to ashes with a brief high flare. She goes to_ JOFRID.) + + There's one of you + That holds her head in a bird's sideways fashion: + I know that reach o' the chin.--What's under thy hair?-- + + (_She fixes JOFRID with her knee, and lifts her hair._) + + Pfui,'tis not hair, but sopped and rotting moss-- + A thief, a thief indeed.--And twice a thief. + She has no ears. Keep thy hooked fingers still + While thou art here, for if I miss a mouthful + Thou shalt miss all thy nose. Get up, get up; + I'll lodge ye with the mares. + + JOFRID (_starting up_) + Three men, three men, + Three men have wived you, and for all you gave them + Paid with three blows upon a cheek once kissed-- + To every man a blow--and the last blow + All the land knows was won by thieving food.... + Yea, Gunnar is ended by the theft and the thief. + Is it not told that when you first grew tall, + A false rare girl, Hrut your own kinsman said, + "I know not whence thief's eyes entered our blood." + You have more ears, yet are you not my sister? + Our evil vagrant heart is deeper in you. + + HALLGERD (_snatching the distaff from_ BIARTEY) + Out and be gone, be gone. Lie with the mountains, + Smother among the thunder; stale dew mould you. + Outstrip the hound, or he shall so embrace you.... + + BIARTEY + Now is all done ... all done ... and all your deed. + She broke the thread, and it shall not join again. + Spindle, spindle, the coiling weft shall dwindle; + Leap on the fire and burn, for all is done. + + (_She casts the spindle upon the fire, and stretches her hands + toward it._) + + HALLGERD (_attacking them with the distaff_) + Into the night.... Dissolve.... + + BIARTEY (_as the three rush toward the door_) + Sisters, away: + Leave the woman to her smouldering beauty, + Leave the fire that's kinder than the woman, + Leave the roof-tree ere it falls. It falls. + + (GUDFINN _joins her. Each time_ HALLGERD _flags they turn as they + chant, and point at her._) + We shall cry no more in the high rock-places, + We are gone from the night, the winds and the clouds are empty: + Soon the man in the West shall receive our message. + + (JOFRID'S _voice joins the other voices._) + + Men reject us, yet their house is unstable. + The slayers' hands are warm--the sound of their riding + Reached us down the ages, ever approaching. + + HALLGERD (_at the same time, her voice high over theirs_) + Pack, ye rag-heaps--or I'll unravel you. + + THE THREE (_continuously_) + House that spurns us, woe shall come upon you: + Death shall hollow you. Now we curse the woman-- + May all the woes smite her till she can feel them. + Shall we not roost in her bower yet? Woe! Woe! + + (_The distaff breaks, and HALLGERD drives them out with her hands. + Their voices continue for a moment outside, dying away._) + + Call to the owl-friends.... Woe! Woe! Woe! + + ASTRID + Whence came these mounds of dread to haunt the night? + It doubles this disquiet to have them near us. + + ODDNY + They must be witches--and it was my distaff-- + Will fire eat through me.... + + STEINVOR + Or the Norns themselves. + + HALLGERD + Or bad old women used to govern by fear. + To bed, to bed--we are all up too late. + + STEINVOR (_as she turns with ASTRID and ODDNY to the dais_) + If beds are made for sleep we might sit long. + + (_They go out by the dais door._) + + GUNNAR (_as he enters hastily from the left_) + Where are those women? There's some secret in them: + I have heard such others crying down to them. + + HALLGERD + They turned foul-mouthed, they beckoned evil toward us-- + I drove them forth a breath ago. + + GUNNAR + Forth? Whence? + + HALLGERD + By the great door: they cried about the night. + + (RANNVEIG _follows_ GUNNAR _in._) + + GUNNAR + Nay, but I entered there and passed them not. + Mother, where are the women? + + RANNVEIG + I saw none come. + + GUNNAR + They have not come, they have gone. + + RANNVEIG + I crossed the yard, + Hearing a noise, but a big bird dropped past, + Beating my eyes; and then the yard was clear. + + (_The deep baying of the hound is heard again._) + + GUNNAR + They must be spies: yonder is news of them. + The wise hound knew them, and knew them again. + + (_The baying is succeeded by one mid howl._) + + Nay, nay! + Men treat thee sorely, Samm my fosterling: + Even by death thou warnest--but it is meant + That our two deaths will not be far apart. + + RANNVEIG + Think you that men are yonder? + + GUNNAR + Men are yonder. + + RANNVEIG + My son, my son, get on the rattling war-woof, + The old grey shift of Odin, the hide of steel. + Handle the snake with edges, the fang of the rings. + + GUNNAR (_going to the weapons by the high-seat_) + There are not enough moments to get under + That heavy fleece: an iron hat must serve. + + HALLGERD + O brave! O brave!--he'll dare them with no shield. + + GUNNAR (_lifting down the great bill_) + Let me but reach this haft, I shall get hold + Of steel enough to fence me all about. + + (_He shakes the bill above his head: a deep resonant humming + follows._ + + _The dais door is thrown open, and_ ODDNY, ASTRID, _and_ STEINVOR + _stream through in their night-clothes._) + + STEINVOR + The bill! + + ODDNY + The bill is singing! + + ASTRID + The bill sings! + + GUNNAR (_shaking the bill again_) + Ay, brain-biter, waken.... Awake and whisper + Out of the throat of dread thy one brief burden. + Blind art thou, and thy kiss will do no choosing: + Worn art thou to a hair's grey edge, a nothing + That slips through all it finds, seeking more nothing. + There is a time, brain-biter, a time that comes + When there shall be much quietness for thee: + Men will be still about thee. I shall know. + It is not yet: the wind shall hiss at thee first. + Ahui! Leap up, brain-biter; sing again. + Sing! Sing thy verse of anger and feel my hands. + + RANNVEIG + Stand thou, my Gunnar, in the porch to meet them, + And the great door shall keep thy back for thee. + + GUNNAR + I had a brother there. Brother, where are you.... + + HALLGERD + Nay, nay. Get thou, my Gunnar, to the loft, + Stand at the casement, watch them how they come. + Arrows maybe could drop on them from there. + + RANNVEIG + 'Tis good: the woman's cunning for once is faithful. + + GUNNAR (_turning again to the weapons_) + 'Tis good, for now I hear a foot that stumbles + Along the stable-roof against the hall. + My bow--where is my bow? Here with its arrows.... + Go in again, you women on the dais, + And listen at the casement of the bower + For men who cross the yard, and for their words. + + ASTRID + O Gunnar, we shall serve you. + + (ASTRID, ODDNY, _and_ STEINVOR _go out by the dais door._) + + RANNVEIG + Hallgerd, come; + We must shut fast the door, bar the great door, + Or they'll be in on us and murder him. + + HALLGERD + Not I: I'd rather set the door wide open + And watch my Gunnar kindling at the peril, + Keeping them back--shaming men for ever + Who could not enter at a gaping door. + + RANNVEIG + Bar the great door, I say, or I will bar it-- + Door of the house you rule.... Son, son, command it. + + GUNNAR (_as he ascends to the loft_) + O spendthrift fire, do you waft up again? + Hallgerd, what riot of ruinous chance will sate you?... + Let the door stand, my mother: it is her way. + + (_He looks out at the casement._) + Here's a red kirtle on the lower roof. + + (_He thrusts with the bill through the casement._) + + A MAN'S VOICE (_far off_) + Is Gunnar within? + + THORGRIM THE EASTERLING'S VOICE (_near the casement_) + Find that out for yourselves: + I am only sure his bill is yet within. + + (_A noise of falling is heard._) + + GUNNAR + The Easterling from Sandgil might be dying-- + He has gone down the roof, yet no feet helped him. + + (_A shouting of many men is heard: GUNNAR starts back from the + casement as several arrows fly in._) + + Now there are black flies biting before a storm. + I see men gathering beneath the cart-shed: + Gizur the White and Geir the priest are there, + And a lean whispering shape that should be Mord. + I have a sting for some one-- + + (_He looses an arrow: a distant cry follows._) + + Valgard's voice.... + A shaft of theirs is lying on the roof; + I'll send it back, for if it should take root + A hurt from their own spent and worthless weapon + Would put a scorn upon their tale for ever. + + (_He leans out for the arrow._) + + RANNVEIG + Do not, my son: rouse them not up again + When they are slackening in their attack. + + HALLGERD + Shoot, shoot it out, and I'll come up to mock them. + + GUNNAR (_loosing the arrow_) + Hoia! Swerve down upon them, little hawk. + + (_A shout follows._) + + Now they run all together round one man: + Now they murmur.... + + A VOICE + Close in, lift bows again: + He has no shafts, for this is one of ours. + + (_Arrows fly in at the casement._) + + GUNNAR + Wife, here is something in my arm at last: + The head is twisted--I must cut it clear. + + (STEINVOR _throws open the dais door and rushes through with a + high shriek._) + + STEINVOR + Woman, let us out--help us out-- + The burning comes--they are calling out for fire. + + (_She shrieks again. ODDNY and ASTRID, who have come behind her, + muffle her head in a kirtle and lift her._) + + ASTRID (_turning as they bear her out_) + Fire suffuses only her cloudy brain: + The flare she walks in is on the other side + Of her shot eyes. We heard a passionate voice, + A shrill unwomanish voice that must be Mord, + With "Let us burn him--burn him house and all." + And then a grave and trembling voice replied, + "Although my life hung on it, it shall not be." + Again the cunning fanatic voice went on + "I say the house must burn above his head." + And the unlifted voice, "Why wilt thou speak + Of what none wishes: it shall never be." + + (ASTRID _and_ ODDNY _disappear with_ STEINVOR.) + + GUNNAR + To fight with honest men is worth much friendship: + I'll strive with them again. + + (_He lifts his bow and loosens arrows at intervals while_ + HALLGERD _and_ RANNVEIG _speak._) + + HALLGERD (_in an undertone to_ RANNVEIG, _looking out meanwhile + to the left_) + Mother, come here-- + Come here and hearken. Is there not a foot, + A stealthy step, a fumbling on the latch + Of the great door? They come, they come, old mother: + Are you not blithe and thirsty, knowing they come + And cannot be held back? Watch and be secret, + To feel things pass that cannot be undone. + + RANNVEIG + It is the latch. Cry out, cry out for Gunnar, + And bring him from the loft. + + HALLGERD + Oh, never: + For then they'd swarm upon him from the roof. + Leave him up there and he can bay both armies, + While the whole dance goes merrily before us + And we can warm our hearts at such a flare. + + RANNVEIG (_turning both ways, while HALLGERD watches her gleefully_) + Gunnar, my son, my son! What shall I do? + + (ORMILD _enters from the left, white and with her hand to her + side, and walking as one sick._) + + HALLGERD + Bah--here's a bleached assault.... + + RANNVEIG + Oh, lonesome thing, + To be forgot and left in such a night. + What is there now--are terrors surging still? + + ORMILD + I know not what has gone: when the men came + I hid in the far cowhouse. I think I swooned.... + And then I followed the shadow. Who is dead? + + RANNVEIG + Go to the bower: the women will care for you. + + (ORMILD _totters up the hall from pillar to pillar._) + + ASTRID (_entering by the dais door_) + Now they have found the weather-ropes and lashed them + Over the carven ends of the beams outside: + They bear on them, they tighten them with levers, + And soon they'll tear the high roof off the hall. + + GUNNAR + Get back and bolt the women into the bower. + + (ASTRID _takes_ ORMILD, _who has just reached her, and goes out with + her by the dais door, which closes after them._) + + Hallgerd, go in: I shall be here thereafter. + + HALLGERD + I will not stir. Your mother had best go in. + + RANNVEIG + How shall I stir? + + VOICES (_outside and gathering volume_) + Ai.... Ai.... Reach harder.... Ai.... + + GUNNAR + Stand clear, stand clear--it moves. + + THE VOICES + It moves.... Ai, ai.... + + (_The whole roof slides down rumblingly, disappearing with a crash + behind the watt of the house. All is dark above. Fine snow sifts + down now and then to the end of the play._) + + GUNNAR (_handling his bow_) + The wind has changed: 'tis coming on to snow. + The harvesters will hurry in to-morrow. + + (THORBRAND THORLEIKSSON _appears above the wall-top a little past_ + GUNNAR, _and, reaching noiselessly with a sword, cuts_ GUNNAR'S + _bowstring._) + + GUNNAR (_dropping the bow and seizing his bill_) + Ay, Thorbrand, is it thou? That's a rare blade, + To shear through hemp and gut.... Let your wife have it + For snipping needle-yarn; or try it again. + + THORBRAND (_raising his sword_) + I must be getting back ere the snow thickens: + So here's my message to the end--or farther. + Gunnar, this night it is time to start your journey + And get you out of Iceland.... + + GUNNAR (_thrusting at THORBRAND with the bill_) + I think it is: + So you shall go before me in the dark. + Wait for me when you find a quiet shelter. + + (THORBRAND _sinks backward from the wall and is heard to fall + farther. Immediately_ ASBRAND THORLEIKSSON _starts up in his + place._) + + ASBRAND (_striking repeatedly with a sword_) + Oh, down, down, down! + + GUNNAR (_parrying the blows with the bill_) + Ay, Asbrand, thou as well? + Thy brother Thorbrand was up here but now: + He has gone back the other way, maybe-- + Be hasty, or you'll not come up with him. + + (_He thrusts with the bill_: ASBRAND _lifts a shield before the + blow._) + + Here's the first shield that I have seen to-night. + + (_The bill pierces the shield_: ASBRAND _disappears and is heard to + fall._ GUNNAR _turns from the casement._) + + Hallgerd, my harp that had but one long string, + But one low song, but one brief wingy flight, + Is voiceless, for my bowstring is cut off. + Sever two locks of hair for my sake now, + Spoil those bright coils of power, give me your hair, + And with my mother twist those locks together + Into a bowstring for me. Fierce small head, + Thy stinging tresses shall scourge men forth by me. + + HALLGERD + Does ought lie on it? + + GUNNAR + Nought but my life lies on it; + For they will never dare to close on me + If I can keep my bow bended and singing. + + HALLGERD (_tossing back her hair_) + Then now I call to your mind that bygone blow + You gave my face; and never a whit do I care + If you hold out a long time or a short. + + GUNNAR + Every man who has trod a warship's deck, + And borne a weapon of pride, has a proud heart + And asks not twice for any little thing. + Hallgerd, I'll ask no more from you, no more. + + RANNVEIG (_tearing off her wimple_) + She will not mar her honour of widowhood. + Oh, widows' manes are priceless.... Off, mean wimple-- + I am a finished widow, why do you hide me? + Son, son who knew my bosom before hers, + Look down and curse for an unreverend thing + An old bald woman who is no use at last. + These bleachy-threads, these tufts of death's first combing, + And loosening heartstrings twisted up together + Would not make half a bowstring. Son, forgive me.... + + GUNNAR + A grasping woman's gold upon her head + Is made for hoarding, like all other gold: + A spendthrift woman's gold upon her head + Is made for spending on herself. Let be-- + She goes her heart's way, and I go to earth. + + (AUNUND'S _head rises above the wall near_ GUNNAR.) + + What, are you there? + + AUNUND + Yea, Gunnar, we are here. + + GUNNAR (_thrusting with the bill_) + Then bide you there. + + (AUNUND'S _head sinks_; THORGEIR'S _rises in the same place._) + + How many heads have you? + + THORGEIR + But half as many as the feet we grow on. + + GUNNAR + And I've not yet used up (_thrusting again_) all my hands. + + (_As he thrusts another man rises a little farther back, and leaps + past him into the loft. Others follow, and GUNNAR is soon + surrounded by many armed men, so that only the rising and falling + of his bill is seen._) + + The threshing-floor is full.... Up, up, brain-biter! + We work too late to-night--up, open the husks. + Oh, smite and pulse + On their anvil heads: + The smithy is full, + There are shoes to be made + For the hoofs of the steeds + Of the Valkyr girls.... + + FIRST MAN + Hack through the shaft.... + + SECOND MAN + Receive the blade + In the breast of a shield, + And wrench it round.... + + GUNNAR + For the hoofs of the steeds + Of the Valkyr girls + Who race up the night + To be first at our feast, + First in the play + With immortal spears + In deadly holes.... + + THIRD MAN + Try at his back.... + + MANY VOICES (_shouting in confusion_) + Have him down.... Heels on the bill.... Ahui, ahui.... + + (_The bill does not rise._) + + HROALD (_with the breaking voice of a young man, high over all_) + Father.... It is my blow.... It is I who kill him. + + (_The crowd parts, suddenly silent, showing_ GUNNAR _fallen._ + RANNVEIG _covers her face with her hands._) + + HALLGERD (_laughing as she leans forward and holds her breasts in + her hands_) + O clear sweet laughter of my heart, flow out! + It is so mighty and beautiful and blithe + To watch a man dying--to hover and watch. + + RANNVEIG + Cease: are you not immortal in shame already? + + HALLGERD + Heroes, what deeds ye compass, what great deeds--- + One man has held ye from an open door: + Heroes, heroes, are ye undefeated? + + GIZUR (_an old white-bearded man, to the other riders_) + We have laid low to earth a mighty chief: + We have laboured harder than on greater deeds, + And maybe won remembrance by the deeds + Of Gunnar when no deed of ours should live; + For this defence of his shall outlast kingdoms + And gather him fame till there are no more men. + + MORD + Come down and splinter those old birds his gods + That perch upon the carven high-seat pillars, + Wreck every place his shadow fell upon, + Rive out his gear, drive off his forfeit beasts. + + SECOND MAN + It shall not be. + + MANY MEN + Never. + + GIZUR + We'll never do it: + Let no man lift a blade or finger a clout-- + Is not this Gunnar, Gunnar, whom we have slain? + Home, home, before the dawn shows all our deed. + + (_The riders go down quickly over the wall-top, and disappear._) + + HALLGERD + Now I shall close his nostrils and his eyes, + And thereby take his blood-feud into my hands. + + RANNVEIG + If you do stir I'll choke you with your hair. + I will not let your murderous mind be near him + When he no more can choose and does not know. + + HALLGERD + His wife I was, and yet he never judged me: + He did not set your motherhood between us. + Let me alone--I stand here for my sons. + + RANNVEIG + The wolf, the carrion bird, and the fair woman + Hurry upon a corpse, as if they think + That all is left for them the grey gods need not. + + (_She twines her hands in_ HALLGERD'S _hair and draws her down to + the floor._) + + Oh, I will comb your hair with bones and thumbs, + Array these locks in my right widow's way, + And deck you like the bed-mate of the dead. + Lie down upon the earth as Gunnar lies, + Or I can never match him in your looks + And whiten you and make your heart as cold. + + HALLGERD + Mother, what will you do? Unloose me now--- + Your eyes would not look so at me alone. + + RANNVEIG + Be still, my daughter.... + + HALLGERD + And then? + + RANNVEIG + Ah, do not fear-- + I see a peril nigh and all its blitheness. + Order your limbs--stretch out your length of beauty, + Let down your hands and close those deepening eyes, + Or you can never stiffen as you should. + A murdered man should have a murdered wife + When all his fate is treasured in her mouth. + This wifely hairpin will be sharp enough. + + HALLGERD (_starting up as RANNVEIG half loosens her to take a + hairpin from her own head_) + She is mad, mad.... Oh, the bower is barred-- + Hallgerd, come out, let mountains cover you. + + (_She rushes out to the left._) + + RANNVEIG (_following her_) + The night take you indeed.... + + GIZUR (_as he enters from the left_) + Ay, drive her out; + For no man's house was ever better by her. + + RANNVEIG + Is an old woman's life desired as well? + + GIZUR + We ask that you will grant us earth hereby + Of Gunnar's earth, for two men dead to-night + To lie beneath a cairn that we shall raise. + + RANNVEIG + Only for two? Take it: ask more of me. + I wish the measure were for all of you. + + GIZUR + Your words must be forgiven you, old mother, + For none has had a greater loss than yours. + Why would he set himself against us all.... + + (_He goes out._) + + RANNVEIG + Gunnar, my son, we are alone again. + + (_She goes up the hall, mounts to the loft, and stoops beside + him._) + + Oh, they have hurt you--but that is forgot. + Boy, it is bedtime; though I am too changed, + And cannot lift you up and lay you in, + You shall go warm to bed--I'll put you there. + There is no comfort in my breast to-night, + But close your eyes beneath my fingers' touch, + Slip your feet down, and let me smooth your hands: + Then sleep and sleep. Ay, all the world's asleep. + + (_She rises._) + + You had a rare toy when you were awake-- + I'll wipe it with my hair.... Nay, keep it so, + The colour on it now has gladdened you. + It shall lie near you. + + (_She raises the bill: the deep hum follows._) + + No; it remembers him, + And other men shall fall by it through Gunnar: + The bill, the bill is singing.... The bill sings! + + (_She kisses the weapon, then shakes it on high._) + + [CURTAIN] + + + + +QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION IN READING THE PLAYS + + +1. _The Forces in the Play._ + +What is the "passion"--that is, what exactly do these people +desire who "want their ain way"? What forces favor these desires, +and what oppose them--for instance, David Pirnie's determination +to tell wee Alexander a bit story, in _The Philosopher of +Butterbiggens_? Can you always put any one character altogether +on one side? Or does his own weakness or carelessness or +stupidity, for example, sometimes work against his getting what +he wants, so that he is, in part, _not_ on his own side, but +against it, as Brutus is in _Julius Caesar_? Are there other +forces in the play besides the people--storm or accident or fate? +With what side or what character are you in sympathy? Is this +constant throughout the play, or do you feel a change at some +point in it? Does the author sympathize with any special +character? Does he have a prejudice against any one of them? For +example, in _Campbell of Kilmhor_, where is your sympathy? Where +is the author's, apparently? + + +2. _The Beginning and the End._ + +What events important to this play occurred before the curtain +rises? Why does the author begin just here, and not earlier or +later? How does he contrive to let you know these important +things without coming before the curtain to announce them +himself, or having two servants dusting the furniture and telling +them to each other? + +What happens _after_ the curtain falls? Can you go on picturing +these events? Are any of them important to the story--for +instance, in _The Beggar and the King_? Why did the author stop +before telling us these things? + +Does the ending satisfy you? Even if you do not find it happy and +enjoyable, does it seem the natural and perhaps the inevitable +result of the forces at work--in _Riders to the Sea_ and +_Campbell of Kilmhor_, for instance? Or has the author interfered +to make characters do what they would not naturally do, or used +chance and coincidence, like the accidentally discovered will or +the long-lost relative in melodramas, to bring about a result he +prefers--a "happy ending," or a clap-trap surprise, or a supposed +proof of some theory about politics or morals? + +Does the interest mount steadily from beginning to end, or does +it droop and fail somewhere? You may find it interesting to try +drawing the diagram of interest for a play, as suggested in +chapter X of Dr. Brander Matthews's _Study of the Drama_, and +accounting for the drop in interest, if you find any. + + +3. _The Playwright's Purpose._ + +What was the author trying to do in writing the play? It may have +been:-- + +Merely to tell a good story To paint a picture of life in the +Arran Islands or in old France or in a modern industrial town To +show us character and its development, as in novels like +Thackeray's and Eliot's (Of course, brief plays like these cannot +show development of character, but only critical points in such +development--the result of forces perhaps long at work, or the +awakening of new ideas and other determinants of character.) To +portray a social situation, such as the relation between workmen +and employers, or between men and women To show the inevitable +effects of action and motive, as of the determined loyalty of +Dugald Stewart and his mother, or the battle of fisher-folk or +weavers with grinding poverty. + +Of course, no play will probably do any one of these things +exclusively, but usually each is concerned most with some one +purpose. + +What effect has the play on you? Even if its tragedy is painful +or its account of human character makes you uncomfortable, is it +good for you to realize these things, or merely uselessly +unpleasant? Is the play stupidly and falsely cheering because it +presents untrue "happy endings" or other distortions of things as +they are? Do you think the play has merely temporary, or genuine +and permanent, appeal? + + + + +NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS + + +_Harold Chapin_: THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS + +Harold Chapin, as we learn from _Soldier and Dramatist_ (Lane, +1917), was an American both by ancestry and nativity. But he +lived the greater part of his life in England, and died for +England at Loos in April, 1915. His activity was always +associated with the stage. When he was but seven years old he +played the little Marcius to his mother's Volumnia at the +Shakespeare Festival, at Stratford-on-Avon in 1893. In 1911 he +produced Mr. Harold Brighouse's _Lonesome-Like_ and several of +his own short plays at the Glasgow Repertory Theatre. For several +years before the war he was Mr. Granville Barker's stage manager, +and helped him to produce the beautiful Shakespearean plays at +the Savoy Theatre in London. + +Of Chapin's own dramas, _The New Morality_ and _Art and +Opportunity_ have been given recently in New York and in London, +and several of the one-act plays at a memorial performance in +London in 1916, in matinee at the Punch and Judy Theatre, and +before the Drama League in New York in March and April, 1921. Of +the shorter plays, mentioned in the bibliographies following +these notes, _It's the Poor that 'elps the Poor, The Dumb and +the Blind, and The Philosopher of Butterbiggens_ have been +given the highest praise by such critics as Mr. William Archer, +who wrote, "No English-speaking man of more unquestionable genius +has been lost to the world in this world-frenzy." These true and +honest dramas represent the English Repertory theatres at their +best in this brief form, and give promise of the great and +permanently interesting "human comedy" which Chapin might have +completed had his life not been sacrificed. In spite of the +simplicity and lightness of the little play here given, there is +more shrewd philosophy in old David Pirnie, and more real +humanity in his family, than is to be found portrayed in many +pretentious social dramas and difficult psychological novels. It +is admirable on the stage, as was shown by the Provincetown +Players last winter. In the memorial performance for Harold +Chapin in London, the author's little son appeared in the part of +wee Alexander. + +"Butterbiggens," Mrs. Alice Chapin, the dramatist's mother, +replied to an inquiry as to "what Butterbiggens is or are," "is, +are, and always will be a suburb of Glasgow." + +There is little difficulty with the modified Scots dialect in +this play if one remembers that _ae_ generally takes the place of +such sounds as _e_ in _tea_, _o_ in _so_, _a_ in _have_, and so +on, and that _a'_ means _all_. A _wean_ is a small _bairn_, +_yinst_ is _once_, _ava_ is _at all_, and _thrang_ is "thick" or +intimate. + +_Distempered_ means calcimined, or painted in water-dissolved +color on the plaster. + + +_Lady Gregory_: SPREADING THE NEWS + +In her notes on the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, which she was most +influential in building up, Lady Augusta Gregory says that it was +the desire of the players and writers who worked there to +establish an Irish drama which should have a "firm base in +reality and an apex of beauty." This phrase, which admirably +expresses the best in the play-making going on to-day, finds most +adequate illustration in the work of Synge, of Yeats, and of Lady +Gregory herself. The basis in reality of such jolly and robust +comedies as her _Seven Irish Plays_ and _New Irish Comedies_ is +clearly discernible. They are in the tradition of the best early +English comedy, from the miracle plays onward; of Hans Sachs's +_Shrovetide Plays_, and of Moliere's dramatizations of medieaval +_fabliaux_, as in _The Physician in Spite of Himself_. Lady +Gregory describes in her notes on _Spreading the News_ how the +play grew out of an idea of picturing tragic consequences from +idle rumor and defamation of character. It is certainly not to be +regretted that she allowed "laughter to have its way with the +little play," and gave Bartley Fallon a share of glory from the +woeful day to illuminate dull, older years. + +The inhabitants of this same village of Cloon appear as old +friends in other of Lady Gregory's plays, with, as usual, nothing +to do but mind one another's business. In _The Jackdaw_ another +absurd rumor is fanned into full blaze by greed; upon _Hyacinth +Halvey_ works the potent and embarrassing influence of too good a +reputation. Still other plays attain a notable height of +beauty--notably _The Rising of the Moon_ and _The Traveling Man_. +_The Gaol Gate_ tells a story similar to that of _Campbell of +Kilmhor_, with genuinely tragic effect. She has written, besides, +two volumes of Irish folk-history, _Gods and Fighting Men_ and +_Cuchulain of Muirthemne_, which Mr. Yeats calls masterpieces of +prose which one "can weigh with Malory and feel no discontent at +the tally."[1] A writer who has produced such range and beauty of +works, from very human, characteristic comedy and farce to fine, +poignant tragedy, besides writing excellent stories and +contributing largely to an important experimental theatre, is +secure of her share of fame. + +The "Removable Magistrate" is apparently one appointed by British +officialdom; this one, having just come from the Bay of Bengal, +is going to fit upon the natives of Cloon methods which may have +worked in a rather different district. + +The song "with a skin on it," which Bartley sings, is given in +Lady Gregory's _Seven Short Plays_ (Putnam, 1909). + +[Footnote 1: Appendix to _The Poetical Works of William B. +Yeats_, volume II, (Macmillan, 1912).] + + +_Winthrop Parkhurst_: THE BEGGAR AND THE KING + +_The Beggar and the King_ looks at first like a pleasant +absurdity; it is in reality valuable as a short history of the +ostrich method of dealing with realities. The beggar, of course, +continues to cry aloud after his tongue, and even his head, have +been removed, because there are so many millions of him. Again +and again, in the course of history, he has gathered desperate +courage to defy authority that is blind and evil. Always at last, +as in the French and the Russian revolutions and in the more +recent European revolts, he succeeds in wresting the power from +those in autocratic authority. And yet, just as of old, not only +kings, but all others who attempt dictatorship and the playing of +providence, try the simple tactics of the ostrich; they close the +window, or their eyes and ears, as a sufficient answer to +rebellion. Appreciating the futility of these methods, we have no +difficulty in continuing the drama ourselves beyond the fall of +the curtain. + +Mr. Winthrop Parkhurst, by birth a New Yorker, according to a +family tradition is a descendant on his mother's side of John +Huss, the Bohemian reformer and martyr, and on his father's of +the executioner of Charles I of England. His writings include +_Maracca_, a Biblical one-act play, and several short satirical +sketches. + + +_George Middleton_: TIDES + +Mr. George Middleton generally pictures in his dramas problems +which are not easy to solve. And he does not try to give +ready-made solutions. He merely shows us how various people have +tried to work these problems; and his dramas are like real life +because the attempts at solutions fail as often as they succeed. +Certain of the problems Mr. Middleton presents are such as +high-school students meet and can well consider; several of these +plays appear in the lists following. _Tides_ is about a man who +has supported an unpopular theory. Nothing is said about whether +his ideal is right or wrong, but it is clear that he has held to +it in perfect sincerity of belief and has been quite unmoved by +the bitterest persecution. But when he is offered honor and +flattering respect, though he does not really change his belief +and adherence, he compromises and partially surrenders his ideal. +The fable is similar to that of Ibsen's _The League of Youth_, +but the telling here is straighter and clearer. William White's +self-deception is made evident to him and to us by his honest and +courageous wife, who tells him frankly of it. "Haven't you +sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to another means: a +failure within oneself?" she comments wisely. An effective +contrast is furnished by the son, who has altogether and honestly +abandoned his father's theories in the face of new realities as +he sees them. + + +_Eugene O'Neill_: ILE + +Eugene O'Neill, American seaman, laborer, newspaperman, and +dramatist, has been associated for several years with the +Provincetown Players. This group, including Mrs. Glaspell and +other playwrights of importance, gather in Provincetown, on Cape +Cod, during the summer, and in winter present significant foreign +and native plays in a converted stable on Macdougall Street in +New York, where may be seen the ring to which Pegasus was once +tethered! In 1919 Mr. O'Neill received the Pulitzer Prize for the +most important American play of the year. + +Mr. O'Neill has had experience of the sea, like the great +Englishmen, Mr. Masefield and Mr. Joseph Conrad. He knows the +interminable whaling voyages, as described in Melville's _Moby_ +_Dick_ and the first chapter of _Typee_--best of all in Bullen's +_Cruise of the Cachalot_. Out of this experience of hard life and +harder men he has written many poignant and terrible dramas--perhaps +the greatest this story of the skipper's wife who insisted on +making the voyage with her husband and is worn to the edge of +insanity by months of ice-bound solitude. The motive of Captain +Keeney is like that which caused Skipper Ireson to leave his +fellow townsmen to sink in Chaleur Bay. Against his iron +determination his wife's piteous pleading and evident suffering +are more potent than the mutinying hands; whether she can avail +to turn him home "with a measly four hundred barrel of ile" is +the problem of the play. + + +_J.A. Ferguson_: CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR + +This tragic story of the war and hatred in Scotland belongs in +the series of attempts made by Charles Edward Stuart and his +father to regain the throne lost by James II in 1688. "The Young +Pretender's" vigorous campaign in 1745, carried far into England, +might easily have succeeded but for the quarrels and disaffection +of the Highland chiefs who supported him. His failure was +completed at the bloody battle of Culloden, or Drumossie Moor, in +1746, celebrated in Scottish story and song of lamentation. +Scott's hero Waverley went into the highland country shortly +after these uprisings, and David Balfour, in _Kidnapped_, had +numerous adventures in crossing it with Allan Breck Stewart, who +was in the service of his kinsmen, the exiled Stuarts. The hatred +of Campbells and Stuarts, of Lowlander and Highlander, Loyalist +and Jacobite, is intense throughout the record of those days. + +The young Scot and his stanch and proudly tearless mother are, of +course, the heroic characters in the play. We have a hint that +Charles Edward Stuart himself is with the band whom the young man +protects so loyally. It may seem strange that the drama is named, +not for him, but for the crafty and pitiless executioner of the +king's justice. But he is after all the most interesting +character in the piece, with his Biblical references in broad +Lowland Scots (we may suppose that the Stewarts speak Gaelic +among themselves), his superstition, his remorseless cruelty. We +should like to see how he takes the discovery that, perhaps for +the first time, he has been baffled in his career of unscrupulous +and bloody deeds! + +This play represents the most successful work of the Glasgow +Repertory Theatre in 1914. The author has written no others which +have been published, though he is credited with a good story or +two. It may be hoped that he will write other dramas as excellent +as this one. He has put into very brief and effective form here +the spirit and idea of a most intense period of merciless +conflict. + +A _kebbuck_ is a cheese; _keek_ means peek; _toom_, empty; a +_besom_, a broom; and _soop_, sweep. + + +_John Galsworthy_: THE SUN + +According to Professor Lewisohn and other critics Mr. Galsworthy +is without question the foremost English dramatist to-day. +Without arguing or attempting to offer solutions, he gives the +most searching presentation of problems which we have to face and +somehow settle. In _Strife_, after a furious contest and bitter +hardships, the strike is settled by a compromise which the +leaders of both sides count as failure. Things are much as they +were at the start; the difficulty is no nearer solution. In +_Justice_, "society stamps out a human life not without its fair +possibilities--for eighty-one pounds," because obviously clear +and guilty infraction of law cannot go unavenged. Justice is not +condemned by the facts shown in this play, nor is its working +extolled. In _The Mob_, the patrioteering element destroys a man +who proclaims the injustice of a small and greedy war of +conquest. In _The Pigeon_, brilliant debate is held, but no +conclusion reached, as to what we should do with derelict and +wasted lives, with men who do not fit into the scheme of success +and society. + +In his sketches and stories Mr. Galsworthy presents these same +problems, and again without attempted conclusions. _The +Freelands_ particularly is a most dramatic novel of conditions +and results similar to those in some of the dramas mentioned +above. Many of his sketches and essays also--for example, "My +Distant Relative" in _The Inn of Tranquillity_ and "Comfort" in +_A Commentary_--are of biting and almost cynical irony in viewing +proposed and present solutions of problems; but none suggest +panaceas. They merely make us think soberly of the size of our +problems and their immense complexity, move us to go out to look +for more information and to examine carefully our most solid +institutions as well as suggested alterations in them. + +A large part of Mr. Galsworthy's time and thought, both during +the war and since, has been given to the problem of some measure +of justice to soldiers, and particularly to wounded and broken +soldiers. In _A Sheaf_ and _Another Sheaf_ appear various papers +presenting sharply the conditions of suffering and neglect that +actually exist. _The Sun_ is a brief sketch of after-war +days,--this time of a wounded man who has gained an advantage +over one who escaped injury,--and of joy in deliverance from the +hell of war--a joy so profound and luminous that the released +soldier cannot let a sharp mischance and disappointment mar his +happiness. The whole piece is in the key of Captain Bassoon's +verses after the Armistice:-- + + "Every one suddenly burst out singing." + +The other two think the happy soldier mad. We are left wondering +what the reaction will be from this height of joyful release to +the harsh and sombre conditions of workingmen's life after the +peace. + +The _silver badge_ represents a discharge for wounds. _Crumps_ +are, of course, shells. + + +_Louise Sounders_: THE KNAVE OF HEARTS + +_The Knave of Hearts_ is one of the happy tradition of +puppet-plays, which come down in unbroken line from the most +ancient history, through the illustrious Dr. Faustus and Mr. +Punch, to new and even greater favor and fame to-day. For just as +the ancient puppet-shows of Italy and England seemed to be losing +ground before the moving-picture invasion, they have been +heroically rescued by Mr. Tony Sarg,--whose performance of +Thackeray's _The Rose and the Ring_ is perfectly absurd and +captivating,--and by other excellent artists. + +Puppet-shows are delightful because they are easily made and +quite convincing. Very good ones have been improvised even by +tiny children, with a pasteboard suit-box opening to the front, a +slit at the top to let down paper-doll actors on a thread, a bit +of scenery, outdoors or in, drawn as background, and a showman to +talk for all the characters. Still better puppets are doll heads +and arms of various sorts, dressed in flowing robes and provided +with holes for two fingers and a thumb of the operator, who moves +them from below. They can be made to dance and antic as you like +on a stage above the showman's head, as Punch and Judy have +always done. The more elaborate marionettes are worked with +strings from above, so that they can open and close their mouths +and otherwise act most realistically; these are, of course, more +difficult, but quite possible to make. In such simple theatres, +Goethe and Robert Louis Stevenson and many other famous people +played themselves endless stories. If you want to pursue this +idea further, a list of references below gives you opportunity +for all the information you like about marionettes and puppets. + +_The Knave of Hearts_ is charming, either as a puppet-play or, as +a class in junior high school gave it recently, a "legitimate +drama." The remarks of the manager are all the funnier when +applied to real characters. The play explains clearly the reasons +for the strange behavior of a respectable nursery character. It +is to be published soon in a book of its own with illustrations +by Mr. Maxfield Parrish (Scribner's). The author has written +other plays and stories, some of which you may have seen in _St. +Nicholas_, and also a pleasant operetta, with music by Alice +Terhune--_The Woodland_ _Princess_, listed in the bibliography +following. She is also an actress with the New York Comedy Club, +an excellent amateur organization. + +Pompdebile's coat of arms, with a heart rampant (i.e., standing +on its hind legs, however that may be accomplished), reminds one +of the arms suggested for the old clergyman-scholar, Mr. +Casaubon, in George Eliot's _Middlemarch_--"three cuttlefish +sable and a commentator rampant." + + +_Lord Dunsany_: FAME AND THE POET + +Lord Dunsany (Edward Moreton Max Plunkett), the eighteenth baron +of his name, is the author of a number of stories and plays unique +in their type of clever imaginativeness. Besides the inimitable +Five Plays and other dramas listed in the bibliography, his best +writings are to be found in _Fifty-One Tales_, which includes "The +Hen," "Death and Odysseus," "The True Story of the Hare and the +Tortoise," and other highly entertaining matters. _Fame and the +Poet_, originally published in the _Atlantic_, has been recently +produced with good effect by the Harvard Dramatic Club. Fame's +startling revelation to her faithful worshiper of her real nature +and attributes is naturally most distressing--even more so, +perhaps, than the rendezvous which this same goddess appointed +another poet, in the _Fifty-One Tales_: "In the cemetery back of +the workhouse, after a hundred years." + +Lord Dunsany was a captain in the First Royal Iniskilling +Fusileers--a regiment mentioned in Sheridan's _Saint Patrick's +Day_--and saw service in Syria and the Near East as well as on +the western front. He was wounded on April 25, 1916, in Flanders. +Since the war he has visited the United States and seen a +performance of his _Tents of the Arabs_ at the Neighborhood +Playhouse, New York City. + + +_Beulah Marie Dix_: THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE + +Miss Dix is author of several plays--in addition to those from +_Allison's Lad_ included in the play-list, of _Across the +Border_, and, with the late Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland, of the +frequently acted _Rose of Plymouth Town_. She has also written +several favorite historical stories, including _Merrylips. The +Captain of the Gate_ is a tragedy of Cromwell's ruthless +devastation of Ireland. The determined and heroic captain +surrenders, to face an ignominious death, to keep his word and +ensure delaying the advance of the enemy upon an unprepared +countryside, and his courage inspires exhausted and failing men +to like heroism. This is an effective piece of dramatic +presentation. + + +_Percy Mackaye_: GETTYSBURG + +Mr. Percy Mackaye has been most active in the movement for a +community theatre in the United States and for the revival of +pageantry. He contends rightly that this development might be one +of the strongest possible influences for true Americanism, and +his dramatic work has all been directed toward such a theatre. +Most notable are his pageants and masques, particularly _Caliban +by the Yellow Sands_, for the Shakespeare Tercentenary; his play +_The Scarecrow_, a lively dramatization of Hawthorne's +_Feathertop_; his opera _Rip van Winkle_, for which Reginald De +Koven composed music; and _The Canterbury Pilgrims_, in which the +Wife of Bath is the heroine of further robustious adventures. Mr. +Mackaye is also translator, with Professor Tablock, of the +_Modern Reader's Chaucer_. The little sketch presented here is +taken from a volume of _Yankee Fantasies_, in which various +observations of past and present New England life are recorded. +Stephen Crane's _The Red Badge of Courage_, a powerful story of +the Civil War, is a most excellent help to realizing what the boy +Lige really endured in those days of battle. + +Mr. Mackaye has adopted here a regularly rhythmic verse without +the conventional capital letters at the beginnings of lines +--perhaps to typify the simple homeliness of the talk. + + +_Harold Brighouse_: LONESOME-LIKE + +Mr. Brighouse has been best represented in this country by an +excellent comedy, _Hobson's Choice_, which was widely played and +was printed in the Drama League series of plays (1906). His other +best-known work here is the present play, and _The Price of Coal_ +(1909), a picturing of the hard life of miners' wives and their +Spartan firmness in expectation of fatal accidents. He has +produced and published a number of other plays, among them those +listed in the bibliography. Mr. Brighouse represents in this +volume the work of the English Repertory theatres, which parallel +the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, the Glasgow Repertory Theatre, and +various European stage-societies. That at Manchester, with which +he has been associated, is directed by Miss Isabel Horniman, has +seen beautiful stage-settings designed by Mr. Robert Burne-Jones, +and counts among its dramatists such well-known men as Messrs. +Allan Monkhouse, author of _Mary Broome_, a sombre and powerful +tragedy; Stanley Houghton, and Gilbert Cannan. The Liverpool +Theatre has become even more famous through the dramatic work of +Mr. John Drinkwater. The Little Theatre movement in this country, +our Drama League, and the various dramatic societies in our +colleges and cities are our nearest parallel to these repertory +theatres. + +_Lonesome-Like_, Mr. Brighouse's most effective short play, is +written in a modified Lancashire dialect, the speech of the +village weavers and spinners. Many of the words are English of +Elizabethan days and earlier, derived mostly from Anglo-Saxon. + +_Gradely_ (graithly) means willingly, meekly or decently; _clem_ +means starve; _sithee_ is see you or look you; _clogs_ are shoes +with wooden soles and leather uppers, and _dungarees_, garments +of coarse cotton cloth rather like overalls. _A_ is used +throughout for _I_. + +As in many English stories, an extreme and painful dread of the +_workus_, or poorhouse, provides a strong motive force. + + +_John Millington Synge_: RIDERS TO THE SEA + +The work of the Irish Renaissance in the Abbey Theatre in Dublin +reached its most powerful and tragic height in this tragedy, +which Mr. Yeats compared to the Antigone and (Edipus of +Sophocles). Synge at first wandered about Europe, poetizing; it +was Yeats who brought him back to study and embody in genuine +literature the poetry of life among his own people. On the bleak +Arran Islands he lived in a fisherman's cottage, and through the +floor of his room heard the dialect which he presents in simple +and poignant beauty in this drama of hopeless struggle. The +"second sight"--called "the gift" in _Campbell of Kilmhor_, and +an incident also in _The Riding to Lithend_--was a sort of +prophetic vision altogether credited among Celtic peoples, as +among those of Scott's _Lady of the Lake_. When the mother sees +the "riders to the sea,"--her drowned son and her living son +riding together,--she feels convinced that he must soon die. The +sharp cries of her grief and, above all, the peace of her +resignation at the end, after all hope is gone, make this, as a +writer in the _Manchester Guardian_ is quoted as calling it, "the +tragic masterpiece of our language in our time; wherever it has +been in Europe, from Galway to Prague, it has made the word +tragedy mean something more profoundly stirring and cleansing to +the spirit than it did." + +The speech of the people is not difficult to understand when you +master a few of its peculiarities. One is the omission of words +we generally include, as in, "Isn't it a hard and cruel man (who) +won't hear...." Another is the common form "It was crying I was." +A few phrases, like _what way_ for how, _the way_ for so that, +_in it_ for here or near, and _itself_ for even, or with no +particular meaning, as "Where is he itself?" The meanings of +other words will be easily untangled. + + +_William Butler Yeats_: THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE + +Mr. Yeats's best poetic dramas, and particularly this one, +represent beyond question that "apex of beauty" to which Lady +Gregory spoke of the Abbey Theatre dramatists as aspiring. This +play is not founded on any particular Irish folk-tale. It is +filled with the half-dread, half-envy with which the tellers of +Irish legends seem to regard the fate of mortals bewitched by the +Leprechaun or Good People. It is rich, too, with the music of +beautiful words, without which, Mr. Yeats contends no play can be +"of a great kind." He says too, "There is no poem so great that a +fine speaker cannot make it greater, or that a bad ear cannot +make it nothing." + +Mr. Yeats has written broad comedy like Synge's _Shadow of the +Glen_ and Lady Gregory's _Irish Comedies_; his _Pot of Broth_ is +a most clever retelling of an old, comical tale. But it is by his +mystical and poetical plays that he would be judged as playwright +and poet--particularly _Deirdre_, which should be compared with +Synge's _Deirdre of the Sorrows_; _The Unicorn of the Stars_, +written in collaboration with Lady Gregory; _Cathleen Ni +Hoolihan_, a dramatization of the spirit of Ireland; _The King's +Threshold_, a high glorification of the poet's art, with a fable, +based on an ancient Celtic rite, of the hunger strike; and _The +Land of Heart's Desire_, most beautifully perfect of all. + + +_Gordon Bottomley_: THE RIDING TO LITHEND + +"_The Riding to Lithend_ is an Icelandic play taken out of the +noblest of the Sagas," wrote Mr. Lascelles Abercrombie in his +review of the published drama in 1909. "[It] is a fight, one of +the greatest fights in legend.... The subject is stirring, and +Mr. Bottomley takes it into a very high region of poetry, giving +it a purport beyond that of the original teller of the tale.... +[The play] is not a representation of life; it is a symbol of +life. In it life is entirely fermented into rhythm, by which we +mean not only rhythm of words, but rhythm of outline also; the +beauty and impressiveness of the play do not depend only on the +subject, the diction, and the metre, but on the fact that it has +distinct and most evident form, in the musician's sense of the +word. It is one of those plays that reach the artist's ideal +condition of music, in fact." + +This is high praise; but who, after studying the play, will doubt +that it is deserved? The powerfully moving events of the story +indeed lead up to the climax in a forthright and exciting manner. +The terror of the house-women and the thrall, the fearful love of +Gunnar's mother Rannveig, and the caution of Kolskegg his +brother, who "sailed long ago and far away from us" in obedience +to the doom or sentence of the Thing--all these bring out sharply +the quite reckless daring of Gunnar himself, who braves the +decree. A mysterious and epic touch is added by the three ancient +hags-evidently of these minor Norns who watch over individual +destinies and announce the irrevocable doom of the gods. It was +Hallgerd who broke their thread, representing, of course, +Gunnar's span of life. + +The centre of interest, as well as the spring of the action, is +clearly Hallgerd, descendant of Sigurd Fafnirsbane and of +Brynhild-- + + ... a hazardous desirable thing, + A warm unsounded peril, a flashing mischief, + A divine malice, a disquieting voice. + +She, and not any superstitious belief in "second-sight" and death +decreed, is the cause of Gunnar's remaining outlawed. She +wrangles about the headdress, not because she particularly wants +it, but to send her husband on a perilous mission to secure it. +She says openly that she has "set men at him to show forth his +might ... planned thefts and breakings of his word" to stir him +to battle. Mr. Abercrombie believes that "She loves her husband +Gunnar, but she refuses to give him any help in his last fight, +in order that she may see him fight better and fiercer." We +should, then, have to suppose that her amazing speech at his +death-- + + O clear sweet laughter of my heart, flow out! + It is so mighty and beautiful and blithe + To watch a man dying--to hover and watch-- + +is not for the blow Gunnar had given her when she "planned thefts +and breakings of his word," but is rather, as the lines +powerfully indicate, the exultation of a descendant of the +Valkyrie watching above the battlefields. + +Really poetical plays--plays which are both poetic and strongly +dramatic--are indeed exceedingly rare. Mr. Bottomley is one of +the few who have produced such drama in English. For many years +he printed his work privately, in beautiful editions for his +friends; but of late several of the plays have been made +available--_King Lear's Wife in Georgian Poetry_, 1913-15, and in +a volume of the same title, including _Midsummer Eve_ and _The +Riding to Lithend_, published in London last year. + +Those who want more stories of this sort will find them in +_Thorgils_ and other Icelandic stories modernized by Mr. Hewlett; +in the _Burnt Njal_, translated by Sir George Dasent, from which +this story itself springs; and in the translations by Eirikr +Magnusson and William Morris, the _Saga Library_--particularly +the stories of the Volsungs and Nibelungs, and of Grettir the +Strong. + + +_louvre_--a smoke-hole in the roof + +_thrall_--a captive or serf + +_bill_--a battle-ax + +_second sight_--prophetic vision, as in _Riders to the Sea_ and +_Campbell of Kilmhor_ + +_fetch_--one's double; seeing it is supposed to be a sign that +one is _fey_ or fated to die + +_wimpled_--"clouted up," as Hallgerd expresses it, in a headdress +rather like a nun's. A widow, apparently, might wear her hair +uncovered + +_byre_--cow-barn + +_midden_--manure + +_quean_--in Middle-English, a jade; in Scotch, a healthy lass; +the history of this word and of _queen_, which come from the same +root, is strange and interesting + +_ambry_--press + +_Romeborg_--Rome; _Mickligarth_--Constantinople (Viking names) + +_Athcliath_--evidently an Irish port + +_mumpers_--beggars + +_Markfleet_--a _fleet_ in an inlet of the sea + +_mote or gemote_--a formal assembly for making laws + +_thing_--assembly for judgment, or parliament; this is an early +Icelandic meaning of the word _thing_ + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS FOR READING IN HIGH SCHOOLS + + ++Thomas Bailey Aldrich+ + +MERCEDES: A tragic story of the inextinguishable hatreds and +reprisals of the French invasion of Spain in 1810, and of a +woman's terrible heroism. + +In _Collected Works_, Houghton Mifflin. + +PAULINE PAVLOVNA: Cleverly executed, slight plot in dialogue, +wherein the character of the hero is sharply revealed; +reminiscent of Browning's _In a Balcony_, though with a quite +different scheme. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Mary Austin+ + +THE ARROW-MAKER: The tragedy of a noble medicine-woman of a tribe +of California Indians, and of a weak and selfish chief. + +Duffield. + + ++Granville Barker+ + +Rococo: In which we discover a clergyman and his relatives in +physical altercation over a rococo vase, and follow their dispute +to a determinative conclusion. + +Sidgwick and Jackson, London. + +VOTE BY BALLOT: A drama of English elections and the forces +involved. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + +THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE: The inheritance is a dishonored name and +a dishonest business. + +In _Three Plays_, Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++Granville Barker and Dion Calthorpe+ + +HARLEQUINADE: Its development from the days of Persephone, Momus, +and Charon is displayed and explained by Alice and her uncle. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++James Barrie+ + +THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON: In the struggle for existence on a desert +island, the family butler provides the brains and safety for an +English family; the party is then rescued, and returns to the +impeccable conventions of London. + +Scribner's, New York; Hodder and Stoughton, London. + +ALICE SIT-BY-THE FIRE: A mother with keen insight and a +delightful sense of humor has to deal with a serious attack of +romantic imagination in her very young daughter, who feels +responsible for the conduct of the family. + +Scribner's; Hodder and Stoughton. + +THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS: Mrs. Dowie, a charwoman who has +resorted to desperate remedies in order to have some part in the +war, goes through an agonizing crisis of exposure, into real joy +and sharp sorrow. The rich humor of the characters makes this +quite unique among plays of its type. + +In _Echoes of the War_, Scribner's. + +THE WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE. + +_Ibid._ + +PETER PAN: A charming fairy drama of the baby from the +Never-Never Land and of his make-believe play with his friends in +the nursery. + +Scribner's. + +THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK: On the eve of achieving knighthood the +hero suffers a startling disclosure which leads him to look +suspiciously for the "twelve-pound look" in his lady's eyes. + +In _Half-Hours_, Scribner's. + +WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS: As we behold the creation of John Shand's +career by Maggie his wife, who lacks charm, and particularly as +we observe her campaign against a woman fully possessed of charm, +we want to learn "what every woman knows." The secret is +enlightening. + +Scribner's. + + ++Lewis Beach+ + +BROTHERS, A SARDONIC COMEDY: Two "poor whites" quarrel violently +over a worthless inheritance, and then combine in arson to +prevent their mother from getting it: a disquieting and searching +study of depths of shiftlessness and passionate meanness. + +In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, edited by Frank Shay and +Pierre S. Loving. Frank Shay. + +THE CLOD: A powerful drama of the flare-up of a stolid and +apparently unfeeling nature in the flame of the pity and horror +of war. + +In _Washington Square Plays_, Doubleday. + + ++Jacinto Benavente+ + +HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND: An absurd comedy of the small gossip and +rigid conventions in a Spanish provincial capital. (Translated by +John Garrett Underhill.) + +In Plays, _First Series_, Scribner's. + + ++Arnold Bennett+ + +A GOOD WOMAN: A farcical triangular plot with particularly good +comic characters. + +In _Polite Farces_, Doran. + +THE STEPMOTHER: Satirical presentment of a lady novelist, her +efficient secretary, and her stepson, not to mention the doctor +downstairs; amusing studies in character. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GREAT ADVENTURE: Good dramatization of the astounding +adventures of Priam Farll (from _Buried Alive_), who attends his +own funeral in Westminster Abbey, marries a young and suitable +widow with whom his late valet has corresponded through a +matrimonial bureau, and meets other amazing situations. + +Doran. + +THE TITLE: A delightful comedy in which several people who have +denounced the disgraceful awarding of English titles have a bad +time of it with Mrs. Culver, who does not propose to let slip the +opportunity of being called "My Lady." You can probably guess +which side wins in the end. + +Doran. + + ++Gordon Bottomley+ + +KING LEAR'S WIFE: An episode in King Lear's earlier years, which +throws much imaginative light on Goneril's and Cordelia's later +treatment of their father. Lear's wife herself, as we might have +guessed, is a pathetic figure. + +Constable, London; also in _Georgian Poetry_, 1913-15. + +MIDSUMMER EVE: Several farm maidservants meet to see their future +lovers' spirits on Midsummer Eve, but see only the "fetch" or +double of one of them, foretelling her death. + +In _King Lear's Wife and Other Plays_, Constable. + + ++Anna Hempstead Branch+ + +ROSE OF THE WIND: A fairy play of the dancing and allurement of +bewitched slippers, and of other wonders. + +Houghton Mifflin. + + ++Harold Brighouse+ + +THE DOORWAY: A sharp and cruel picture of unsheltered people on a +freezing night in London. + +Joseph Williams, London. + +THE GAME: A cocksure and triumphant girl meets more than her +match in an old peasant woman, the mother of the man she wants to +marry. + +In Three Lancashire Plays, Samuel French. + +HOBSON'S CHOICE: In which the eldest daughter at Hobson's plays a +winning game against her tyrannous father and superior-feeling +sisters, using a quite excellent but disregarded piece. + +Constable, London; Doubleday, New York. + +MAID OF FRANCE: An effective play in which Joan of Arc lays aside +her old hate for the English soldiers, whom she discovers on +French soil again. + +Gowans and Gray, Glasgow. + +THE OAK SETTLE + +Gowans and Gray. + +THE PRICE OF COAL: Picturing the stoical and terrible resignation +to peril of death of old women in the coal regions--and +presenting an unexpected ending. + +Gowans and Gray. + + ++Harold Brock+ + +THE BANK ACCOUNT: A small but poignant tragedy of the +savings-account which a clerk has counted upon to free him after +many years of drudgery, and which he has entrusted to his stupid +and vulgar and cheaply frivolous wife. + +In Harvard Dramatic Club Plays, First Series, Brentano's. + ++Alice Brown+ + +JOINT OWNERS IN SPAIN: The two most refractory inmates of an Old +Ladies' Home have to face and solve the problem of living in the +same room. + +Walter H. Baker. + + ++Witter Bynner+ + +THE LITTLE KING: A delineation of the cruel suffering and the +dauntless courage of the small Louis XVII; he refuses to be cowed +by the bullying of his keeper or to let a poor boy assume his +fate. + +Kennerley. + + ++George Calderon+ idealized him meanwhile that her realization of +the altered situation brings an astounding reaction. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++Margaret Cameron+ + +THE TEETH OF THE GIFT HORSE: A pleasant farce built about two +huge and hideous hand-painted vases and a charming little old +lady who perpetrated them. + +French. + + ++Gilbert Cannan+ + +EVERYBODY'S HUSBAND: Three generations of ladies discuss the +individual characteristics of their husbands, but find them, +after all, indistinguishable men. + +Seeker, London. + +JAMES AND JOHN: They are faced with their invalid mother's +request that they crown many years of tedious sacrifice and +atonement for their father's weak crime by taking him into their +lives again. + +In _Four Plays_, Sidgwick and Jackson. + +MARY'S WEDDING: Bill's mother tries in vain to dissuade Mary from +the certain and inescapable misery of marrying her drunkard son. +Bill himself settles the problem. + +_Ibid._ + +A SHORT WAY WITH AUTHORS: An entertaining farce showing how a +great actor-manager goes about encouraging serious dramatic +composition. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Harold Chapin+ + +AUGUSTUS IN SEARCH OF A FATHER: He returns from abroad and +discusses with a night-watchman the problem of his search for his +father. + +THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE: A mother has denied herself everything to +build a small mausoleum to her dead son, and so Gowans and Gray. + +THE AUTOCRAT OF THE COFFEE STALLS: A strange character with an +astonishing history is shown us in the night-light from a +refreshment wagon in London streets. + +Gowans and Gray. + +THE DUMB AND THE BLIND: A study of a bargeman's family in London +tenements. Mr. William Archer calls this "a veritable masterpiece +in its way--a thing Dickens would have delighted in.... We feel +that the dumb has spoken and the blind has seen." + +Gowans and Gray; forthcoming, French, New York. + +IT'S THE POOR THAT 'ELPS THE POOR: Of the simple kindliness of +London costermongers and their neighborly help and sympathy. + +French. + +MUDDLE ANNIE: Of course, it is "Muddle Annie" who helps their +friend the policeman save the more suave and self-satisfied +members of her family from a precious rogue. + +Gowans and Gray. + +THE THRESHOLD: Tells of a Welsh girl about to elope with a +specious rascal, and of the intervention of her old father, who +is killed in a mine accident. + +Gowans and Gray; forthcoming, French. + +COMEDIES. + +Chatto and Windus, London. + + ++Colin Clements and John M. Saunders, translators+ + +LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN: A comical medieaval French farce. +Jacquinot endures a miserable compound tyranny of petticoats +until matters are brought to a head by cumulative injustice and +the intervention of accident. + +In _Poet Lore_ (1917), 28:722. + + ++Padraic Colum+ + +MOGU THE WANDERER: Pageantesque and dramatic story of the rise of +a beggar to be the king's vizier, and of as sudden and entire +reversal of fortunes. + +Little, Brown. + +THOMAS MUSKERRY: The tragic story of a poorhouse-keeper who +repeats Lear's error of letting go his cherished power, and who +suffers as keenly a more humble tragedy. + +Maunsell, Dublin. + + ++Rachel Crothers+ + +HE AND SHE: A woman's designs win over those of her husband, who +has the greater reputation, a large competitive award for a piece +of sculpture; but she declines the commission in face of nearer +and higher responsibilities. + +In Quinn's _Representative American Plays_, Century. + + ++Windsor P. Daggett and Winifred Smith+ + +LELIO AND ISABELLA: A COMMEDIA DELL'ARTE: The story of Romeo and +Juliet, as the foremost players of the Italian Comedy of Masks +may have given it in seventeenth-century Paris--with an ending of +their choice. An interesting study in the type. + +In manuscript: N.L. Swartout, Summit, N.J. + + ++H.H. Davies+ + +THE MOLLUSC: Clever study of a woman who is a mollusc--not merely +lazy, since she is capable of huge exertions to avoid being +disturbed; she finds plenty of opposition to show forth her +powers upon. + +Baker. + + ++Thomas H. Dickinson+ + +IN HOSPITAL: A poignant small dialogue of a husband and wife who +meet courageously the threatened shipwreck of their happiness. + +In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, B.W. Huebsch. + + ++Beulah M. Dix+ + +ALLISON'S LAD: A Cavalier lad, about to be shot as a spy, is +seized by terror, but dies bravely, "as if strong arms were +around him." + +In _Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes_, Holt. + +THE DARK OF THE DAWN: Colonel Basil Tollocho spares a boy he has +sworn to destroy in revenge of a great wrong, and is made glad of +his clemency. + +_Ibid._ + +THE HUNDREDTH TRICK: Con of the Hundred Tricks takes fearfully +stern measures against possible betrayal of his cause. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Beulah Marie Dix and Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland+ + +ROSE O'PLYMOUTH TOWN: A pleasant play of Puritans and their +neighbors. + +Dramatic Publishing Company. + + ++Oliphant Down+ + +THE MAKER OF DREAMS: Poetical small play in which love appears +with a new make-up but in the old role. + +Gowans and Gray. + + ++Ernest Dowson+ + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE: A quite charming tale of Pierrot and +the Moon-Maiden. + +In his _Collected Poems_, Lane. + + ++John Drinkwater+ + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN: A dramatic presentation of episodes in Lincoln's +life, from his nomination to the presidency to his death. + +Sidgwick and Jackson; Houghton Mifflin. + +COPHETUA: In which King Cophetua justifies to his court and +councillors his marriage to the beggar maid. + +Sidgwick and Jackson; Houghton Mifflin. + +THE STORM: An intense but quiet tragedy of a woman who waits +while men search for her husband, lost in a great storm in the +hills. + +In _Four Poetic Plays_, Houghtou Mifflin; _Pawns_, Sidgwick and +Jackson. + +THE GOD or QUIETNESS: The zest of war draws away all the notable +worshipers of the god of quietness, and an angry war-lord slays +the god himself. + +_Ibid._ + +X-O: A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR: Trojans and Greeks, lovers of +poetry, fellowship, and justice, carry on ruthless slaughter, and +by irreparable losses strike a balance of exact advantage to +either side. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Lord Dunsany+ + +THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN: Of seven beggars who wear pieces of +green silk beneath their rags, and by brilliant devices of Agmar, +their leader, contrive to be taken for the gods of the mountain +disguised as beggars--until the real gods leave their thrones at +Manna. + +In _Five Plays_, Richards, London; Little, Brown. + +KING ARGFMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WABBIOR: A slave, born a king, +finds an old bronze sword buried in the ground he is tilling, and +henceforward has less interest in the bones of the king's dog, +who is dying. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GOLDEN DOOM: A child's scrawl on the palace pavements +furnishes the text for the soothsayers' prophecy of disaster. + +_Ibid._ + +THE LOST SILK HAT: Of the embarrassment of a rejected suitor who, +in his agitation, has left his hat in the lady's drawing-room and +dislikes the idea of returning for it. + +_Ibid._ + +THE QUEEN'S ENEMIES: They are invited to a feast of +reconciliation in the great banquet room below the level of the +river. + +In _Plays of Gods and Men._ Unwin, London; J.W. Luce, Boston. + +A NIGHT AT AN INN: A commonplace ancient plot is filled anew with +dramatic terror and a sense of mystery. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Edith M.O. Ellis (Mrs. Havelock Ellis)+ + +THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA: Joe Pengilly, a Cornish villager, is +finally convinced that strong measures toward her subjection are +alone capable of keeping his wife's love, and buys a stout cane. +We learn how he fared in carrying these measures out. + +In _Love in Danger_, Houghton Mifflin. + + ++St. John Ervine+ + +FOUR IRISH PLAYS: + +MIXED MARRIAGE: A tragedy of the violent hatreds of Ulster. + +Maunsell. + +THE ORANGEMAN: A comic study of the petty madness of the same +hatreds. + +Maunsell. + +THE CRITICS: Dramatic critics furiously condemn a play at the +Abbey Theatre in Dublin. Gradually we discover the idea of the +play through their abuse, and at last we recognize it. + +Maunsell. + +JANE CLEGG: A strong and clear-sighted, honest woman has to deal +with a feeble and braggart husband whose foolish crime threatens +to wreck her own and her children's lives. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++Rachel Lyman Field+ + +THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE: Fantastic play of a little sick boy who +gives the medicine that was to have made him strong to feeding +the starved and abused souls of various passers-by. + +In _Plays of the 47 Workshop_, First Series, Brentano's. + + ++Anatole France+ + +THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE: A mad and comic farce, in the +tradition of _Pierre Patelin_ and _The Physician in Spite of +Himself_. Judge Botal calls in a learned physician and his aides +to make his dumb wife speak. The result is so astoundingly +successful that he pleads for relief. Finally a desperate remedy +is found. + +Translated by Curtis Hidden Page, Lane, 1915. + + ++J.O. Francis+ + +CHANGE: The tragic conflict of ideals of two generations which +have grown irreparably apart in social and economic views. + +Educational Publishing Company, Cardiff; Doubleday, New York. + + ++Zona Gale+ + +THE NEIGHBORS: Kindliness called forth among village people to +aid a poor seamstress who is to undertake the care of her orphan +nephew. + +In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, B.W. Huebsch. + +MISS LULU BETT: A starved life blossoms suddenly and +unexpectedly. This play, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for 1920, +is stronger and finer work than the author has done heretofore. + +Appleton (in novel form). + + ++John Galsworthy+ + +THE ELDEST SON: Sir William Cheshire comes to quite different +solutions of similar problems when different individual and class +factors enter into them. + +Scribner's. + +JUSTICE: Mr. Ludwig Lewisohn writes: "The economic structure of +society on any basis requires the keeping of certain compacts. It +cannot endure such a breaking of these compacts as Falder is +guilty of when he changes the figures on the cheque. Yet by the +simple march of events it is overwhelmingly proven that society +here stamps out a human life not without its fair possibilities-- +for eighty-one pounds." + +Scribner's. + +THE LITTLE MAN: Brilliant caricature of various national types of +tourist, and absurd apotheosis of the Little Man, of no +particular nation and of insignificant appearance, who proves +quietly capable of doing what the rest discuss. + +Scribner's. + +THE MOB: The reply of the hysterical and "patrioteering" members +of his own class, and of the many-headed rage, to a man who stood +against an unjust war. + +Scribner's. + +THE PIGEON: A discussion of social misfits and mavericks, with, +of course, no attempted panacea or solution. + +Scribner's. + +THE SILVER Box: + +"Jones: Call this justice? What about 'im? 'E got drunk! 'E took +the purse--'E took the purse, but (_in a muffled shout_) it's 'is +money got '_im_ off! _Justice_! + +"The Magistrate: We will now adjourn for lunch." (Act II.) + +In _Plays, First Series_, Scribner's, 1916. + +STRIFE: In the strike the leaders of the men and of the employers +are stanch against compromise, but "the strong men with strong +convictions are broken. The second-rate run the world through +half-measures and concessions." (Lewisohn.) + +_Ibid._ + + ++Louise Ayers Garnett+ + +MASTER WILL OF STRATFORD: A pleasant drama of Will Shakespeare's +boyhood. Compare Landor's "Citation and Examination of Will +Shakespeare for Deer-Stealing." + +Macmillan. + + ++Alice Gerstenberg+ + +OVERTONES: While two women are conversing politely, they are +attended by their real, unconventional selves, who interrupt to +say what the women actually think and mean. Compare Ninah Wilcox +Putnam's _Orthodoxy_ (_Forum_, June, 1914, 51:801), in which +everyone in church says what he is thinking instead of what is +proper and expected. + +In _Washington Square Plays_, Doubleday. + + ++Giuseppa Giacosa+ + +THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL: Anna is sternly loyal to her husband +Paolo, but refuses to submit to his incessant prying into her +individuality and questioning of her thoughts and her feelings. + +Frank Shay. + +THE WAGER: "Sentimental comedy, poetic and graceful, by one of +the greatest contemporary Italian dramatists." + +Barrett H. Clark, translator. French. + + ++W.S. Gilbert+ + +ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN: A most absurd parody on Hamlet, +wherein a lamentable tragedy written and repented by his uncle +the king is unearthed and turned to the sad prince's undoing. + +In _Original Plays_, Scribner's. + +ENGAGED + +PRINCESS IDA + + ++William Gillette+ + +SECRET SERVICE: A most intense situation in Richmond during the +Civil War, ably handled by a quiet and brilliant Northern +secret-service man; weakened by a manufactured happy ending. + +French. + + ++Susan Glaspell+ + +TRIFLES: Two women, by noting the significant trifles which the +sheriff and the attorney overlook, discover the story of +suffering which led to a crime. Speaking of their neglect of +neighborly kindness, one says, "That's a crime too, and who's +going to punish that?" + +In _Washington Square Plays_. + + ++Lady Gregory+ + +IRISH FOLK-HISTORY PLAYS: + +I. THE TRAGEDIES: Stories of the beautiful and potent queens who +brought suffering upon themselves and upon others; compare +Synge's and Yeats's stories of Deirdre. + +Putnam. + +II. THE TRAGI-COMEDIES: THE WHITE COCKADE: In which James II +defeats the gains of his loyal subjects by his abject and +ridiculous cowardice. + +Putnam. + +CANAVANS: A covetous miller, his clever wandering brother, and +some pleasant absurdity about the popular worship of Queen +Elizabeth by her loyal subjects in Ireland. + +Putnam. + +THE DELIVERER: Apparently an Irish peasant's idea of the story of +Moses. + +Putnam. + +WORKHOUSE WARD; HYACINTH HALVEY; THE JACKDAW: + +Comedies full of Irish wit, conscious and unconscious comedy, and +endless complication of events and hearsay in Cloon. + +All in _Seven Short Plays_, Putnam. + +THE BOGIE MAN; THE FULL MOON; COATS: + +More about Cloon people, including the rescue of Hyacinth Halvey +from his troublesome reputation and from the place by the magic +and lunacy of moonlight. + +In _New Irish Comedies_, Putnam. + +DAMER'S GOLD: A fortunate rescue from the torments of miserliness +and pestilent heirs; the author's notes on the origin of the play +are interesting. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GAOL GATE: A brief and effective tragic story of two women +who fear that their man has betrayed his mates, but who find that +he has been hanged without informing; the mother improvises a +psalm of praise of his steadfastness. + +In _Seven Short Plays_. + +THE TRAVELING MAN: A peasant woman who has been befriended by +a mysterious wanderer expects his return so that she may thank +him. She drives away a tramp from her kitchen, and then discovers +who he was. + +_Ibid._ + +THE GOLDEN APPLE: Many scenes, some excellent fun; of a search +for miraculous fruit, of a giant who is high and bloodthirsty +only in carefully fostered reputation, and the like matters. + +Putnam. + + ++St. John Hankin+ + +THE PERFECT LOVER: Delightful dramatic version of Suckling's +"Constant Lover." + +In _Dramatic Works_, Seeker. + +RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL: The same young man, or his close image, +having managed to be received by his family as a returned +prodigal, calmly puts upon them the question of his future. + +_Ibid._ + +THE CASSILIS ENGAGEMENT + +_Ibid._ + + ++Gerhardt Hauptmann+ + +THE WEAVERS: Painful presentation of the suffering of the German +weavers in the first adjustments of the Industrial Revolution. + +In Dickinson's _Chief Contemporary Dramatists_; also in +Lewisohn's translations, Huebsch. + + ++Winifred N. Hawkridge+ + +THE FLORIST SHOP: Rather sentimentalist play of good influences +wafted by a young woman as a florist's clerk; excellent business +combines with the influences. + +In _Harvard Dramatic Club Plays, First Series_, Brentano's. + + ++Hazelton and Benrimo+ + +THE YELLOW JACKET: The conventions of the Chinese theatre, more +or less faithfully presented, make a quite comical presentment of +an ancient Chinese legend. + +Bobbs, Merrill. + + ++Theresa Helburn+ + +ENTER THE HERO: A madly fanciful girl fabricates a romance out of +whole cloth, casts a friend as hero, and tells her small world +about it. Even the rough measures the hero has to use to escape +do not succeed in curing her of the habit. + +In _Flying Stage Plays, No. 4_, Ahrens; _Fifty Contemporary +One-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Perez Hirschbein+ + +IN THE DARK: Grim and awful picture of the depths of misery and +starvation in a Ghetto basement. Translated by Goldberg. + +In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre, First Series_: Luce. + + ++Hugo von Hofmannsthal+ + +MADONNA DIANORA: Fearsome tragedy of the Ring-and-Book sort, +beautifully and poignantly presented. + +Translated by Harriett Boas, Badger. + + ++Stanley Houghton+ + +THE DEAR DEPARTED: Somewhat precipitate haste for advantage in +dividing grandfather's effects is fittingly rebuked. + +In _Dramatic Works_, vol. i. French, New York; Constable, London. + +THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT: A mother finds being an "imaginary +invalid" excellent for checkmating her daughter's plans, but +inconveniently in the way of her own. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Laurence Housman+ + +RETURN OF ALCESTIS: A modern poetic view of the spirit of +Alcestis returning to Admetus after her sacrifice and rescue. +Edwin Arlington Robinson has also handled this theme lately. + +French. + +BIRD IN HAND: A pedantic old scholar is mysteriously plagued by +an illusion of faery, but in time conquers the obsession. + +French. + +BETHLEHEM: A nativity play. + +Macmillan. + +THE CHINESE LANTERN: Pleasantly effective scenes in a Chinese +studio. + +Sidgwick and Jackson. + + ++William Dean Howells+ + +THE SLEEPING CAR; THE REGISTER; THE MOUSE TRAP; THE ALBANY DEPOT; +THE GARROTERS: + +Amusing but somewhat worn farces, several of them introducing the +voluble Mrs. Roberts and her family. + + ++Henrik Ibsen+ + +AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE: A scientist who insists on making known, +and setting to work to remedy, the evils and wrongs of his +community has to reckon with the people; compare The Mob, by John +Galsworthy. + +Boni and Liveright. + +THE DOLL'S HOUSE: Nora Hjalmar, who has always been petted and +shielded, at last has to face and solve certain difficult +problems for herself. She thus discovers just how much her +husband's love and indulgence are worth. Her solution of the +difficulty is presented, not as necessarily the right thing to +have done, but as what such a woman would do under the +circumstances. + +Boni and Liveright. + +THE LADY FROM THE SEA: Ellida Wrangel, wife of the village +pastor, feels the call of the sea; she feels she must go with the +rough sailor to whom she was once betrothed. When Wrangel +sincerely offers her liberty to choose, she "seeks the security +of a familiar home, and the wild lure of the great sea spaces can +trouble her no more." (Lewisohn.) + +Boni and Liveright. + + ++W.W. Jacobs and Others+ + +ADMIRAL PETERS; THE GRAY PABKOT; THE CHANGELING; BOATSWAIN'S +MATE: Jolly farces of sailors and watchmen and their families, +based on Jacobs's stories in _Captains All, Many Cargoes_, and +the rest. + +French. + +THE MONKEY'S PAW: A most fearful and gruesome play, based on +Jacobs's story, in the vein of the _Three Wishes_, and the _Foot +of Pharaoh_, by Gautier. + +French. + + ++Jerome K. Jerome+ + +FANNY AND THE SERVANT PBOBLEM: The new Lady Bantock is surprised +to discover both her real rank and her strange relationship with +her twenty-three servants. An interesting character study. + +French. + + ++William Ellery Leonard+ + +GLORY OF THE MORNING: The pathos of two civilizations contending +for the children of the Indian woman, Glory of the Morning; they +must go with their father to France or stay with their mother. +Dr. Leonard has newly completed another powerful tragedy, _Red +Bird_, as yet unpublished. + +In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, 1914, B.W. Huebsch. + + ++Justin McCarthy+ + +IF I WERE KING: A romantic play, in the vein of De Banville's +_Gringoire_, in which Villon becomes Marshal of France, for a +brief time and with a fearful condition stipulated by the +spider-king, Louis XI. + +Heinemann. + + ++Edward Knoblauch and Arnold Bennett+ + +MILESTONES: Three different generations, with their different +ideas and ideals, confront similar problems with different views, +and arrive at various conclusions. + +Doran. + + ++Percy Mackaye+ + +THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS: Mr. Mackaye, translator with Professor +Tatlock of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, has written here a clever +play of the travelers' adventures. The Wife of Bath is of course +the ringleader in mischief. + +Macmillan. + +CALIBAN BY THE YELLOW SANDS: A masque for the Shakespeare +Tercentenary Celebration, New York City. + +Doubleday. + +JEANNE D'ARC: A tragedy made up of incidents in the life of the +Maid. + +Macmillan. + +SAM AVERAGE: A Silhouette. A soldier of 1812 is kept true to the +cause by a vision of Sam Average, the spirit of his nation. + +In Yankee Fantasies, Duffield. + +THE SCARECROW: A lively dramatization of Hawthorne's Feathertop, +from Mosses from an Old Manse. + +Macmillan. + + ++Mary MacMillan+ + +THE SHADOWED STAR: Portraying the cruel suffering of two Irish +peasant women who wait in a city tenement for Christmas as they +remember it. + +In Short Plays, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Maurice Maeterlinck+ + +ARDIANE AND BLUEBEARD: A resolute wife finally defies Bluebeard +and rescues his wives; but they refuse to forsake their +unfortunate and beloved husband. + +Dodd, Mead. + +A MIRACLE OF SAINT ANTHONY + +THE INTRUDER; THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES; INTERIOR (OR HOME): + +Poignant and mystical tragedies expressing the unseen and +inescapable forces surrounding and closing in upon men's lives. + +Boni and Liveright; Dodd, Mead. + +THE BLUE BIRD: Two peasant children, accompanied by their friends +Dog, Cat, Bread, Sugar, and others, search everywhere for the +blue bird of happiness. They visit among other places the realms +of the dead, where their grandparents are, and of the unborn. +Finally they look in the last and likeliest place. + +Dodd, Mead. + +THE BETROTHAL: Further adventures of Tytyl. + +Dodd, Mead. + + ++John Masefield+ + +PHILIP THE KING; TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT: + +High tragedies. The great Pompey, defeated by the upstart Ceesar, +is kingly to the end. + +Sidgwick and Jackson, London; Macmillan, New York. + +THE SWEEPS OF NINETY-EIGHT: A fugitive from an unsuccessful +rebellion achieves a sweeping revenge upon the leaders of the +enemy; amusing comedy. + +Macmillan. + +THE TRAGEDY OF NAN: One of the most poignantly tragic of modern +plays; the mercilessness of weak and selfish people crushes out a +beautiful life. + +Richards, London. + + ++Rutherford Mayne (J. Waddell)+ + +THE DRONE: An old man by playing craftily at being on the eve of +a great invention lives most comfortably on his brother's means; +but forces accumulate against him and he is threatened with +eviction from the hive. + +Luce. + + ++George Middleton+ + +THE BLACK TIE: A play of sharp and quiet suffering, presenting at +a new angle the Southern cleavage of races. The negro classes are +not allowed to appear in the Sunday-school procession, and the +small disappointment is typical of greater deprivations. + +In Possession and other One-Act Plays, Holt. + +MASKS: An author who has spoiled a good play so that it will "go" +on the stage is called upon by the angry characters, whom he +created and then forced to do as they would not really have done. + +In Masks and other One-Act Plays, Holt. + +MOTHERS: A mother tries in vain to prevent a young woman whom she +loves from marrying her son and repeating the misery of her own +marriage with a weakling. + +In Tradition and other One-Act Plays, Holt. + +ON BAIL: A gambler's wife who has shared his illegal gains must +help him pay his debt to the law; their son, too, is involved. + +_Ibid._ + +THE TWO HOUSES: An old professor and his wife talk quietly +together of the plans and the realities they have lived among. + +In Masks, etc. + +WAITING: False conventional ideas have long thwarted, and now +threaten to wreck, the happiness of people who care greatly for +each other. + +In Tradition, etc. + + ++Edna St. Vincent Millay+ + +ABIA DA CAPO: A fantasy in which Pierrot, Columbine, and the +Grecian shepherds of Theocritus display their varied views of +life. + +In Reedy's Mirror: reprinted in Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, +Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. + + ++Allan Milne+ + +THE BOY COMES HOME: A war profiteer has a bad half-hour of +difficulties in getting his soldier nephew to work and live +according to his views; he then faces the problem in reality. + +In First Plays, Knopf. + +THE LUCKY ONE: The Lucky One fails to win a trick he had counted +on, but his chorus of relatives--surely related to Sir Willoughby +Patterne's--do not even notice the misfortune. + +_Ibid._ + +WURZEL-FLUMMERY: Of two men offered a good-sized fortune by a +will provided they will adopt Wurzel-Flummery in place of their +own more satisfactory surnames, and of their decision. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Allan Monkhouse+ + +NIGHT WATCHES: A quiet and vivid picturing of the potential +cruelty and frightfulness of ordinary well-meaning ignorance and +terror; the fable reminds one of Galsworthy's "The Black +Godmother," in The Inn of Tranquillity. + +In War Plays, Constable, London. + + ++William Vaughn Moody+ + +THE FAITH HEALER: A serious drama presenting in moving and human +fashion the effects of faith and disillusion. + +Macmillan. + + ++Dhan Gopal Mukerji+ + +THE JUDGMENT or INDRA: A Hindu play, in which a priest of Indra, +after making a supreme sacrifice of himself and others in order +to root out human affection from his heart, thinks that his god +speaks in the lightning of the storm that ensues. + +In Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, edited by Shay and Loving. +Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Tracy Mygatt+ + +GOOD FRIDAY: A Passion Play. A powerful tragedy of the +conscientious objector. + +Published by the author, 23 Bank Street, New York, N.Y. + + + ++Alfred Noyes+ + +SHERWOOD: A poetical play of Robin Hood and his band. + +Stokes. + + ++Eugene O'Neill+ + +BEYOND THE HORIZON: The Pulitzer Prize Play, 1920. A tragic story +of a young man who longed to seek romance "beyond the horizon," +and could find neither that nor any happiness, but only defeat +and misery, in his everyday surroundings. + +Boni and Liveright. + +BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF: The injury and death of a forecastle +hand, illuminating the varying natures of his shipmates. + +In Moon of the Caribbees, Boni and Liveright. + +IN THE ZONE: Suspicion of treachery in the submarine zone, +directed against a sailor who is different from the rest in the +forecastle. + +_Ibid._ + +WHERE THE CROSS IS MADE: An old sailor goes mad waiting futilely +for the return of a treasure expedition he has sent out, and the +madness of his idea spreads like panic. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Hubert Osborne+ + +THE GOOD MEN DO: AN INDECOROUS EPILOGUE: Shakespeare's family +carefully burn his surviving plays in the effort to cast oblivion +upon his low occupation. + +In Plays of the 47 Workshop, First Series, 1918. + + ++Monica Barrie O'Shea+ + +THE RUSHLIGHT: A mother, whose son may be saved if he will betray +his comrades, has only to send him a paper containing the +information the authorities want. Her attitude should be compared +with that of the women in Campbell of Kilmhor and Lady Gregory's +The Gaol Gate. + +Drama, November, 1917, 28:602. + + ++Louis N. Parker+ + +DISRAELI: Play of intrigue centring about the character of Lord +Beaconsfield and his manoeuvres to obtain control of the Suez +Canal. + +Lane. + +MINUET: A brief play of courage and loyalty in face of Madame +Guillotine. + +In Century Magazine, January, 1915. + + ++Josephine Preston Peabody+ + +MARLOWE: A tragedy introducing several of the Elizabethan +playwrights in tavern scenes, and making a fine and romantic +character of Kit Marlowe. + +Houghton Mifflin. + +THE PIPER: A pleasant dramatization of the legend of Hamelin +Town. + +Houghton Mifflin. + +THE WOLF OF GUBBIO: A play about Saint Francis and some of his +brothers, both animals and villagers. + +Houghton Mifflin. + + ++Louise Saunders (Perkins)+ + +THE WOODLAND PRINCESS: Very attractive children's operetta with +music by Alice Terhune. + +Schirmer; French. + + ++Stephen Phillips+ + +ULYSSES: A drama or masque of Ulysses' adventures, from his +farewell to Calypso through a vigorous combat with the wooers. + +Macmillan. + + ++Eden Phillpotts+ + +THE SHADOW: A most affecting and tragic play of the influence of +a crime upon two people who love most sincerely, and upon their +very loyal friend. + +In _Three Plays_, Duckworth, London. + +THE MOTHER: A moving presentation of the force of a mother's +sense and love; she refuses to shield her son when he has done +wrong, but works in every way to set him straight and to continue +her influence after her death. + +_Ibid._ + +THE POINT OF VIEW: A domestic altercation is arbitrated by a +friend of the family, and then the arbiter is given new light on +the situation. + +_Curtain Raisers_, Duckworth, London. + + ++Arthur Wing Pinero+ + +THE PLAYGOERS: A farce in which a lady attempts to provide +cultural amusement for her servants, and succeeds in breaking up +the smooth-running establishment. + +London. + + ++David Pinski+ + +ABIGAIL: A dramatization of a Biblical story from the wars of +David. Translated from the Yiddish by Dr. Goldberg. + +In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre_, Luce. + +FORGOTTEN SOULS: Fanny Segal's self-sacrifice for her sister and +lover is carried to a strange and morbid extreme. + +In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre_, Luce. + + ++Graham Pryce+ + +THE COMING OF FAIR ANNIE: A simple but effective dramatization of +the old ballad. + +Gowans and Gray. + + ++Richard Pryce and Arthur Morrison+ + +THE DUMB CAKE: A St. Agnes' Eve story in a London slum. + +French. + + ++Serafin and Joaquim Quintero+ + +A SUNNY MOHNING: Two very old people recall the tremendously +romantic happenings of their early youth. + +In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Edwin Arlington Robinson+ + +VAN ZORN: A play of New York studio life in which Van Zorn puts +his own desires out of court and plays providence in the lives of +his friends. + +Macmillan. + + ++Santiago Rosinol+ + +THE PRODIGAL DOLL: A comical marionette sows his wild oats most +violently and repents in deep sorrow. + +In _Drama_, February, 1917, 5:15. + + ++Edmond Rostand+ + +CYRANO DE BERGERAC: A great play of a swashbuckling hero of the +Paris of Moliere's time. + +Doubleday; also in Dickinson's Contemporary Dramatists, I, +Houghton Mifflin. + +L'AIGLON: The tragic story of Napoleon's son, the little King of +Rome, captive among enemies determined to tame his spirit. + +Harper. + +THE PRINCESS FAR-AWAY: The story of the Troubadour Rudel and the +Princess of Tripoli, celebrated in one of Browning's poems, +represents all worship of what is beyond attainment. + +Stokes. + +THE ROMANCERS: The foolish and romantic notions of two lovers are +ably caricatured by their fathers' plots and stratagems. + +Baker, 1906. + + ++Arthur Schnitzler+ + +LAST MASKS: A dying man in the Vienna Hospital contrives an +opportunity for the cruel stroke he has intended at a man who has +succeeded where he himself has failed; at the moment of possible +triumph a different mood controls him. There are three excellent +studies of character in the play. + +In _Anatol and Other Plays_, Boni and Liveright. + + ++George Bernard Shaw+ + +ANDROCLES AND THE LION: The old story of a saint whom the lion +remembered as his friend--with much shrewd light upon certain +types of early Christians. + +Constable. + +CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA: New views of the chief characters, +introduced by two interesting scenes--of a garrison in Syria by +night and of Cleopatra in the arms of the Sphinx. + +In _Three Plays for Puritans_, Constable. + +THE MAN OF DESTINY: Napoleon after Lodi, attacking all courses of +his dinner simultaneously, drawing maps with his fork dipped in +the gravy, and discoursing shrewdly on courage and success. + +Constable. + +O'FLAHERTY, V.C.: On a recruiting mission in his own country, +O'Flaherty must account to his mother for his hitherto concealed +crime of fighting not against, but for England. + +In _Heartbreak House_, Constable. + +AUGUSTUS DOES HIS BIT: A high-born muddler in Britain's conduct +of the war. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Arthur Shirley+ + +GRINGOIRE THE BALLAD-MAKER: A translation and adaptation of de +Banville's comedy about another poet than Villon in the hands of +Louis XI. + +Dramatic Publishing Company. + + ++Thomas Wood Stevens+ + +THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN: "Vernon Lee's" eighteenth-century +legend of Sister Benvenuta and the Christ-Child, in a simple and +effectively dramatic form. + +In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Alfred Sutro+ + +THE MAN ON THE KERB: A workman who has failed in every attempt to +get work or help faces starvation with his wife and baby in a +London tenement basement. No solution of the problem is offered. + +In _Five Little Plays_, Duckworth, London. + +A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED: Comedy of a rejected proposal for a +society "marriage of convenience," followed by an adjustment of +understanding upon another basis. + +_Ibid._ + + ++John Millington Synge+ + +DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS: A beautiful and poetic dramatization of +the tragic Celtic legend of Deirdre and the Sons of Usna. This +may well be compared with Yeats's dramatization of the same +story. + +Luce. + +THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD: Rather fearful comedy of the +popular idolatry offered by Irish peasants to a man who boasts he +has killed his father. + +Luce. + +IN THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN: An awesome husband makes a test of his +wife's love. + +Luce. + +THE TINKER'S WEDDING: Rather boisterous comedy of a tinker-woman +who upsets ancient custom by insisting on a church wedding. + +Luce. + +THE WELL OF THE SAINTS: A gruesome tragedy of a blind beggar and +his wife. All these dramas are as strangely filled with beauty +and poetry of expression as is the Riders to the Sea. + +Luce. + + ++Rabindranath Tagore+ + +THE POST OFFICE: "A poetic and symbolic play." + +Macmillan. + + ++Anton Tchekhov+ + +THE BOOR; THE MARRIAGE PROPOSAL; THE WEDDING FEAST; THE TRAGEDIAN +IN SPITE OF HIMSELF: + +Comical farces of extravagant conversation and action, and +apparently real studies of Russian character. + +In _Plays, Second Series_ Scribner's. + + ++William Makepiece Thackeray+ + +THE ROSE AND THE RING: One of the most delightful of puppet-plays +is based on the favorite story. + +Smith, Elder and Company, London; Macmillan, New York. + + ++Augustus Thomas+ + +OLIVER GOLDSMITH: A very engaging play, introducing Burke, +Goldsmith, Garrick in several amusing roles, Dr. Johnson, and +others in his circle, and presenting (in Act II) a dress +rehearsal of _She Stoops to Conquer_. + +French. + + ++Frank G. Tompkins+ + +SHAM: A SOCIAL SATIRE: Of a most superior burglar, who takes only +genuine objects of art, disdains the imitation stuff that litters +Charles and Clara's home, and reads them a severe lecture on +reality and sham in this and other departments of life. + +Stewart and Kidd. + + ++Ridgley Torrence+ + +GRANNY MAUMEE: Highly tragic play of the blood-hatred of negroes +for those who have tortured and killed, and of voodoo rites and +miracles; power is given the play by a most human reversal of +feeling at the last. + +In _Plays for a Negro Theatre_, Macmillan. + +THE RIDER OF DREAMS: A masterful mulatto who keeps his people +obedient to a benevolent despotism. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Stuart Walker+ + +THE MEDICINE SHOW: Some amusing characters, shiftless but fertile +of invention, and their device for getting rich. + +In _Portmanteau Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. + +NEVERTHELESS: A play which has interested high-school pupils and +their friends in Better Speech programmes. + +_Ibid._ + +SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL: A quaint and pleasant comedy +of a boy set to watch the lentils cooking, of a queen who is +fugitive from execution for a violation of etiquette, and of +other matters. + +_Ibid._ + + ++Percival Wilde+ + +THE TRAITOR: A traitor in the British camp is discovered by a +ruse that is effective and perhaps plausible. + +In _Dawn and Other One-Act Plays_, Holt. + + ++Oscar M. Wolff+ + +WHERE BUT IN AMERICA? Amusing small comedy in which a Swedish +cook and her fiance have potent influence in an American +household. + +In Mayorga, _Representative One-Act Plays_, Little, Brown. + + ++William Butler Yeats+ + +DEIRDRE: The last scene in the tragedy of Deirdre of the Sorrows. + +Macmillan. + +THE GREEN HELMET: Dramatization of a most interesting Gaelic +variant of the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; it +contains good character study. + +Macmillan. + +THE KINO'S THRESHOLD: A poet and singer, deprived of his rightful +honor at the Irish King's court, makes effective use of the +ancient traditional weapon of the hunger strike in order to +secure to his art and its worthy practisers their due recognition. + +Macmillan. + +THE HOUR GLASS: A mystical play of wisdom and folly and the +approach of death. + +Macmillan. + +CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN: A moving dramatization of the compelling +spirit of Love of Country. + +Macmillan. + +THE POT OF BROTH: An ancient story, pleasantly dramatized, of a +witty wanderer who plays to his advantage on the credulity, +greed, and love of flattery of a sharp-tongued peasant woman. + +Macmillan. + + ++William Butler Yeats and Lady Gregory+ + +THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS: A mystical play of a dreamer's rough +contacts with reality. + +Stratford, 1904. + + ++Israel Zangwill+ + +THE WAR GOD: Those who sacrifice others to the War God are +themselves immolated on his altar. + +Macmillan. + +THE MELTING POT: A serious play in which the tragic consequences +of race prejudice are realizably and poignantly set forth. + +Macmillan. + + + + +BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE, MARIONETTES AND CHILDREN'S PLAYS + + ++William Archer+ + +PLAY MAKING: Small, Maynard and Co. + + ++Richard Burton+ + +HOW TO SEE A PLAY: Macmillan. + + ++Percival Chubb and Others+ + +FESTIVALS AND PLAYS IN SCHOOLS AND ELSEWHERE: Harper. + + ++Barrett Clark+ + +HOW TO PRODUCE AMATEUR PLAYS: Little, Brown. + + ++Payne Collier (attributed)+ + +PUNCH AND JUDY: London, 1828. + +A history of the marionettes in England, illustrated by +Cruikshank. + + ++Clayton Hamilton+ + +STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT: Holt. + +THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE: Holt. + + ++Helen Joseph+ + +A BOOK OF MARIONETTES: Huebsch. + +Beautifully illustrated history of the puppet-plays. + + ++Gertrude Johnson+ + +CHOOSING A PLAY: Century Co. + + ++Ludwig Lewisohn+ + +THE MODERN DRAMA: Huebsch. + +The best criticism of naturalistic and neo-romantic drama today. + + ++Karl Mantzius+ + +HISTORY OF THEATRICAL ART IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES: Five +volumes: Louise von Sossell, translator. Illustrated. Lippincott. + + ++Roy Mitchell+ + +SHAKESPEARE FOR COMMUNITY PLATERS: Dutton. + +Illustrated with cuts of costume, properties, etc. + + ++Constance D'Arcy MacKaye+ + +COSTUMES AND SCENERY FOR AMATEURS; HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'S +PLAYS: Holt. Illustrations and directions. + + ++Constance MacKay+ + +THE LITTLE THEATRE IN THE UNITED STATES: Holt. + + ++Percy Mackaye+ + +THE COMMUNITY DRAMA: Houghton Mifflin. THE CIVIC THEATRE: +Mitchell Kennerley. + + ++George Jean Nathan+ + +ANOTHER BOOK ON THE THEATRE: Huebsch. + + ++Brander Matthews+ + +THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE DRAMA: Scribner's. A STUDY OF THE DRAMA: +Houghton Mifflin. A most helpful account. + + ++Charlotte Porter+ + +THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE: Badger. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM AS A +FOLK-PAGEANT. Drama, VII, Nos 26, 27. Valuable articles for +reconstructing the Elizabethan plays. + + ++Maurice Sand+ + +HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE: Lippincott. + + ++Clarence Stratton+ + +PRODUCING IN LITTLE THEATRES: Holt, 1921. The magazines _Drama, +Poet Lore,_ the _Theater Arts Magazine_, the _Little Theater +Magazine_, and articles in the _English Journal_ are of value. + + + + +AS TO PLAYS AND DRAMATIZATION IN SCHOOL + + ++H. Caldwell Cook+ + +THE PLAY WAY: Heinemann. Valuable account of work at the Pearse +School in Cambridge, England. + + ++Emma Sheridan Fry+ + +EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS: Lloyd Adams Noble. + + ++Alice Minnie Herts+ + +THE CHILDREN'S EDUCATIONAL THEATRE: Harper. + + ++Alice Minnie Herts Heniger+ + +THE KINGDOM OF THE CHILD: Dutton. + + ++Margaret Skinner+ + +SOCIALIZING DRAMATICS: _English Journal_, October, 1920, 9:445. +An excellent account of really educational dramatics. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC BOOK OF MODERN PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 16435.txt or 16435.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/3/16435/ + +Produced by William Boerst, Andre Lapierre and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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